Page 2 of The Santas Who Stole Me

“I don’t need to get laid.” I might. I most definitely do, but I don’t need to admit that to him.

“And what fun would that be doing this solo? Seeing you and Zeke in a red suit is fucking hilarious, and it’s a great photo op for the annual Christmas card photo. Last year was truly awful. We can’t have a repeat.”

“It was awful because you took it with Zeke and photoshopped me in because I wouldn’t wear that ugly fucking Christmas sweater. Of all your talents, photoshop is not one, brother. Grams noticed right away, and she’s eighty years old,” I remind him, thinking of the green fuzzy material with the thick white stitching of two reindeer humping behind a present. Some obscene saying about delivering the package written in red underneath. I stood for the picture next to Zee and Calum with my arms crossed like a child, displaying my disdain for the occasion. I hate this time of year. My pose made the editing difficult for Calum, since he hates when he does anything less than perfect, so that card gets under his skin.

“Tone down the bah-humbug vibes. If you want we can hit up the club and try to find someone to jingle your balls. At least you can end your dry spell and try to ward off the start of your midlife crisis.”

“Calum, your brother isn’t old enough for a midlife crisis. The average age for that is forty-five. But Calum’s right. Keep, this is an exciting job. Act like it. We are about to make history in Santa suits,” Zeke adds into the coms, always the diplomatic peacemaker.

I survey the area, not wanting to partake in Calum’s forced therapy session. He knows he has me trapped with the com in my ear for the next fifteen minutes until things get started. This is the perfect set up. There are over a thousand Santas ready to race for the annual Santa’s run downtown. The run is tradition for the area, and it provides charity for the local toy drive. The councilman has a big presence for this platform, pretending he gives fuck all about kids. He doesn’t. I’ve been watching him for weeks.

The cover is perfect: everyone is dressed the same, and we have beards and hats covering our faces. I have Lee scrambling the city feeds and the local business cameras to add an extra layer of precaution. We don’t have much protection from runners with their own cells, but our plan is solid. This is the second time we’ve tried to get him. I hear the tune of Jingle Bells through the guys’ coms, grit my teeth with a huff, and pull out the scope, setting up my gear.

“The target just arrived,” Zee adds.

I see Calum stretching and giving some girl flirty smiles like a true dick. I don’t have a visual on Zee, but that’s typical during a job. He’s quiet, invisible, a ghost. If Calum could hear my thoughts he would add some type of Christmas reference to the ghost of Christmas future, but luckily for me he has to shut up, so I can pretend to focus. I rest my finger on the trigger and peer at them from the roof. The marathon runs through the city. This building gives me access at the start and third mile of the race based on the winding route. Again, perfect.

“Time to start the reindeer games,” Calum says, and Zee grunts in acknowledgement.

Chapter Three

CALUM

I let the conversation end for the moment. Keep is more distracted than ever. I’ve got most of this kill under wraps, but he needs his fucking head in the game. My worry for him led me to push for this job, so he could have the distraction, but even this was too simple for him. He’s losing his spirit for death and blood, and that has me concerned.

The councilman walks up to the warmup area and gives a big show of stretching and walking in place. The area is starting to fill with the crowd, and I step toward him, not allowing too much distance between us. The city councilman is a fifty-year-old balding man who boasts about his fitness on social media and cheats on his wife behind her back. He also stole a shit ton of money from an illegal deal when he was working with the Vega Cartel. He’s an idiot who thought he was untouchable. The Vegas don’t typically need our services, being the scary mother fuckers they are, but Keeper explained how they are trying to keep out of this kill. They don’t want any connection or blowback, and this hit is too close to home. Something about their uncle running in an upcoming election or some shit. The reasons for the job don’t always matter, and we will each get a quarter million out of it, adding to our already hefty accounts.

A slim redhead in a sleek bodysuit smiles at me, and her tongue licks her bottom lip before heading my way. She has legs up to her ears, and her curved hips catch my attention. I do a sweep of her bodysuit so tight against her skin I can almost see the outline of her pussy. Still, something about her seems a bit vanilla to me. Since I have some time to kill—literally, I’ll be killing someone shortly—I return the smile while her long legs stride my way. She greets me and starts talking about running techniques and her fasting routine with a passion.

“Tell me all about it. I bet you know more fitness tips than my trainer,” I say, laying it on thick. Talking with her will help my cover, so I go with it.

“Yea, so I can only eat thirty minutes a day, but I’ve lost three pounds. Being healthy really supports my mental state, you know? I can tell you do by the way you are built under that suit.” She lets out a chuckle that sounds like a seventy-year-old man, and Zee snorts in my ear, picking up the conversation through my earpiece. She brushes my arm, and I wink at her, giving her my best fuck-me smile. All the while I’m keeping an eye out for the councilman.

“So do you have holiday plans, since you live in the area?”

Did I tell her I live in the area? I really need to focus on my bullshit, but Keeper has me distracted. He’s cock-blocking me when I could be dicking the halls with these festivities. I haven’t even got a chance to work in at least one dirty Christmas pun into this conversation.

Determined not to waste this opportunity due to his bah-humbug attitude, I answer her with a serious face. “Not too sure about my plans yet, but I could definitely see about coming down your chimney.” She scrunches her eyebrows at me in confusion. “I live in a flat, we don’t have a chimney.”

Seriously, that was hilarious. Coming, chimney, while I’m in a Santa suit.

“A for effort, Calum.” Keep chuckles into the coms. At least he’s laughing. When she lets out a second confused chuckle, I have to hide my grimace.

As if on cue Zee adds what I can’t say. I have no idea where he is, but I know he’s close. We’ve done this for years and can sense each other. It’s some weird telepathy none of us ever talk about.

“He’s moving to the front. Now is the time, Calum,” Zee reports.

I pull out the little device and slide it into my palm, careful to keep it open but facing my thigh, so it’s not visible. The chemist made this especially for this job. It’s a tiny, round, plastic device holding a lethal concoction. The drug enters a person’s bloodstream and stops the heart within thirty minutes of administration. All I have to do is get it on the councilman’s arm or leg and hold it there for ten seconds. A small needle will stick him, but it’ll feel similar to an ant bite, or so he says. The chemist is brilliant and the scariest mother fucker on the planet. He doesn’t work with many people, but the Vegas are in good standing, and he agreed. He vets every use of his death doses.

“Calum, pay attention,” Zee hisses in my ear.

Oh, she stopped talking and is looking at me, waiting for a response.

I nod my head, agreeing with whatever she said, even though I’ve been tuning her out. I guess I will take this time to add to the conversation. “I agree, running is a great way to support my mental health. I need to be limber for this race. Yoga is my number one priority in my workout routine. It’s so good to limber up before a run and oh—” I turn as the councilman passes me and throw my hand at his leg, pretending to do a downward dog. I stick him through his suit immediately and fall on top of him with a wail. One, one thousand, I continue to silently count while crying loudly as a single tear runs down my face. The ability to fake cry is one of my most useful assassin skills. That, and being able to break someone’s neck with a small motion. Oh, who am I kidding, it would take me hours to rank all the skills I have and place them in order. I’ll get Zee to put everything on a spreadsheet, and we can give the skills a proper assessment later.

“So sorry.” Five, one thousand. Six, one thousand. “I have a cramp, just let me, agh,” I scream. The councilman is under me, and my hand doesn’t move. Seven, one thousand.

“Get off me, asshole,” he whisper-yells so as not to draw attention.