Chapter Three

West

A worthy assassin is meant to be professional, efficient, and most importantly, detached. Before a hit I was always calm, collected, and no longer got the adrenaline rush that I did in the early days of my career. Today felt different with a thread of guilt doing its best to try and choke me. But I took a long, deep inhale and shook away the thought. This was who I was. This was my job. Goddamnit, I couldn't and wouldn't let anyone come between me and my responsibility.

Not even a beautiful woman.

The white Nissan was gone, the old Ford truck still parked underneath the metal carport on the side of the home. It was 4:15 AM, fifteen minutes after the raven-haired beauty normally left for work. Her shit excuse of a brother was probably sleeping like a baby, all cozy and warm with his thumb up his ass while his sister had been awake before the damn chickens trying to earn a living. This time tomorrow, either the worthless fucker would be safe and sound, or on his way to becoming worm food.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief as I scanned the secluded neighborhood and stuck the Glock 40 in the front of my jeans. Despite the aggravating tightening in my chest, it felt surreal knowing this was the end of an era with Stealth Unity, the underground organization I'd worked for since I was twenty-two. Damn good at what I did, I held no remorse for any of the men I'd tortured and killed over the years and felt nothing but appreciation for the operation and its employees. Stealth consisted of ex-military, ex-CIA, and a long slew of ex-convicts. Most stayed within the organization until they were either too old to work or killed in the line of duty, which was rare. I had made some lifelong friends in the company and respected the hell out of them and what the business stood for. But fuck, I was forty-one and getting too old for this shit. Spent, exhausted, tired of the travel and sick stench of death, I was ready for change. For peace and stability. With enough money spread in banks across the world to last two lifetimes, I was anxious to sell my downtown Houston condo and retire on either a nice blue beach somewhere, or on the side of a secluded mountain.

I met Mr. Jones when I was nineteen and working for a large gambling casino just outside of Texas. He and a couple of acquaintances were regulars at the Tuesday night Blackjack tournament. For months I watched them shell out money like they had more than they knew what to do with, while dressed in expensive suits, shiny designer shoes, and radiating power like they owned the whole goddamn world. Fascinated since the minute I first saw them, one thing became certain.

I wanted what they had.

Pushing chairs back in their place, cleaning up trash, picking up empty glasses, and collecting club cards that often got left in the slot machines was dull and low paying. There was no future, and I wasn't content, but I nonetheless always tried to make an extra effort during the tournament. Turning in their next drink order before it was empty. Discarding cigarette butts from the ashtrays. Doing what I could to create a comfortable environment. After a night of big winnings, I congratulated Mr. Jones then asked if he knew of any jobs for someone like me to earn some real money.

The rest was history.

Now, after nearly two decades, I had vowed to my boss and friend that I would disappear and never breathe a word about him or the organization. While I had expected an argument, he instead told me he was dying of lung cancer, wouldn't be around much longer, and that I had proven my worth to him many times over. All he asked was that I complete one last job which wasn't a normal assignment but a personal favor.

Ben Nelson was embezzling money from the commercial contracting company he worked for. James Chandler from JC Construction was a friend of Mr. Jones and served in the Navy with him. From what I had been told, Chandler was eccentric and the baddest kind of bad when it came to dirty employees. Yet, like others since the pandemic, he'd struggled finding good workers and offered Ben the chance to return the money and keep his job. Unfortunately, Ben failed to keep his end of the bargain. While I wasn't given all the details, one thing had been made crystal clear. James Chandler lost half his belongings in an ugly divorce, despised attorneys, and refused to invest another cent in the legal profession. He wanted his money returned, or Ben Nelson eliminated.

I had to stifle a laugh at Mr. Jones's description of James Chandler being that I knew his lack of boundaries when it came to cruel, merciless deaths. I'd witnessed this firsthand after watching his own half-brother being strapped to a wicker chair, doused in lighter fluid, and burned alive after he turned traitor and helped an arms dealer flee the country in return for a six-figure payoff.

He had been good to me over the years. I also knew not to try and cross the man.

I made my way around back and pushed through all the flying insects, then looked through a kitchen window. The under-counter lights were on, but the rest of the place looked quiet and dark.

Perfect.

I didn't look forward to what I was about to do. Not because the man inside was more than likely about to meet Jesus. The world was better off without shit scum like him. My dilemma was a head of raven hair, a set of pouty lips, and arctic-blue eyes that carried way too much fatigue, stress, and sorrow. While she'd had no problem putting me in my place when I offered her advice, she was undoubtedly a kindhearted, sweet angel who deserved the damn world. Who needed her financial woes eased, this run-down place tended to, and most importantly someone to worship her fucking body morning, noon, and night. For all my adult life, I had lived with a void space inside my chest. I felt no empathy toward others and defined love as silly fiction. Fifteen minutes with Brooklyn Nelson left me wondering. After I retired just maybe…

Fuck, what was I thinking? I had a job to complete, a promise to maintain. The quicker I got it done, the quicker I could get the hell out of here. And her out of my head.

