The Hitman's Property (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Book 2) Page 7

  So, the Russians had come—they’d taken her—they’d stolen her away from me. Maybe they had followed me from the Wanderer’s Pillow to the Drunk Harpy, or maybe they had gotten lucky and gotten a tip from a passerby, but it hardly mattered now.

  But the coldness did little to lessen the pain of her loss.

  “Fuck!” I snarled, smashing my fists into my chest, ignoring the agony in my wrist from the zip-ties, and the physical damage that had been done to my entire body. “Fuck! Tess! Fuck!” I screamed up at the sky, letting my pain and my fury boil out of me.

  Police, brother, police, I heard Kevin warn inside my head, the sirens going on and on. You need to leave. You won’t be able to save her if you’re in prison and somehow I doubt your friends on the force will be so cooperative now that Boss is dead. You’re a rat now in everyone’s eyes. You went against the Bianchi family, and you’re on your own. You must leave NOW!

  “Damn it.” My voice rumbled like thunder. “God-fucking-damn it!”

  But my little brother was right. He was always right. I couldn’t go after her from within a cell.

  Hands shaking, I returned to the car, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. The Mustang growled into life and I, The Animal, with bloodshed on my mind, reversed out of the cul-de-sac.

  I gripped the wheel so hard that it pressed painfully against my palms, and as I drove I couldn’t go five seconds without looking down at the passenger seat, at the plea for help, the warning, and the bitter note all rolled into one:

  Zharkov.

  I knew one thing for damn sure. If that man had laid a single fucking finger on her, I would tear that finger from his hand and shove it down his motherfucking throat before I choked the life out of him with my bare hands.

  I was pissed when Boss had taken my money, and I’d made him pay for it in blood. Zharkov had taken something far more valuable to me, and that had been a deadly mistake. I’m on a fucking war path and I’m going after what’s mine. Tess.

  9

  About an hour later, I was back in the parking lot of the Wanderer’s Pillow.

  I sat behind the wheel of the car, looking toward the doors, and found myself wasting time thinking about what had already happened. I thought about when she had hugged me before we left this motel, about her petite and feminine body pressed against mine, her perky tits pushed against my chest and the intoxicating smell of her rose perfume. I thought about how I felt more than just lust for her, more than simply animal want. But it didn’t matter how I felt about a damn thing. All that mattered was getting her back, and I had to come up with a plan to do it.

  But I couldn’t push the thoughts away completely. I kept thinking of Tess saying, “save me, save me,” that night at Miss Jones’ home and I had woken with her face buried in my chest. And I kept thinking about how it was me who had told her to stay in the car. If I just had taken her with me... but that would have been more dangerous. Fuck! My thoughts were spinning in circles.

  I waited until the parking lot was empty. There was a woman in a short purple skirt and a snow-printed tank top, walking unsteadily on one broken high heel. I watched as she limped to a door, knocked and waited. After a moment a man in a bathrobe opened the door and let her in. I opened the car door and looked across the parking lot to the trashcans. Sure enough, the old homeless man was there, only now he was holding a bottle of whiskey and humming softly to himself.

  “Old man!” I called out.

  The man was sitting against the trashcan, a mosquito busy sucking from his neck. His gaze jerked up when I called to him.

  “Huh?” he said. “Ah, yes?”

  I walked over to him and looked down.

  “Oh my!” the old man croaked. “I would hardly have recognized you if it weren’t for that lovely car! Looks like you just came from battle! Who did you go to war with son?”

  “It’s been a hell of a day,” I said. “Listen, I need you to do me a favor. I’m going to the payphone just down there.” I pointed past the parking lot to the side of the road. “Watch my car, will you? If you see any bastard sneaking up on it, do me a favor and give me a shout out, okay?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” the old man laughed, throwing me a drunken salute.

  Are you sure that he’s the best person to trust, brother? I heard Kevin say.

  Damn it, what other choice is there? I need to make the call, don’t I?

  Not caring that I was still covered in blood—Tess was more important than that—I jogged across the parking lot toward the payphone.

