4
Quain
KC brandishedone of his adorable smiles—the kind that disarmed people into believing he hadn’t once been a pickpocket who stole so easily it became an unconscious habit. I’d managed to get him out of the routine, but it had taken time and patience, the same values I needed to be an assassin.
“Did you do it?” I asked from where I sat at the kitchen island on a tall chair, a gun magazine clutched in my hands as I stared down at the new sniper rifles available. Mine was getting old and I’d need to upgrade soon.
“Of course I did. Do you need to ask?” He settled onto the chair opposite me and snatched the magazine from my hands. Whistling, he said, “Is that the new Barrett M82? She’s sick.”
I nodded and stood, walking over to the fridge to pull out a Coke for KC. Studying him, I settled the can on the island in front of him. “How did he react?”
He cracked open the pop and laughed, his eyes lighting up in amusement, which made me wish I’d been there to see Luke’s face. “It was fucking amazing. He was shocked, but he actually looked impressed, too, after he realized what was happening.”
I grinned when I retook my seat. “Good, he deserved it.”
“There were a lot of Kings at the clubhouse when I dropped him off.” He raised his eyebrows as he took a big sip, slurping in a way he knew I hated. “He probably has a lot of explaining to do.”
I chuckled. “Wish I’d been there.”
“Me too. Did he actually come into your room while you were sleeping?”
“Yes.” I snorted. He’d said something about sleep talking, as though I wasn’t aware of my nighttime proclivities. It only happened when I wasn’t on a risky job and was comfortable enough to fall into a deep slumber, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t prepared for an attack, either. Coming into my room had been the stupidest thing he could’ve done, and he’d been lucky I’d stopped myself before slicing his throat wide open.
“I’m surprised you didn’t kill him.” KC tapped his finger against the can, a smirk similar to mine spreading across his mouth. He didn’t look like me because we weren’t biologically related, but he’d absorbed some of my personality traits as though I was truly the person he wanted to be when he grew up. I needed KC to be ready for life, but I didn’t want him to be an assassin. While he was big and wide, sturdy enough to have strength behind him, he wasn’t the type of person who’d handle taking another’s life. He was too gentle.
“It came close. I had a knife to his neck.”
“Did he shit himself?” He cackled loudly.
I shook my head. “I think he enjoyed it.”
“Ah, a perfect match for you, Pa. He’s into knife play.”
Rolling my eyes, I forced myself to stand and stretch my arms above my head, straightening out the kinks in my back. “Go fix that motorcycle. I have a work call to make and then I’ll bring you out lunch.”
KC laughed harder as he stood and strode out of the house, the can of Coke still clutched in his hand. The garage outside was more KC’s than mine, even though I stored a couple of cars and gear in there. He found old motorcycles and restored them until they were shiny and new and then sold them off again. He was good at it, too, and I helped how I could. Any money he made, he kept for himself, and I hadn’t needed to support any of his hobbies in years.
Grabbing my phone, which sat on the island, I turned on the specially made app I used to keep my work calls private from spying ears. The technology was thanks to Franco, a genius who worked for the Society. While we were a collection of assassins and hitmen—and women—we weren’t always on friendly terms with one another. Killing another assassin wasn’t frowned upon, but there was an unspoken rule: never touch Franco. He was cared for by everyone and hurting him easily meant death. That’sifyou could find him in the first place. He was always off the radar through his own special brand of apps that kept him hidden, and the only way to contact him was through a phone call. I’d never even seen what he looked like.
“Hello.” The man on the other end of the line spoke curtly, his voice smooth but uptight, exactly as I’d expect a district attorney from LA to sound.
“What’s my name?” I asked sharply. He knew the drill by now. If he was around other people, he’d need to go somewhere private. I wasn’t the type to call back later, and if he wanted the news, he’d only get it now.
“Your name is nothing but a figment of my imagination, a ghost.” That was the code I’d made him use so I knew he was somewhere secluded. “Mr. Ghost.”
I smiled at my codename and leaned into the back of my chair. “Mr. Booth. Pleasure as always. Are you ready for an update?”
“Yes, I am.”
“As you know, we had the event six months prior where someone came into New Gothenburg and I believed they were after Luke.” I’d never forgive Ardan fucking Murphy for that. I’d thought he’d come to take Luke’s life, and we’d fought in the alley near the barber shop. Ardan got in some good shots to the stomach, and I had bruises for a week. We’d quickly figured out he hadn’t been after the same target I was protecting.
“And he wasn’t,” Luke’s father said bluntly. He was the opposite of Luke. They were, in every sense, two vastly different men. My research on Jeremy Booth exposed he’d had a rough relationship with his son, and Luke had packed up his belongings and moved to his uncle’s house in New Gothenburg when he was only sixteen.
“No, he wasn’t. Other than that, we’ve had an uneventful time.” I stared at my fingernails and sighed. “Are you sure this protection is needed, Mr. Booth? While I am not complaining about the money I’m receiving for doing nothing, I am bored of this job. Right now, I don’t see anyone who’s out to get your son.”
“They will come for him.”
“What makes you so sure? You mentioned the Reyes Cartel.”