I reached for the handle of the back door. Locked. As expected. But the old fiberglass-clad foam door was no challenge to jimmy open. Fifteen seconds later I was inside and inhaling scents of coconut, vanilla, and homemade bread. All was quiet, other than the ticking of a big round clock on the wall, and I made my way toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

That's when I felt it. Somebody behind me. Somebody lifting something to connect with the back of my skull. I pulled the Glock from my pocket, rotated, and instead of Ben fucking Nelson, I was staring at an intense, unblinking, ice-blue gaze and a big-ass kitchen pan inches away from bashing my head in.

What the hell was she doing here? The Nissan hadn't been under the carport.

"Whoa, sweetheart. I'd reconsider if I were you."

"You!" she shrieked, her curvy body shaking like a motherfucker. "First you stalk me in my place of business, offer me bullshit advice, and act like some sleek businessman. Now you break into my home? Get the hell out or I start screaming." Her bottom lip quivered as she sucked in accelerated breaths of air and stared at the gun in my hand.

I lowered the Glock, yanked the copper pan from her hands, and pushed my fingers through her hair. Tilting her neck and trying to concentrate on the job instead of the ice in her gorgeous eyes and the way her silken tresses felt against my fingertips, I said, "I am not here to hurt you." I pressed the swell of my cock into her belly. "I'm here to pay a visit to your brother, so do us both a favor and lead me in his direction."

"Fuck you," she said, then tried to run for the kitchen.

I was way ahead of her, way faster. She only made it six inches before I had her by the clip on her head, pulling her back, and watching her cock-hardening tresses fall free as her body came crashing back into mine.

"Let go of me, you crazy fuckfest." Panic flashed in her gaze as she started thrashing and kicking at my legs before releasing a bone-curdling scream.

Letting her know I wasn't here to listen to her lip or fuck around, I pressed a hand over her mouth and nose to cut off her breath, then lowered my lips above hers. "Shut your goddamn mouth before you wake the dead. Or join them." I released the pressure just enough to let her inhale. "Are you going to scream again?" I covered her nose with my palm a second time, a final warning.

She shook her head in quick panicky motions, tears flooding her eyes.

"Okay, that's better. Now tell me where your brother is."

"I … I don't know." She blinked several times, her eyes darting back and forth. "Sometime during the night, he left in my car. I haven't heard from him." Her vocal tone was higher than it had just been, and she shifted from foot to foot, her body fidgety. All were signs I had learned to read over the years. Someone hiding something. Someone trying to protect a loved one.

The little raven-haired beauty was lying to my face.

"Then do us both a favor and tell me where he hides his money."

"Money? Does this place look like we have money?"

"Listen to me. Your brother owes some very powerful, very dangerous people a large sum of cash, and let's just say I've been hired to collect in any way I see fit. Let that sink in your pretty little head for a minute, then tell me where I can find it."

"I don't know! Ben never mentioned a word about having any money, only owing."

"Very well. Then let's you and I have a look around the place while you call him."

"There's no damn money," she gritted out. "You're wasting your time."

"How about letting me be the judge of that? Now get your phone and make the call before I lose patience." I circled her neck with my hand. "You don't want me losing patience. Correct?"

She shook her head in nervous, quick successions, her expression wide with fear.

Fucking beautiful.

An hour later, I'd been through closets, pulled out clothing and searched inside pockets, and looked underneath particleboard of dresser drawers. Both mattresses were stripped of their bedding and against the wall. Kitchen cabinets were open as well as boxes and canisters of flour and sugar. The place was clean, the only thing of interest that I found being two dildos and a bottle of lube in my pretty little deceiver's bedside table.

Interesting.

I pulled two bottles of Ozarka from the refrigerator with the onset of the one thing I did not need right now—a migraine. While only a small percentage of men were sufferers of the abominable headaches, I'd been dealing with them since childhood.

Only those with a pussy have migraines, you weak fuck.

With my thoughts doing their best to stir shit in my head, I took a seat at the dinette, then slid one of two waters across the table. Brooklyn was glaring at me like I was a horned demon while pain lifted behind my right eye and I rubbed at the growing ache. "Interesting dildos you own, especially the one with all the bumps and ridges. And tell me more about the CBD lube. Can you tell a difference?" My cock tightened as I watched heat lift up her neck and into her cheeks that showcased the spattering of freckles across the bend of her nose.

Christ, she was a vision. A goddess.

With an angry swipe of her hand, she reached for the water. "I wouldn't know," she hissed while blinking rapidly, her eyes darting back and forth and full of a thousand fucking lies. "So, please get out of my home, find somebody else to jack with, and let me get to work."