  I threw the door to the payphone open, so violently that it almost flew straight off of the hinges. I was vaguely aware of drivers who were twisting their heads and looking at me—the blood-drenched zombie at the side of the road. I noticed a man who held his cell phone up to his ear drop the phone in his lap, turn his head, and swerve his car and almost veer into the other lane. I saw a little girl with pigtails stop giggling and start crying when she saw me. I saw it all, but I didn’t care; it didn’t matter.

  Tess—she was all that mattered to me. Everyone else could go fuck themselves.

  I closed the door to the payphone behind me and picked up the receiver. Holding it to my ear, I heard the dead line. “Fuck,” I muttered, dropping the receiver and letting it dangle from its metal chain. I shoved a hand into my pocket and searched for change. I came up empty. Fuck!

  I realized that whatever change that I’d had on me scattered out of my pockets in the Drunk Harpy. Funny that I had been so consumed with killing that I hadn’t had the mind to pay attention to a few cents.

  I sighed and shoved the payphone door open again.

  Walking across the parking lot, I made my way back to the homeless man who sat propped up against the trash cans now, his eyes fixed on the car like a sniper fixed on an enemy position.

  “General!” he laughed, throwing another salute. In his other hand, he held the bottle of whiskey.

  “What’s your name, old man?” I asked, because I felt a bit awkward for what I was about to do, and I believed knowing the man’s name might make it easier.

  “Simon, sir!” the old man giggled, lifting the whiskey to his lips and taking a long swig. A bead of brown liquid dripped down his chin.

  “Simon,” I said. “I really hate to do this, man, but I’m gonna need some change.”

  “You’re asking me for change?”

  “I know… The irony, whatever. But I’m in a hurry. Just for the payphone.”

  “Oh, I have some change, young man,” Simon said, suddenly becoming meddlesome. He laid his whiskey beside a decaying banana peel and climbed to his feet, wobbled, and caught the rim of the trashcan to steady himself. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pile of coins. “Will this do, young man?” he asked, in that same official sounding tone, as though he was doling out bread to a starving man, and he was proud of the fact that he was doing me a favor.

  “Yes, thank you,” I nodded. I held out my hand, palm up, and the old man tipped his hand and dropped the change into it.

  As soon as the coins struck my palm, I closed my fists around them, turned, and jogged back across the parking lot. I saw a man with the I Love America T-shirt emerge from the motel’s office, look at me, and then began power-walking to his car.

  “Scary, am I?” I said, exposing blood-coated teeth. “Just think, I have to look at this in the mirror every day.”

  The man didn’t say anything, just walked faster to get away from me.

  I barged into the payphone, slid coins into the slot, and picked up the receiver. I had no problem remembering the number this time. I needed to remember it. Life as I knew it depended on it. Hell, Tess’ life may well depend on me remembering it. The phone rang a few times, and I tapped my foot as I scanned the parking lot to make sure that I wasn’t being targeted.

  Finally, the operator answered.

  “Thank you so much for calling Pirate Mini-Golf Adventure Land Supreme! How may I help you today?” She answered. She
sounded so enthusiastic and chipper that I wondered if people really thought that they were calling a golf course when she answered.

  “Stage Party, now! It’s Liam, and I’m at the Wanderer’s Pillow.”

  There was a pause in which Tommy’s girl pretended to shuffle around papers inside the storage container. “I’m afraid, sir,” she said, in the same tone that a funeral director would use to a grieving widow, “that we have no bookings left for…”

  “Jesus-fucking-Christ,” I growled. “Tell the bastard I have his fucking money! And tell him if he gets here within the next ten minutes, there’s interest in it for him, too.”

  “Sir, I’ll have to ask you not to talk about that over the phone.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me, lady? Just tell him!” I snarled, my chest rumbling. “Or I’ll find him, and he’ll be fucking sorry that he didn’t come running when I needed him. Do you understand what the fuck I’m saying?”

  “One moment, sir,” she said.

