Page 8
Adrian
Years of training have left me with a handful of highly specific skills. Outsiders might be surprised to find they don’t all have to deal with the most efficient means of committing murder, or doing it quickly, quietly, and without being discovered.
For instance, I’ve learned to live on very little sleep. That’s one part of a hit man’s life that isn’t often depicted in movies and TV shows, which make it seem like a big, exciting adventure. Sure, there’s excitement. There are also endless hours spent staking out a location. Learning a mark’s routine. Coming up with plans for how to best use that routine against them. Let’s just say my clients should be grateful I don’t charge by the hour.
Still, when I start to feel sleep tugging at the back of my mind, reminding me we haven’t spent nearly enough time together, I know better than to ignore the reminder. If my brain and body are telling me I need to rest, that means I’m probably way past the point at which most people would have had no choice but to collapse.
That’s why, even though I can’t get out of my head the fact that someone wants me dead, I settle down well past midnight and crawl into bed. I need to shut my brain down now. Nothing good will come out of obsessing, at least not until I’ve gotten a solid night of slumber. I’ll be much sharper once I sleep too—good thing, since I need to figure out my next steps. Mr. V-Neck from the plane won’t be the only money-hungry hit man hoping to collect on my life. If I don’t want to spend the rest of my days constantly looking over my shoulder, I need to work something out.
No sooner have I settled back against the cool, freshly laundered sheets than my eyes start to close, and my head sinks against the thick, fluffy pillow. A simple pleasure, but fundamental. Too many people greatly underestimate the value of a good bed.
It’s time to pull my best Scarlett O’Hara and tell myself I’ll think about it all tomorrow.
What a shame my phone doesn’t get the message.
Its buzzing makes my eyes slowly open in disgust. Seriously? At this time of night? Somewhere along the line, I turned into an angry old man. Next thing I know, I’ll be shaking my fist at random clouds.
I reach out and close my fingers around the phone, turning it over and peering at it through half-lidded eyes. There are two strikes against this call: It’s from an unknown number, and the caller wants to use video.
Fuck that. I decline the call and drop the phone onto the table, ready to sink into unconsciousness so I’ll eventually have the mental bandwidth to avoid my own assassination.
The ringing phone interrupts me again. “Goddammit,” I grunt, rolling over, prepared to give whoever is disturbing my night an earful.
Once again, an unknown video caller. I accept this time, and a moment later a face that shouldn’t be familiar but most definitely is fills the screen.
A bruised face. A face I recently had the pleasure of punching.
With my senses on high alert, I sit up. “How the fuck did you get my number?”
“I have my ways.” His voice is a little thick, slightly slurred. Probably thanks to his broken nose. “I also have something very important to you.”
That’s when he tilts the phone so I can see who he’s standing beside. It takes a second for me to put it all together, to place her. She’s an unforgettable sort of girl, but she’s the last person I expected to see. Especially tied up and lying on a bed, pleading silently. For once, she’s silent.
“I have your little girlfriend.” He says it like it’s some great triumph. Like he expects me to collapse or beg for her life.
I’m sure he doesn’t expect to hear me burst out laughing.
I can’t help it. He honestly thinks he pulled something over on me, and now he’s presenting his trophy like I give two shits.
He doesn’t have time to process my reaction before I end the call. Give me a break. I’m not surprised she got herself kidnapped. She must be driving him crazy. For all I know, he was calling to beg me to take her off his hands.
Not ten seconds pass before a text comes through from the same number. You have until sunrise to come for her, or she dies. A location pin pings a moment later.
I truly do not want to deal with this.
Fuck it. Sinking back against the pillows, I force my eyes shut. Her problems aren’t my problems, and if he thinks she means anything to me, he’s wasting his time. Again, not my problem. I’ll be damned if I jump just because this asshole snapped his fingers.
She’s an innocent girl.
I squeeze my eyes tighter, shaking my head. No. Absolutely not. This is not the time for my normally blissfully absent conscience to make an appearance, like some ancient creature who sleeps for decades before rearing its head and throwing everything into an uproar.
That is precisely what would happen if I followed my conscience now. I’m not a man who needs an uproar in his life.
If she dies, it will be because of you.
“Shut up,” I growl at the voice in my head. Why should I care? I didn’t ask her to fall asleep and wrap her arms around mine. I sure as hell didn’t ask her to drool all over me. This is all a misunderstanding. I did nothing to bring it on.
Besides, it’s obviously a trap. I doubt this guy—whoever he happens to be—will hand her over with a smile and warm wishes. He’ll kill her anyway, either immediately before he tries to kill me or while I watch. No, definitely while I watch, because he has convinced himself she’s important to me. Men like us have a hard time accepting when we’ve misinterpreted a situation.
