Saved by the Outlaw: Motorcycle Club / Hitman Romance (18 page)

“
I
remember
when this place was just an empty lot filled with broken-down car parts and stuff,” comments one of Eva’s many cousins, whose name I can’t place.

“Me, too!” I exclaim. “I used to ride my bike here with my friends and play with the metal scraps. I suppose a park is probably a little safer for the kids, though.”

We all laugh, gathered together on checkered blankets and handmade quilts offered earnestly by Wanda Lawrence. The Lawrences are perched at a wooden picnic table nearby, the sweet elderly couple beaming at each other over a basket of cheese and fruit. I smile, leaning into Leon’s shoulder. He kisses the side of my head and tugs me closer.

“I’m just glad we were able to make something good come out of this whole ugly mess,” Anya says, holding hands with her new boyfriend, none other than the
former
Officer Samuels. After everything that went down, he quit the force and started hanging around the Glass, earning his stripes until he was finally, officially initiated. Ever since the day he threw down his badge and gun, he’s been latched to Anya’s side. The two of them are an unlikely couple — but he’s such a lovable goof that he helps her lighten up and laugh a little. I’ve never seen her smile as much as she has in the past few months that they’ve been together. And the Lawrences are over the moon that their former daughter-in-law has found someone who makes her happy. Wanda tells me it’s what Henry would’ve wanted.

“This park is beautiful,” Genn comments, leaning back in the grass. “I’m so glad the kids have somewhere cool to hang out now.”

“Yeah, and it’s nice to see some of the local resources finally taking care of this part of town. God, it used to be such a sad place. Now it hardly looks like the same neighborhood,” Vasily says. He’s standing proudly a few feet away, surveying the park with a grin.

We’ve all spent the past six months finagling with city planners and gathering the funds to get this park up and running. Hard to believe eight months ago this field was the horrific site of so many shallow, unmarked graves. Such a sad place filled with dark memories — but we refused to let it stay that way. With the assistance of the feds, we’ve managed to track down the family members of those who were buried here, allowing the families to give their loved ones a proper burial. And now, across the field, there is a beautiful black marble memorial plaque with all their names etched into it with golden lettering. We want to be respectful of those whose lives were carelessly, cruelly squandered away. On the bottom of the list is my dad’s name, immortalized.

But that doesn’t mean we’re going to let this field rot and fester in sadness.

Now, it’s home to lovely green grass, an impressive playground, an outdoor barbeque area, several picnic tables, and even a bike trail cut through the surrounding wooded area. The field, first a desolate scrap metal yard, then a heartbreaking crime scene, is now bustling with activity and filled with laughter and love.

I am proud of what we’ve all accomplished, and I am bursting with joy to think that one day, my own child will play here, too. I wonder if he will be just as daring and determined as his father, or if he will be impossibly curious and loyal as me. I plan to name him John, after my dad. I think I’m finally living up to my potential, carrying out all the dreams my father had for me. Ellen Hardy was impressed with the article I produced about Doyle and Chandler’s big scandal, and she has agreed to keep me on staff as a writer and editor — while allowing me to work remotely. I have my big-city dream job, but I still get to live in my beloved hometown!

We’ve moved back into my dad’s old house, and with the help of the Club, Leon and I have given the place a massive makeover — restoring the house to its former glory without losing any of its distinctive, vintage charm. It’s just enough to suit the three of us, with room to grow.

Rubbing my swollen belly, I turn to look up into my husband’s handsome face. His vivid green eyes meet mine and that same exhilarating thrill passes down my body. I don’t think I’ll ever stop being amazed by him. I’ve never known love like this, and I’ve never been so happy in my entire life. I can’t help thinking that all my aimless wandering, my inability to really find my happy place in New York, was all just a series of road signs pointing me back home. I have become a firm believer in fate. Leon and I are a testament to the existence of destiny. After all, he’s the one who saved me from drowning so many years ago — but I’d like to think that, in the end, we really saved each other.

* * *

T
hank
you so much for reading and, hopefully, enjoying this book :) If you’d like more, please make sure you’re
subscribed to my newsletter
. On the next page is a glossary of Russian terms used in this book, and a special sneak peak at my next novel, Captive to the Hitman, due out in May.