  I listened to the awful elevator music, leaned against the phone booth and waited.

  I had to give it to Tommy, he went all out. They even had on-hold music: Beethoven or Bach or some man that I would have known about if my life hadn’t been consumed with blood. Tess would probably know who it was, I thought.

  I laid my hand on the glass, leaving bloody fingerprints, and looked through my splayed fingers into the road. The cars that drove past were full of ordinary people: a woman with rollers in her dark brown hair gripping the steering wheel. A man wearing a blue shirt and a loose tie, sweat coating his forehead and receding hairline. A husband with a straight back whose eyes were fixed on the road, being shouted at by his wife in the passenger seat. And on and on. These ordinary people drove past me at the side of the road, oblivious to the fact that they passed within yards of a man who orchestrated Death.

  The classical music reached a crescendo, the drums reverberating in the background, and an opera singer sang out so loudly that I had to hold the phone an inch away from my ear.

  Do you realize how much you’ve changed, brother? Kevin said in my head. Only a week ago you would never have even thought about going back for this woman. You have your money. You would have left her behind without hesitation.

  Great, I thought. My imaginary brother is still messing with my head. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to tell Tess the truth about what really happened.

  Oh, but I’m not imaginary, brother. I’m always with you. Besides, I think telling Tess is a great idea, but you have to get to her first.

  I know you’re always with me, Kevin. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “Sir? Sir? Hello?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” I said, taking my hand from the glass and bringing the phone back to my ear. Sun shone through the bright red bloody handprint, creating an artistic effect like stained glass.

  “I am happy to say that we’ll be able to book your stage party, sir. Thank you so much for choosing…”

  I slammed down the receiver, pushed the door open and returned to the homeless man.

  The parking lot was empty of people now, except for myself and Simon; and the road had become quiet except for a minivan that hummed along. The old man was reclined against the trash cans, his legs crossed, one hand propped on his bottle of whiskey and the other laid flat against the grimy floor.

  “Did you take care of business, general?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I started it.”

  “You seem anxious, general.”

  “Do I?” I looked down at the old man. His lips were lifted into a grin, and his eyes were sleepy, his fingers loosening around the bottle. “You seem relaxed.”

  “Oh, I’m always relaxed,” Simon smiled. “Looks like you could use some relaxation too. Life is too short to be unhappy.”

  I nodded. “That’s true, but up until a few hours ago I was a happy man—happier than I’ve been in a hell of a long time.”

  “Oh, then what changed?”

  “Some bastard took what’s mine.”

  “Well, damn it! You must take back what’s yours!”

  I laughed grimly. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be doing that. You know, old man, I find that I like you and I rarely like anyone.”

  The old man nodded slowly, his eyes dropping even more. His hand slipped from his whiskey bottle completely. “It’s because I’m very likable,” Simon wheezed, his eyes closing.

  “Yeah,” I said and turned away from him.

  I returned to the Mustang, slumping down into the seat and looking at myself in the rearview mirror. If I had ever looked more ghoulish, bloodier, and more like a killer, I couldn’t remember when it had happened. I looked like I did on that night, that damn night when my life had been wrenched clean from my hands. I looked like I did the night that I had done it, the night that I did the unthinkable… something that haunts me to this day.

  But I couldn’t think about that, not now. Maybe when I got Tess back, I would tell her about it, and finally, confess my secret, but I needed to focus on finding her location and rescuing her from those sick Russian bastards who wanted to hurt her.

  I let my head fall back and closed my eyes. Imprinted on my vision were Tess and Zharkov and every sick, disgusting thing that he could be doing to her. I imagined Zharkov sitting in a purple armchair, hands on his knees, cock poking up through his khaki pants, a grimace on his lips. Tess was in front of him, looking numb with dead eyes, moving her body as though she was a ragdoll, shifting her hips—naked for that fat fuck. And Zharkov was leaning forward, fingers stretching toward her pristine, unwilling flesh as he openly lusted for her, eagerly anticipating his first taste of what was mine.

