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Three
“Fuck, they’re gone!”
Dean growled at the cramped and overflowing parking lot. Well, cramped and overflowing except for the one car that mattered most.
A rush of blood roared in his ears, drowning out the happy party sounds behind him, his crushing frustration taking center focus. The girl and her boyfriend, the two people he’d come to the soiree to find, were gone.
Ten years of hard work obliterated, and all it took was one beautiful woman. Sarah. One quick moment of distraction.
Fucking moron!
To forget why he’d hidden in those bushes in the first place—like something out of a cheap slapstick comedy movie—oafish knuckle-dragger gets distracted by a hot lady… Never had he messed up so epically. Never had he lost a target. The syndicate would have his skin for this. And for what? A kiss.
One kiss and his life was over.
Literally over.
Luciano Conti would want him dead.
He clamped his eyes shut and ran a hand through his hair, his mind flicking through a list of scenarios. His targets would likely go to one of two places. Her house or her boyfriend’s. The best-case scenario would be if they went back to hers. At least then he’d have a chance of salvaging this mission.
The girl lived in a small cottage on the outer edges of town, and he’d left her hot-headed husband, his client, behind to keep watch. The guy had strict orders to call if the situation changed. Then again, even if the couple did go there, Dean didn’t hold much hope. Her husband, Anthony Stucco, wasn’t capable of staying out of trouble.
In the two days’ drive to Harlow, Anthony hadn’t shut up about wanting revenge, while Dean merely wanted to collect the money Anthony’s wife supposedly had and go home.
He blew out a heavy breath and paced the parking lot’s empty patch of gravel, aware he’d be shit out of luck if the couple went back to the boyfriend’s house. His earlier reconnaissance revealed that Harlow was a small but tight-knit community, distributed in sparse patches across a wide geographical landscape.
He couldn’t exactly plunge himself into the thick of this party and start asking questions about the woman and her boyfriend. The timing was off. The people here would notice he didn’t fit in and get suspicious. Hell, he didn’t even have a costume on. The boyfriend’s house would be near impossible to locate at this late hour if Dean couldn’t ask questions, especially without a starting point, like, say, the guy’s damn name.
Anthony would not be reuniting with his money, at least not tonight. Even if that money was millions of dollars in embezzled funds he’d stolen from his wife’s family and she’d rightfully “stolen” back.
What a bullshit mission.
Dean’s best bet now was to lie low until the couple resurfaced. Perhaps another day or two, and maybe then he could return home, albeit later than he’d hoped.
He pried his phone from his jeans pocket and inspected the time, along with the gut-wrenching news Anthony hadn’t called.
This mission was dragging on. Five weeks. Five weeks since Anthony’s wife, Emilia, had gone missing. Dean had tracked her down clear across the country, though hadn’t counted on her finding another man so fast. Then again, having met Anthony more than once over the years, maybe he should have.
Good for her. Bad for me.
Tonight’s mission hadn’t allowed for a new boyfriend. For a second location. Just a woman alone and unprotected in her rickety little cottage.
Fifteen minutes in this parking lot now. Still no call from Anthony. That meant the couple had probably gone to the boyfriend’s house, and Dean would have to call Anthony and admit he’d fucked up.
If Anthony wasn’t wilder than an angry honey badger before, the piece of shit will turn fully rabid over this.
Dean swore and pinched the bridge of his nose, defeat dragging heavily within his stomach, making him slam his eyes shut against the reality of his situation.
Ten years and this job dominated his existence, sucked the juice right out of his life, leaving nothing but hollow bones. Somehow, a few months of financial desperation had morphed into a decade of miserable servitude. But that was working for the syndicate. No one left. At least not alive. Though he hadn’t known that when he’d first joined.
But just like Luciano Conti, Dean could be stubborn too. So, despite the rules and risks, he’d always planned to leave, just… not like this. Not so suddenly. Not at the hands of complete and rapid failure.
Then again, what did he care? Did he care about leaving with a glowing report card and a one-hundred percent success rate? Did he want to take the heat for what was a flawed mission from the beginning?
No. No. And fuck no.
That said, in a perfect world, he’d have time to make assurances. He’d implement an escape where no one would find him. There’d be no threats and no chase downs for leaving.
