Hitman's Desire: A Bad Boy Romance (7 page)

I
knew
a girl in high school who could dislocate her thumb and slip out of almost any handcuff. She learned she could do it when her boyfriend handcuffed her to the bed post. They were playing the fun version of cops and robbers. Her parents came home early, and she panicked when she heard them pull into the garage. Her boyfriend couldn’t find the keys. She was going to have a lot of explaining to do. She was 18, and a senior, but still… it was happening under her mom and dad’s roof. And they weren’t very open-minded.

In desperation, she managed to pop her thumbs out of joint and slip her hands through. They swelled up for days, but she was able to do it at will after that.

Ryker slapped these cuffs on tight. There’s no way I’m getting out of these things. Even if I could dislocate my thumbs. The cuffs scrape at my skin as I keep trying to pull my wrists out. Finally, I give up. I could try and shoot them off, but that doesn’t seem like a wise move. The bullet would probably ricochet and hit me.

I hate Ryker. I’m going to kill him when he gets back.

My eyes scan the room, looking for anything that might help me pick the lock. That’s when I see it. A bobby pin underneath the bed. It’s covered in dust and stray hairs. I reach out for it, but it’s too far away. I pull my body as far away from the bedpost as I can, then lunge my foot out. I try to scoop it toward me with my toe, but I end up kicking it further away.

I try again. This time I’m able to pin it down with my toe and scoop it back toward me. A few more swipes and the thing is in my hand. I bend it into shape, then insert it into the locking mechanism. After a few tries, I’m able to depress the lever, and the cuff swings free. I release the other cuff from the bedpost, and stuff my cuffs back in their case.

I know I can trust Murphy. I’ve got to talk to him. Find out what’s going on. My hand lifts the phone from the cradle, then I dial nine to get an outside line. Then I dial the Bureau’s number—Murphy's direct line. It rings a few times, and I think it’s going to roll over to voicemail. But then Murphy answers.

“Murphy,” he snaps.

“It’s me, Scarlett.”

“My God. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I’ve been worried sick about you,” he says. “What about Ryker? He still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He exhales deeply. “Where are you?”

“I’m… I can’t say right now.”

“What do you mean, you can’t say?”

“Murphy, I think we’ve got a mole.”

“Nonsense.”

“How else could they have found us?” I ask.

Murphy is silent for a moment. “Meet me at Pier 57 in a half an hour.”

“I don’t know.”

“Special Agent Fox, that is an order. I promised your daddy I’d look after you and keep you safe. By God, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. Are you still with the perp?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“He stepped out for a moment.”

“Since when does he have the liberty to do that?”

“It’s a unique situation,” I pause. “He, uh… saved my life.”

Murphy is silent a moment. “Well, I’m thankful for that. Just don’t start going soft on the guy.”

“No worries there, sir.”

“Pier 57. Half an hour,” Murphy commands. The line goes dead.

B
ullets streak through the air
.

I dive behind a parked car.

Bullets puncture the body panels. Metal clinks and pings. Glass shatters. The report echoes off the towering buildings. A continuous flurry of gunfire blasts in my direction. Then it stops for a fraction of a second. The shooter has to reload. His magazine only holds 30 rounds.

I spring to my feet, angling my 9mm over the roof of the parked car.

The shooter drops the magazine from the mag well and snaps in another. Then his finger squeezes tight around the trigger. The barrel aimed straight for me.

I double tap two rounds before he can get a shot off. Bullet number one pierces his chest, pulverizing his heart. Bullet Number two shatters his cranium. The bullet enters through his forehead and explodes out the opposite side. It splatters crimson blood all over the driver of the sedan.

The shooter slumps over. The driver mashes his foot to the floor. Tires squeal, and the wheel wells fill with white smoke. The engine growls and the sedan screeches around the corner, disappearing into the city.

I brush the shards of shattered glass from my coat. Then my eyes scan my body for injuries. Sometimes you don’t feel the shot until later. I appear to be unharmed—this time.

I don’t recognize the shooter. At this point, it doesn’t really matter who they were. Everyone in the city is after me. The Commission doesn’t care how I die, or who kills me—just as long as I end up dead.

By the time I get back to the Lexington, Scarlett is gone. I draw my weapon and clear the bedroom and bathroom. Empty.

My whole body tenses. I’m furious. Where did she go? Did someone get to her? My stomach turns in knots at the thought. I don’t know why I feel this way. I’ve only known the broad for a day.

My eyes catch site of the phone on the nightstand. I grit my teeth, thinking she may have made a call. I pick up the phone and hit redial. After a few rings, a gruff man answers.

“Special Agent Murphy…”

I scowl. I told her not to call anyone. My first inclination is to hang up. I just need to forget about this chick and take care of myself. Right now, I’ve got two options. I prove who actually killed Falco, or I get my ass out of town until things cool down. But it’s not in my nature to run.

“Murphy, it’s Ryker.”

“Where are you?”

“That’s not important. Where’s Scarlett?”