  I opened my eyes and realized that I was breathing too damn fast.

  “I will get you back, Tess. I love you. I promise that I will never let you down,” I muttered because sometimes a man needed to say it out loud to believe it.

  10

  Twenty minutes later, the red convertible Porsche pulled up beside the Mustang.

  Tommy was wearing a dark red bandana today, a green tank top which displayed his thin arms, and red shorts. On his feet, he wore white high-top sneakers. His face transformed from one of mild boredom to one of pained shock when he looked through the window and saw me. He was about to climb out the car when I gave him the turn-around gesture, a gesture I had used with him before which meant, ‘Not here. Let’s go somewhere quiet so that we can be indiscreet.’ He started the engine of his Porsche and reversed from the parking lot. The Mustang grumbled and chugged into life, and I followed behind him.

  We cruised along with the traffic for fifteen minutes, away from Boston, toward the lonely roads which led away from the city. We traveled until we came to a deserted stretch of road apart from a roadside restaurant about two miles away. The restaurant had a giant spoon propped outside of it with an artistic rendition of some fake gravy dripping from it. He pulled to the side of the road, and I pulled up next to him.

  As soon as he was parked, he jumped from the car.

  “Mi mon, Liam!” Tommy shouted, climbing from the Porsche. “Blood Fiyah! Wah happened to yuh?”

  “It ain’t my blood,” I grunted.

  We walked around to the back of the cars and leaned against the trunks of our respective vehicles. Tommy’s dark brown eyes looked me up and down constantly, as though he expected me to suddenly become clean at any moment; as though he couldn’t believe that I, a hitman, might be covered in human blood every now and then.

  “Haven’t you seen blood before?” I asked, beyond annoyed at this point.

  “Blood, mon, blood? No sah! Nuh like dat!”

  “Well, welcome to my world.”

  I rose from the trunk, turned, and opened it. I unzipped Tess’ suitcase, the ruined painting just beneath the flap, her clothes, and her makeup all right there—and took out a wad of cash. I threw it at Tommy, who yelped, leaped up, and fumbled with it before catching it and bringing it to his eyes for close inspectio
n.

  “Mi guess yuh inna need of more services, Liam?” Tommy asked, flicking through the cash.

  “Nah, I need information.”

  “Mi nuh inna di information business!” Tommy protested, holding his hands up. “Mi ave clients from all ova. Mi should nuh be seen taking sides.”

  “I’m sure you can change your policy,” I said, walking to the Porsche and standing toe-to-toe with Tommy. “Or maybe I feel like getting a little bit bloodier right quick and in a fucking hurry.”

  “Easy, mon, easy,” Tommy breathed, shrinking back. “There aint nuh need fi dat.”

  “You know Zharkov.”

  “Mi neva hear of a…”

  “Lie to me again, and I’ll put a bullet in your fucking head!” I roared.

  “How di bloodclaat yuh fuck wit mi like dat? Threaten mi! Mi thought we was friends, mon!”

  I took a slow breath and lowered my voice as I went on: “Don’t make this hard, Tommy. I know that you know who Zharkov is. Maybe you’ve had dealings with him in the past. I don’t give a fuck. I just need to know where he is.”

  “Mi nuh kno.” Tommy shrugged.

  I reached forward and snatched the money from his grip. “That’s fine, then I’m not fucking paying you.”

  “Yo! Yuh betta gi mi ma money if yuh know wah gud fi yuh!”

  “Do you think that I give a shit if my name doesn’t mean a thing anymore? Do you think that I give a shit if you go around calling me a thief? I’m done with this fucking town. If it weren't for that Russian bastard and the fact that he has something that belongs to me, I would be clear of this place by now. You have your ear to the ground, Tommy. You must have heard what went down at the Drunk Harpy. You know that was me. So you came here knowing what I’ve done, and you came anyway.”

  “Listen, mon.”

  “I can’t help but think that you’re willing to do just about anything for the right price. So, tell me, how much do I need to come out of the pocket for you to help me solve my fucking problem?”