"Not happening, sweetheart. Call Ben again."

She reached for her cell phone, glowering at me. "What a letdown you must be to your loved ones."

The bright countertop lighting was fucking with my sight. Stabbing agony was building behind both eyes, their sockets, my temples, and the base of my skull. The familiar throbbing pain along with her last words had more memories stirring in my head.

You eat our food and spend our money like we have a money tree sprouting hundred-dollar bills out back. I never wanted a kid, especially some sickly punk with chronic headaches.

I hadn't been a bad kid, just a kid living with bad people. I should have gone into his bedroom that first night after he'd ripped away my innocence and slit his despicable throat from ear to ear.

"The feeling was mutual," I replied while the hammering above my right eye felt like something drilling through my goddamn skull. I drained the water and turned off the under-counter lights. "Again," I demanded, glancing at her phone.

"I—it's been disconnected," she replied, her voice quivering.

Fuck!

"And you're just telling me this? Then guess what? We sit and wait until we hear from him."

"I have a business to open, asshat. A note to pay."

"Not today you don't. Until we find either your brother or the money, there will be no pies. No notes paid. And I'd suggest you watch your damn mouth. Be a shame to cut out that pretty tongue."

With her eyes glassing over, a tear slipped down her cheek. "You're a miserable human. You know that? What do you have planned for Ben? Torture him for hours? Then shoot him with that gun in your pocket? You must feel so proud when your head hits the pillow at night." Tone nervous and timid, she wrapped her arms around herself and began trembling. Panicking. Likely considering her options. The last thing I intended to tell Brooklyn was how cruelly I had killed in the past. Flaying. Limb removal. Nail, tooth, and tongue extractions. Water. Poison. Fire. She had no idea that shooting someone was an easy way to go. Quick, painless, and if it came down to that, a favor … to her.

"My only plan is to find out where he's holding my client's money. I'll do whatever necessary."

"He's my brother, the only living relative I have. I'll sell my car. This house. I'll give you every penny I make or do anything you ask. Just spare his life."

"Anything? That's a pretty rich offer." If she only knew how simple and quick it would be to push her into the goddamn wall, hold her in place, and thrust inside her. Or that I'd had a date with my hand after I left her pie shop while thinking how her warm pussy or tight asshole might feel while pulling cum up my cock. She had no fucking clue the man I could become. I backed my chair up, purposely giving her a view of the swelling behind my zipper.

"Go to fucking hell!"

"Been there, sweetheart. More times than I'd like to remember."

"I don't understand," she said in a soft tone with concern in her gaze. "I mean, look at you." Her eyes brushed over my face, my neck and chest. "You're beautiful. You look like you just walked off the set of GQ. Plus, you clearly have money. So, why live such an evil lifestyle when you don't have to? What made you want to kill people? To shatter families?"

I winced at her words, while rubbing at the agony behind my head. "Sometimes things aren't as they seem. As the saying goes, shit happens. And as for the lifestyle? It all but found me, sweetheart. Not the opposite."

"Maybe. But something tells me that destroying families isn't the way you want to be. Not deep in your heart."

I pushed out of my chair and dug my fingertips deep enough into her shoulder to leave bruising. "You don't know shit about what I want. And you can rest assured that whatever heart I ever had was numbed many years ago."

"On your belly, you worthless punk."

"I don't believe that," she replied in a whisper. "Not for a minute. Please. I'm begging. If there's any compassion inside you at all, then spare my brother's life. He's not the horrible person you think he is." She sucked in air. "Our mother died the night before I turned sixteen. If not for Ben, I would have ended up in foster care. He raised me, carried me through the grief of watching cancer eat away at our only parent, and pushed me to pursue my dream of baking. He gave up everything for me. Yes, he's in trouble and I've worried about it every minute of every day. But he doesn't deserve to die. My God, use my body, take what little I have in this place, but don't kill the only family I have left. I'll do anything you ask."

"First of all, let's get something straight. I'm not some goddamn rapist. But would I love to feel your wet pussy around me? I'd be an idiot not to. And I've seen the fire in your eyes when you look at me. If I could dig into that brain of yours, I would almost guarantee you're wondering about my cock as we speak. Unfortunately, none of that changes the fact that your brother needs to pay his debt and I have a job to do."

"I fucking hate you," she said, despite the pebbling of her nipples.

"Noted, but I suggest you reconsider what kind of shirts or bras you wear in the future when you're professing hatred. Your tits speak another story."

That little bottom lip quivered again as she glared at me like she was staring into Satan's face. Yet, her nipples were hard and erect and there was a flush to her skin. I was all but positive that should I lower a hand between her thighs, I'd meet warm, sweet dampness.

"You're the damn devil, Lucifer in the flesh. I knew there was something off about you, but rest assured, I haven't given a single thought to what's behind your pants. Or rather what's lacking."