As well, remember to check out your bonus books!

K
otika - Kitty cat

Nichego - Nothing

Klyanus - I swear

Zasranec - Asshole

Da, da, moy drug - Yes yes, my friend

Podruga - Girlfriend

Politsiya - Police

Khorosho - Alright

Devushka - Girl

Sotrudnik - Officer

Mudak - Asshole/dickhead

Chert voz’mi - Damn it

Byet ostorozhen - Carefully

Zatk’nis, mu’dak - Dumb asshole

Pidarasy - vacation

Vy prekrasny - Beautiful

Obeshchayu - I promise

Ne volnuytes, kroshka - It’s okay, baby

Ochyen priyatno, sestra - Nice to meet you, sister

Moy brat - My brother

Bratishka - Little brother

Pozhaluysta - Please

Smelaya devushka - Daring girl

Sestra - Sister

Spasibo - Thank you

Da svidaniya - Goodbye

Fsyevo harosheva - Safe travels

Pizdoon - Fucking liar

T
his book is not yet released
and has not undergone editing. It’s available for a limited time as a thank you to readers who enjoyed Saved by the Outlaw. You might recognize Mikhail ;)

To be notified of when this book comes out, make sure you’re
signed up to my newsletter!

Enjoy!

M
y cock throbs
in my hand as I stare at the page in a glossy magazine. It’s not like I need it. It’s not about her, the sexy woman sprawled along the centerfold. Even jerking off is all business.

My veins pulse as my grip tightens, and I lick my lips as I start to stroke myself. It’s a slow, rhythmic thing, letting the tension gather in my shoulders. I need to feel tense now, so that later, I can find that perfect calm.

Not too fast. Slow. Teasing. My thumb gathers the precum at the tip, running it along my swollen head, adding a hint of lubrication. It’s been too long since I’ve been with a woman, through my own choice. I don’t have room in my life for a girl, not even a fling. My job is too dangerous to drag someone into, even if I wanted to.

So instead I stroke myself to a skin mag, and growl as the stress keeps building in my gut. I have a big job tonight. Something important, and nothing can distract me, especially not this fucking
urge
to fuck. To go to a club, find some hot piece of ass, and take her. Meaningless, useless, unfulfilling sex, but it’d be something.

I grip myself harder as I lean back on the couch, the tension travelling from my shoulders down to my back and into my belly. I force it lower, so that when I start jerking myself faster, I can rid myself of this fucking stress.

Gritting my teeth, my breathing speeds up, and I close my eyes. The centerfold doesn’t do much for me. Most women don’t.

So instead I just focus on the feel of my hard cock, pulsing like mad in my hand. This is what life should be made of. Pleasure exploding in my brain as I get closer and closer to the edge.

And when finally I burst, my entire body empties. It’s not just my balls as they tighten and spurt their cream over my abs. It’s not just my mind that clears of its fog.

My entire body feels lighter for that perfect, pure moment of orgasm, and I feel ready to do my job tonight. There’s no room for error. There’s no fucking this up.

Tonight, I’m a killer.

* * *

T
he group
of revelers spill out of the limousine. All but one are men, dressed in expensive tailored suits; ties mostly loosened. They look like they just came from Wall Street, pretentious and full of themselves and whatever perceived victory they’d just been celebrating.

Some of them hold bottles of ridiculously expensive booze, but it’s clear that a few of them are on something much harder, looking wired. But it’s the sole woman in the group that catches my attention once the others are tallied.

I hate excess casualties in my line of work. It’s an increased risk, and one I don’t care to take. The other men are all on my list, but this woman? A young blonde, in high heels and a red dress? She’s stumbling a bit but somehow managing to make it look gracefully natural. She’s had more intoxicants than she’s realized, I can tell. I’ve seen that vaguely confused look before.

By my reckoning one of those shit heads has slipped her something extra into her drink before they head up to the penthouse for the real party.

All targets accounted for, and one extra person isn’t too much for me to handle, not even close. But there’s something about her, that bright smile upon her face, the twinkle in her eyes. She doesn’t strike me as the usual sort of drugged up bimbo these sort of guys haul back for their debauchery. There’s a spark to her.