“I’m meeting her at Pier 57,” he says. “Stay put, I’ll send a few guys to pick you up, wherever you are.”

“Don’t bother. I won’t be here.”

“You can’t stay out on the street. That suicide.”

“I’ve seen your definition of protection.”

“I don’t know how that happened. But I’ll take full responsibility.”

I hear a floorboard in the hallway squeak, just outside the door. I drop the phone on the bed, and draw my weapon. Murphy's thin voice crackles from the speaker on the bed.

Under the door, I see the shadows of someone in the hallway. An instant later the door is kicked open. The doorframe splinters around the deadbolt. A blaze of automatic gunfire fills the room. Blinding flashes of muzzle flare. Bullets rip through the air, smashing the sheetrock and shattering mirrors.

I squeeze off several rounds as I launch over the bed and take cover behind a wall. My ears are ringing, and I can smell the gunpowder in the air.

In the metal ice bucket on the dresser, I can see the reflection of two men in the entrance foyer. One of them is dead on the ground. The other is creeping forward. He’s lining up to spray a flurry of bullets through the wall in an attempt to hit me.

I’ve got to act quickly.

I grab a pillow from the bed and hurl it into the foyer. A stream of bullets pierces through the pillow, exploding feathers everywhere. They dangle in the air. It provides a split second of distraction. Just enough for me to spin around the corner and fire as many rounds as I can.

The assassin squeezes off a burst of automatic fire.

Bullets puncture flesh, spewing blood.

My bullets. His blood.

The bastard falls back, tripping over his comrade’s dead body. He smashes into the full-length mirror on the closet door. And falls to the ground. To add insult to injury, a shard of glass falls, piercing his throat. The man gurgles and spits up blood.

I dash to him, kicking the weapon away from his hand. “Who sent you?”

I don’t think he could speak, even if he wanted to. The only thing that comes from his mouth are indiscernible groans. And the sound of him choking on his own blood. He lasts another few seconds, then exhales his last breath. His body goes limp.

I rummage through the two mens’ pockets. But these guys are pros. No IDs, nothing. Just extra magazines, and a pack of matches. I stuff them into my pocket, grab one of the Uzis, and pry it from the dead man’s fingers. Then I scavenge as many magazines as I can find.

I creep into the hallway. It looks clear. Then I rush to the stairwell and plummet down to the lobby.

Sirens warble in the distance. Someone must have called the cops. Those Uzis made a hell of a lot of ruckus. I step out into the lobby, weapon ready. I don’t even bother to conceal it. I’m ready for a fight.

The lobby looks clear.

The concierge sees me and rushes over.

“Someone broke the rules,” I say, marching toward the front door.

“My most sincere apologies.” He scurries after me. “I hope you won’t allow this incident to reflect negatively on our establishment?”

I ignore him.

“Please allow us to offer you a complementary stay in the future.”

“Give me your cell phone,” I demand.

“What?”

“Don’t make me take it from you.”

“Certainly.” The concierge slips a cellphone from his pocket and hands it to me. “Anything you need. Just ask.” He gives a phony smile.

I push through the main doors and grab a cab that is loading someone else’s bags in the trunk. A couple of newlyweds catching a cab for the airport. Honeymoon’s over.

Nobody is going to argue with a pissed off man wielding an Uzi. “Pier 57,” I say.

The cab driver drops the luggage. I hear something inside one of the bags break. The cabby raises his hands in the air. His eyes bug out, and his face washes over pale. He’s trembling.

“Now!” I yell.

He scurries around to the driver’s seat, and I climb in back. Tires squeal, and we launch away from the taxi stand, blazing off into the night.

I
stand
in the shadows across the street from the 57th Street Pier, watching to see who shows up. After a few minutes, I see Murphy's black SUV pull to the curb. He throws it in park, kills the engine, and steps out. His eyes glance from side to side, scanning the area. He keeps a hand in his coat pocket, undoubtedly gripping a pistol. He strolls about halfway down the pier and takes a seat on a bench.

I hold back in the shadows for a bit. My eyes scan up and down the street. I look up to the roof tops of neighboring buildings. I look for open windows. Anywhere that a sniper could be hiding. There are a few open windows, but nothing overly suspicious. Perhaps I’m just being paranoid, but after what’s already happened tonight, I’m a little spooked.

Murphy is still waiting casually on the bench. I step out from the shadows and wait for the streetlight to turn. Then I stroll through the crosswalk and make my way to the pier. My hand is planted firmly on my pistol, still in its holster.

Murphy sees me approach, and he smiles. He stands up to greet me as I arrive at the bench.

“Thank God you’re okay,” he says.

“How did the shooter find us?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ryker thinks we have a mole in the Bureau.”

“Does he?” Murphy scoffs. “I can think of any number of people who would want him dead.”

“There is a contract out on me too.”

Murphy grimaces.

“Let’s get you someplace safe,” Murphy says. “We can talk more about this.”

“I’m beginning to think that there is no place safe.”

