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“How do you know?” The other guy asks, hood pulled up over half of his greasy blond mop, dragging his black combat boot along her matted, fanned-out chestnut hair.
“Nothing like Eleanor or Daniel. I don’t fucking see it.”
The hooded one wanders aimlessly, scratching his head with the barrel of his pistol. “This is getting old. Three years we’ve been looking for this cunt.”
“Payday will be worth it. Highest-priced body on the market. She’s out there,” says the tarantula-inked jackass, poking through her things, “and we’ll be the ones to deliver.”
“I’m tired of collecting scraps for worthless kills.” Hood makes a valid point. You’d think verifying the mark prior to execution would make sense.
“Not worthless. This one was involved in some messed-up shit. Rich bitch was an addict. Would’ve been dead soon, even without us. And her parents are loaded.” Tarantula Tattoo pulls out a rolled-up wad of hundred-dollar bills that was stuck behind a false drawer in a roll-top desk, flaunting it to the other guy. “She won’t be needing this. Let’s raid the parents’ room and head out.”
Their conversation infuriates me more. They won’t be leaving. I announce our presence by shooting the hooded asshole between the eyes. His accomplice briefly considers retaliation, whipping around with his pistol raised, but wisely thinks better of it. There’s three of us with guns onhim. He knows it will result in death. And while that is most certainly his fate, he’s in that deceitful bubble where false hope is dictating his actions.
So much can be accomplished in that space. False hope is a productive dome of delusion.
Productive for us.
While collecting his partner’s weapon, I state in a stone-cold tone, “You killed my mark,” so he grasps the gravity of our situation. Wrong girl or not, he dared to take what’s mine. That is unacceptable.
“We can work together, man. No need to flip the fuck out and pick us off,” he protests, wisely lowering his gun to the floor and kicking it toward me as I eye it. “You looking for the O’Reilly girl?”
I nod, which he seems to take as a relieving sign. He shouldn’t.
“This ain’t even her,” he says.
I circle him, itching to light a cigarette. It calms me after a kill. Although this guy shaking and ready to piss himself will have its own relaxing appeal. “We don’t play well with others,” I tell him honestly. “Who do you work for?”
He spits, panic contorting his face. “I don’t know.”
I shoot him in the foot. He grunts and drops to the antique hardwood floor, attempting poorly to stifle his whimpers. Time to clarify things. Killing his friend apparently didn’t do the trick.
“Every lie, you lose a body part,” I explain. “So, let’s try this again. Who. Do you. Work for?”
“Fuck off, man! I don’t know!” he shrieks, and I shoot him in the thigh on the opposite leg, careful not to hit his femoral artery. Wouldn’t want him bleeding out before I get my information. His shrill, high-pitched screaming, amplified by an echo due to the twenty-foot ceiling, is already a migraine-inducing annoyance.
My cell pings with a text. Glancing at it, I exhale, frustrated, and flip my focus to Liam. “I don’t have time to interrogate this douche. Where’s Gage?”
Ty huffs a menacing chuckle. “I’ll get him. He’s been aching for some fun.”
Less than a minute later, Ty returns with Gage, whose beefy, formidable stature and bald head frightens even the most seasoned thugs.
I turn back to our whiny, spider-tatted bitch, bleeding all over the floor. “Meet my good friend, Gage. Unlike my hurried approach, he has nothing but time on his hands. Speaking of hands, he’s particularly fond of digits and appendages—fingers, toes, dicks.”
Gage cracks his knuckles and slides a machete off his belt. “Let’s get acquainted.”
As Gage ties him down andplaysto find out who sent him, Liam contacts the cleaners and collects DNA from the victim for confirmation that she is indeed the wrong mark. Ty and I scour the young girl’s home for clues. She might not be who we’re searching for, but I have a feeling if she hadn’t been killed, she would’ve been the answer. I enter her bedroom on the second floor, digging through her vast walk-in closet. On the far wall, a floor-to-ceiling built-in cabinet houses sunglasses, gloves, and jewelry. Concentrating on the latter, I come across the ruby necklace that cost the poor girl her life and pocket it before sifting through her other belongings.
Back in the bedroom, above a writing desk, there’s a corked memory board brimming with photos that draws my attention. One photo specifically. Our recently deceased gal, Gemma Frost, stands in the woods beside a girl with deep crimson braids and big blue Bambi eyes—the essence of innocence and trouble in a single package. Beneath the redhead’s thin white camp T-shirt, the ruby necklace peeks through. Both girls beam at the camera. Behind them looms a sign readingCamp Hideaway. Fitting. I look through the rest of her pictures, but this seems to be the only one with the pretty redhead. I’d guess they’re about fifteen in the camp photograph, which, based on the age of the girl we’re searching for, makes it three years old. Still, my scalp tingles the way it always does when I’m close to what I’m looking for. I need to find out who she is.
Ty clears his throat, handing me a grape Tootsie Pop, obviously aware I’m keyed up from either a memory or the encounter with Ivy. “So, married? That’s a new angle to dating andconducting our business. Not sure which this should be classified as by the heated looks exchanged, but either way—”
“It stays between us until she’s on board,” I order.
He nods in understanding as I unwrap my treat and back out of the parking spot. “Saw you in her phone. Did you offer social media?”
The grape syrup fills my mouth as I shift to speed up toward home. I pop the sucker out. “Accounts Liam set up with society bullshit. They’ll finally serve a purpose. She won’t request though.”
“Were you able to get what you needed?” he asks while working on his phone, most likely tracking for another client.