I push her from my mind though. I have to, there’s no other option. Civilian casualties are sometimes an unavoidable thing. I saw that first hand more often than I cared to remember.

It isn’t long before the group has all vanished into the posh hotel, their security detail trailing behind. They do a good job looking like part of the group for what it’s worth, but there’s no way for them to match the drunken, drugged up gait while doing their job effectively, so it’s easy to tell how many I have to deal with.

Six armed guards. I was expecting eight, but it seems two remain with the vehicle.

Now it’s my turn.

There’s no rush, my movements are casual. The last thing I ever want to do is stand out on a mission like this, so while I have plenty of time I don’t hurry. Don’t rush. I make my way around back, down into the subterranean parking lot.

I sight the two guards at the vehicle; one’s smoking, the other’s talking on a phone. They look casual too, but it’s a ruse. They’re alert and dangerous, like me. I stay far enough away that I never draw their eyes. My target is the door leading up.

Through the stairwell I make my way to an employee’s only hall. The keycard lock is easy enough to bypass and I just move on through. It winds through a laundry room, but nobody pays me any mind. The hotel is far too bustling for me to stand out, dressed in a black sweater and pants. I look like just another employee coming on or off the job before getting into uniform.

I swipe an access card from some manager, too busy berating an employee to notice its loss. This is something I could’ve done earlier in preparation, but that would have ran the risk of it being noticed. And while I doubt it’d have affected the mission, you never know with people.

But me? I know I’d have no issue getting what I need when I need it.

A service elevator takes me up, the stolen keycard granting me easy access to the penthouse suites on top.

The doors open and I walk along a narrow service hallway before peering out into the elite foyer. There, I see two more of the guards outside a door. Not that I needed to know that, it was easy to figure out which room they’d be staying at ahead of time.

I grasp a cleaning cart and roll it out into the hall, to one of the rooms. It’s unoccupied, and the two security men pay me little heed before I disappear inside. I suppose I look like a janitor in their eyes, harmless. Someone weak and easy to ignore, with my head and shoulders hunched, stolen ID card dangling from my belt.

It took me a while to meander my way on up, but still I have ample time.

I pull a knife from beneath my pant leg, slide it into my belt. I give the gun in my pocket a final check. It’s small, but it’ll do the job. The silencer from my other pocket screws on, and I slide my mask on down over my face. Then that’s it. No time like the present.

But it’s not the door I go for. That’d leave two corpses in the hallway while I do the rest, and I’m a professional. Leaving dead bodies in plain sight is too risky.

I head to the window, sliding it open to go onto the posh balcony, the ledge I’m counting on is right there to the left. The wind up here is cold, and I let it bite into me. Distract me from the ridiculously long plunge below.

I can’t see the windows and balcony to the party's suite from here, I have to round the corner. But to get that far I have about three dozen feet of clinging to the side of a skyscraper.

The key is to not think about it. Like in all things, I let myself run on practiced instinct. Skills and methods honed through repetition.

The ledge holds as I creep my way along to that corner and peer around the edge.

It’s all clear. And I carry on, winding about the corner of the building towards the first window. The curtains are shut still, thankfully, so that makes my job easier. Even assassins have to be grateful for small favors.

But then the doors to the balcony open, about a dozen feet away. So much for luck.

One of the security guards steps out, and I go still as a dead mouse. He looks around the cityscape, and lingers a while, so my hand creeps down into my pocket, slowly — so slowly! — pulling the gun out, keeping it at the ready, aimed for him.

Time stands still, quiet but for the wind. There’s about twenty stories between me and the ground. Long enough that if I fall, I’m going to have plenty of time to regret it. I focus my mind forward onto the man, let that cool calm grip my heart. My finger tenses on the trigger.

Then I hear him mutter seemingly to himself.

“Check in. All clear,” he says into a headpiece that’s all but invisible.

I have about five minutes, max now. Then the next check in occurs and the men at the car would realize something’s wrong, impeding my getaway.

The guard meanders a while longer before turning, heading back in and shutting the door.

I lower my gun, slip it back into my pocket and carry on, sidling along until I can climb up over the railing onto the balcony. I can peer in through the glass doors, into the hallway there. The suite beyond is massive, I know: I looked into it ahead of time. But the hallway is guarded by that lone security man.