Murphy's eyes narrow at me. “You trust me, don’t you?”

I hesitate. I don’t know what to think. He sees the doubt in my eyes.

“Scarlett, your father was my best friend. I’ve known him for 30 years. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

I hesitate a moment. I’ve known this man all of my life. He’s never given me any reason not to trust him. Finally, I nod and smile.

Just then, two cars screech up to the pier. Doors burst open. Four men in ski masks spring out, semiautomatic weapons in hand. A flash of muzzle fire. Bullets rip through the air.

Murphy's chest explodes in a crimson mist. Blood splatters across my face. Murphy's body crashes to the concrete with a splat. Blood pools from his gaping wounds. I gasp in horror. My eyes glisten with tears.

I draw my weapon, but I’m surrounded.

“Put the gun down, ma’am,” one of the attackers says.

I have no choice. I might be able to take out one of them. But the other three will gun me down. My heart is in my throat and I’m trembling. I’ve been in sticky situations before, but this is intense. My grip on the gun goes slack. It spins back, the trigger guard hanging on my finger. I slowly kneel down and set the weapon on the concrete.

“Kick it to me,” the masked man says.

The weapon clatters as I shuffle it across the concrete. One of the masked men kneels down and picks it up. Then stuffs it in his waistband. Two other men rush to me and grab me by my arms. A third shoves a black bag over my head and draws the tie-string tight. I can barely breathe.

They whisk me down the pier and stuff me into one of the cars. I hear the door slam shut. Weapons clank as the men file inside. The tires squeal, and I’m thrust back into the seat as the vehicle speeds away into the night.

“Who are you? What do you want?” I ask.

W
hen I arrive
at the pier, four men in ski masks are stuffing Scarlett into the back of a black Lincoln town car. Two men jump in the back seat with her, one on either side. One man hops into the driver’s seat of the Lincoln. Another man hops into the driver’s seat of a black Chevy 300. The two cars spin their tires. Plumes of white smoke billow into the air.

I leap out of the cab and draw the Uzi. The two cars are heading in my direction. I empty an entire magazine at the Lincoln—mostly aiming at the tires and the engine block. But the car doesn’t slow down.

My cab squeals away in a panic, and I’m left alone in the street. The back tinted window of the Lincoln rolls down, and a machine gun juts out through the window frame. A torrent of bullets blast like a string of firecrackers.

I dive for cover behind a parked car. Bullets pelt the sheet metal. Windows shatter, spraying fragments of glass.

Engines roar as the two cars scream past me. A nonstop hailstorm of bullets whip through the air. The two cars squeal around the corner and vanish into the night.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” I grumble to myself.

My heart is pounding. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. My eyes scan the area. I see Murphy writhing on the concrete. I run to the pier and kneel down beside him. He’s struggling to breathe. His shirt is soaked with blood. It looks like he’s taken a shot in the chest and two in the stomach. His lungs are filling with fluid. He can’t move his legs. My guess is one of the bullets grazed his thoracic spine.

“Who did this?” I ask.

He gurgles and moans.

“Who did this?” I growl.

He reaches for my shirt and grabs a fist full of fabric. “Find her,” he groans. Then his hand goes limp and falls to the concrete. His hand leaves a bloody stain on my shirt. His last breath leaves his lungs and his body is still.

An eerie silence falls over the pier. It’s quiet, except for the lapping of the waves against the shore. I reach into Murphy's pocket and take his badge and credentials. You never know when they may come in handy.

I don’t have much to go on, but I have to find Scarlett. I have to get her back. No way am I gonna leave her to those animals. She’s a gorgeous woman, and a federal agent. If she was taken by one of the crime families, they will show her no mercy. I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do to her.

I stand up and stagger back down the pier toward the Avenue. The adrenaline rush of the moment is starting to fade. I feel a stabbing pain in my chest. I look down and see my shirt is blooming red. And it’s not just the stain from Agent Murphy's hand.

I’ve been shot.

I clutch my wound, putting pressure on it. Blood seeps between my fingers. I hear the echo of sirens. My head is starting to feel light as I stumble across the Avenue. I need to clear out of the area before the cops arrive. This would be a hard situation to explain.

I can’t go to a hospital. All gunshot wounds are reported. The place would be swarming with cops by the time I got out of surgery. But if I don’t get medical assistance soon, I’m not going to make it.

I wobble down the sidewalk, trying to flag down a cab. But none of them stop. Nobody wants to pick up somebody who’s painted in blood. Nobody wants to clean up the mess after the ride is over.

My legs are getting heavy. It feels like I’ve got ankle weights on. My vision is starting to blur and fade. I look like a drunk, listing side to side. I take a few more steps before I collapse on the sidewalk.

Black spots of discarded gum tar the pavement. Hot steam wafts out of the sewer grates with a stench that can only come from a combine sewer system. The ground smells like a bum pissed on it.

So, this is it? This is how I go out? On the sidewalk in front of a Korean deli?