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Hopping on my Ducati, I put my helmet on with the visor down, and peel off. I don’t want to be late.
Garrix
After a week of tracking Venza, I hauled my ass up to the top of this building, set up my custom-built rifle and scope, and sat here for hours just for a beautiful femme fatale with a perfect ass to beat me to the kill?
Color me intrigued. That’s my kind of woman.
I should go down there, claim my target, and get proof of death. Then haul her into headquarters to find out who she is. She’s not one of ours. But I choose to peer at her through my scope as she watches Mateo Venza–the slimiest, most dimwitted drug dealer in the five boroughs–drink his very last coffee. That’s if I’m correct in assuming that the liquid she covertly added was poison.
Anyone on the ground level wouldn’t have seen her slip it in, but I have the perfect vantage point to watch her every move from my perch.
I study her captivating face as Venza scrolls through his phone, throwing an occasional glance at the door. Dark chocolate brown hair falls to her shoulders in luscious, shiny waves. Big blue eyes, a straight nose, and pouty lips. A curvy body that’s atypical for a female mercenary, but all the better for it. She’s a walking hourglass, and every grain of sand marks a second that I’m closer to feeling her curves… sinking my teeth into her pretty little neck.
Fuck, I’m hard.
Or it could be the fact that I’m holding a gun. Weapons and violence, in general, get my blood pumping. A perk of the trade.
Several minutes later, I get confirmation that my little killer poisoned him. Venza’s health rapidly declines right before my eyes, until he’s sweating bullets and turning a ghostly shade of white. He grabs at his chest, gasping for air and signaling for the waitress he so rudely ignored earlier. He’s knocking on death’s door, and I have the feeling that this stunningly dangerous woman is about to be his personal grim reaper.
To the untrained eye, she plays the role of a server well. She blends into the background and has a beautiful customer service smile. It’s the perfect mix of how may I help you and fuck right off. But I know better. She’s much too alert and aware of her surroundings–she’s been trained by the best and has skill.
She rushes over to him, kneeling next to his chair and checking his forehead. Oh, give her an Oscar, because she almost has me convinced that she gives a shit. As she leads him into the cafe, I pack up my gear in my briefcase and make my way down the fire escape, across the street to the alley behind her building. I need to find out more about my mystery woman.
I don’t even care that I gave up my target, because someone more interesting snagged my attention.
My little killer in the cafe.
I slink to the back alley and hide behind a dumpster, where I can do a little bit of recon work. There’s a run-of-the-mill construction van that’s probably going to take Venza’s corpse away. The great thing about construction vehicles is that they’re never really out of place. They just blend into the background, especially in a city as decrepitly old as NYC. It’s a good cover to keep private business private.
My woman leans against the side of the van, picking at her nails with an intricate knife with jewels and filigree work in the handle that speak to her good taste. There’s one man who looks to be around my age loading the body into the back. She’s rolling her pretty, ocean-blue eyes at another man who looks to be around her age.
I immediately dislike him and fight my growing urge to choke him out. The way he’s staring at her rack as he sneers at her is disrespectful. This woman, just through her very presence, commands respect. I can tell that she's the head bitch in charge somewhere. I just have to figure out where.
But I’ll find out. I’ll learn everything about her because bending a woman like her to her breaking point—playing with her until I swallow her whole—will be perfect.
I can’t hear exactly what she says to him, but the faint sound of her voice is like music to my ears, husky and sensual in a feminine way. I can already imagine what her moans and gasps will sound like as she writhes beneath me or bounces on top of me—I’m not picky. Whatever she says startles him enough that she smirks before showing him something on her phone.
It changes his whole demeanor. The cocky, degrading sneer is replaced by wide, fearful eyes and brows raised so high, they almost meet his receding hairline. His head shakes back and forth, as if he can’t believe what he’s looking at. He promptly gets to work, peeking at her out of the corner of his eyes like he’s scared she’ll stab him right there.
This woman just keeps getting better and better. She’s sexy, gorgeous, and sounds like an old school phone sex operator. She can coordinate and execute a hit, knows how to blackmail someone, and I’d bet money that she can use that knife of hers. The very thought of her pulling it on me makes me stifle back a groan. I want to break this spitfire of a woman, put her back together, and repeat.
In all of my thirty-seven years of life, I’ve never felt anything like this toward another human being. I barely tolerate people in general, women in particular. They’re fun for a few hours, but once the sheets cool and I’m thinking clearly, they lose their appeal. This insane attraction, or whatever it is, is foreign to me. Is it too soon to want to keep her? Own her?
She bids the two men farewell, and it takes everything not to rip her off the Ducati she climbs onto and haul her back to my place. Instead, I snap a picture of the license plate before she takes off, texting it to Whitney as I exit the alley, heading south toward my car.
James Whitney is one of the most genius tech nerds I’ve ever met. After two tours in the Middle East as an intelligence operative, he honed his cyber sleuthing skills to an art form. His induction into The Brigade was a no-brainer.
Me: Can you run this plate? I need to know the owner of the vehicle.
Me: *Pic*
Whit: Maddalena Harleigh Rosa Vettore
Me: Photo?
Whit: *Pic*
That’s my little killer. She’s all dolled up in a long, elegant burgundy dress that’s painted onto her curves. The deep V-cut in the front and slit up the side send me into a lustful tailspin, despite the dress not being over-revealing. A body like hers would make any garment look sinful. The way the sheer billowy sleeves hang off her shoulders and her wavy hair falls reminds me of old Hollywood. I want to rip the fabric down the middle and tear it off her.