Pretty little deceiver.

My brow lifted at her last comment. "Yes, I'm a bad man, much worse than you could ever imagine. Doesn't stop the fact that I'm staring at rock-hard nipples, flushed skin, and know without a doubt that your pussy is wet for far more than any ribbed dildo."

Just as her mouth opened to spout off more hatred, I did what I had ached to do since I first saw her. I reached for my pretty little deceiver's face, traced my tongue along the seam of her pink lips, then crushed my mouth against hers. With my hands pushing through that satiny hair and my fingertips coiling so tight that she whimpered, I kissed the ever-loving fuck out of her. While I had never forced myself on a woman that didn't want me and knew this was wrong on a dozen goddamn levels, it felt like some kind of urgent compulsion driving through me. I had no fucks left, no strength to fight it any longer. She could resist and deny until she was blue in the damn face. Scream and curse and hate me until her last dying breath. But I needed to feel her lips on mine, to taste her just once. And even as she grunted through anger, tried kicking me, and shoved at my chest with tight fists, I kept going. Stroking inside her mouth with deep licks of my tongue and ignoring her angry pleas and the loathing in her eyes. That's when I felt it. The fire in my shin as the foot of her shoe connected with bone and set off excruciating pain that lifted up my leg.

She kicked the motherfucking shit out of me.

A low grumble rumbled up my throat and I drew back, my breath accelerated, my cock so fucking hard it ached. "That wasn't very nice, Brooklyn. Especially when I have a gun in my pocket and know damn well you're keeping something from me."

"The fact that you even think I could want someone like you is sickening. I'd rather die a hundred deaths sad, alone, and hungry, than let you touch me. You had no right kissing me."

I fought laughing out loud. She was so full of shit. Did she think I couldn't tell when a woman was turned on? That I couldn't pick up the sweet scent of pussy? Comical. I speared my fingers through her hair and tilted her head. "You lie yet again. You know it. I know it." I rolled my thumb over her bottom lip then grasped her chin. "I kissed you because I damn well wanted to and because you look at me with fucking in your eyes. And believe me when I tell you that rights don't mean shit to me."

"Fuck you! You're a monster, a crazy madman. You've torn my home to shreds, made fun of me, kept me from my job, and humiliated me. And now you're accusing me of being a liar?" Raw loathing glistened in her eyes. "I'm not keeping jack shit from you."

"Oh, I see. So is this where you also try convincing me that your brother and you attend bible study on a weekly basis? That you're both as pure as the driven snow? And that your sweet pussy isn't dripping fucking wet right now? Give it up, sweetheart. I'm growing bored."

Her lip quivered in anger. Flames ignited behind her eyes. Both made me so motherfucking hard that I could barely stand it. "So you make fun of religion? Once again, how proud you must feel about yourself."

"And how proud, I might ask, do you feel, Brooklyn?"

I winced at the pain still shooting up my leg as well as behind my eye and pressed a palm over the right side of my head. Goddamn annoying migraines. "Fuck! Fucking fuck!"

"It's getting worse, isn't it? The migraine?" There was a new softness in her voice and a tenderness in her gaze. "Not that you deserve a damn thing, but I have meds. Wait here and I'll get you another bottle of water and some pain relief."

I reached for her hair again and jerked her head back. "Get the meds but try pulling any funny shit and I'll make your brother's punishment a hell of a lot worse."

"Okay. Just let go of my damn hair."

Just as she took a step toward the hallway where the bathroom was, her phone buzzed. Reaching in front of me to grab it before I could see a name on the screen, she answered, "Hey, Sam," on a breath while shooting me another evil look, full of contempt.

"I'm sorry," she added, still scowling at me like I had two heads. "I woke up with a fever. I took some meds and I guess I fell back to sleep. Looks like I'm coming down with something, but I'll make sure you're paid extra for your trouble and let you know when I feel up to par. I'm sorry."

She ended the call and shot me another malicious sneer that didn't hold even a hint of fear, but only hatred and disgust. "I just fed a line of bullshit to my right-hand person after she got up at the butt crack of dawn and used her gas to drive to work only to find the door locked. Hope you're happy."

"You could have told her you were in trouble. Why didn't you?"

Her eyes glazed with emotion as she speared her fingertips through her hair. "I honestly don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore. It just seems no matter how hard I try, the shitstorms continue coming. All I ever wanted was to bake my pies and maybe bring a smile to someone's face."

"Hey." I reached for her hand. "I don't want to hurt you or bring more stress to your life. I need you to know that."

She flinched, a tear breaking free. "Yet, that's exactly what you're doing."

"And you and I both know that you could be rolling out piecrust and brewing coffee if you would just stop with the lies."

"Screw you," she mumbled, pulling her hand away from mine, shooting me the bird, and walking her pretty ass toward the bathroom.