Slipping the knife from my belt I ever so carefully open the door, which I earlier jammed so it never quite locks, though it appears to. The sounds of laughter and music from the partiers immediately fill my senses.

With smooth, quick motions I simultaneously wrap my gloved hand around the guard’s mouth and slide the blade into his back. I pierce his flesh right between his ribs, the long blade puncturing his heart then slicing through it and his lung.

He’s dead, can barely even kick before it’s all over. I don’t take any time to revel in my victory. He’s just one on a long list of guys who I snuffed out.

I drag his body back out onto the balcony, wiping the blade off onto his blazer before I slip back inside. Time is of the essence now, the clock is ticking. But I can’t hurry this, can’t do anything more than carry on at my precise killing pace.

Another guard walks into the hallway, rounding the corner, and I’m on him quick and smooth. Hand over his mouth as my blade slices through his breast, ending his life. Ending lives is what I’m best at, and now I’m in my groove. It’s not really a rush so much as an energy, feeding off these bastards deaths.

Two guards down, four more to go.

I drag the body into the bathroom, stuffing him into the tub, pulling across the shower curtain. Before I can leave one of the party goers comes in. He’s tipsy, doesn’t notice me as I keep pressed to the wall behind a recess. He unzips, and I hear the sound of his pissing.

His life is ended in the blink of an eye. Never even had time to make peace with whatever God he prays to, poor sap. Not like a prayer would do guys like this any good.

Back into the hall I head towards the private bedrooms. A guard waits outside two of them, and there’s no way I can approach him without him seeing me, so it’s time for the gun.

One shot. A soft hiss of air. He’s down, a hole in his forehead and a splatter of blood over the wall. It’s messy. This is why I prefer the knife. I rush in to grasp his body before he can hit the ground. I jab the blade up into his skull from beneath his jaw anyhow, making sure it’s done as I lower him down to the floor gently.

Then I listen at the doors.

One room is empty, the other I hear two people inside. Sounds of moans, sex. They’ll be distracted, making the kills even easier.

I head inside casually, the door opening to show them at the bed. One with his pants around his ankles, the other man on his knees. No sign of the woman.

I fire a shot and that ends the man’s pleasure, but just as the other man realizes he’s now fellating a corpse I end him too. It worked well; neither got to cry out in the brief span it took me to kill them. Small favors.

I only have moments to get the rest of the job done. A bullet to the head is no absolute guarantee, people have lived through stranger things, and I make sure they’re dead with my dagger once again before heading back out.

Nothing short of absolute success is acceptable to my employer. Nobody survives. That was the terms of our contract. The stakes are too high for anything but.

But as I’m exiting the room a guard arrives just in time to see the mess of his comrade, splattered over the wall. That’s why I hate guns. So messy. I can generally control the spurt of blood from my dagger, until I’m done positioning the corpse.

Everything would go to hell here and now, if I wasn’t so well practiced at death. This is my life. I live it, breathe it. It’s what I’m good at. Before he can utter a word, my hand is at his mouth, grasping tightly. He’s reaching for the gun at his belt, but I stop him, grasping his hand.

The conundrum is that while I stopped him from sending warning to his fellow guards and getting his weapon, my two hands are now tied up as well.

He glares at me, a death stare. If looks could kill he’d be as good an assassin as I am.

I let him push me back though, and we’re backpedaling into the gory murder scene of the bedroom. This guy’s good. He’s not distracted by the scene at all as I hoped he would be. Maybe he’s born into death too. I have to up my game.

I head-butt him, and blood gushes from his nose. It’s enough to set him off balance, so I twist around, get behind him, and then force him to the floor. My two hands are still occupied, and I can’t risk letting him speak or get his gun, so I make use of other limbs.

My legs get in around his neck, and I clench my thighs about him. I twist, using my hand at his mouth and my two legs to wrench his head back, suffocating him, straining that neck until at last… I hear it. The crack of bone.

His arms go limp, but he’s not dead. There’s still movement in his eyes. I’ve just crippled him, severed his spine. I end his misery with an insertion at the back of his head, beneath his skull.