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Usually, when I’m at a fancy event like this, I’m paired up with Quin or Graham and I know they have my back. Here, I’m alone and have to protect my own ass. I’m at a table in the back, in a fancy suit that makes me itch and a mask that covers everything but my mouth. I look around, making sure there’s no danger and keeping an eye out for Mamba. I discreetly search the room and haven’t spotted his telltale tattoo.
Getting to California is easy, as I took Savage’s private jet and I’m on the manifest under Evan Gray. No one here knows who I am. We’ve been gone from the area for three years and from the limited intel we get from Paddy, Savage’s name rarely comes up anymore. When it does, he’s spoken of reverently, like he was some great savior instead of a drug and arms dealer.
I’ll have to be careful while I’m here. I don’t want to run the risk of any of my old colleagues or enemies recognizing me. I’ll stay until I spot Mamba, kill him, and leave before anyone knows I was here. What could possibly go wrong?
Being back in the states shows me how much I don’t miss it. I fell in love with Quebec, with its large population, but small-town feel. It contrasts sharply with Northern California and it’s not a bad thing. I thought I would feel a sense of longing when I got back here, but I don’t consider it home anymore. Everything and everyone I love is back in Quebec. The only thing here that I don’t have in Canada is a man. Specifically the person I considermyman.
What’s crazy is, in the years I’ve been in Canada, dating and fucking whoever I want, I haven’t found anyone that I felt a connection with. I’ve felt a connection with someone exactly one time and it’s still baffling to me, because we didn’t speak a word to each other. We made eye contact once and my world stopped. I was building up the courage to ask Abel more about him, but we started to make plans to disappear, then Abel was kidnapped, and everything went to hell in a handbasket. Being back here makes me want to track him down, but I’m not here on personal business, so I push the thought of the man that could have been the one out of my mind.
Unfortunately, I have to sit through several boring speeches. The only good thing about this event, besides seeing my blood brother in the flesh, is the gossip that’s going on at the table I’m seated at. From what I can gather, Brent has been gathering support because he’s running on a social justice platform. And it’s not just lip service on his part. He’s an advocate for his fellow man, regardless of what their position in life. He gives back to the community by not only donating money, but his time. Not for the clout or recognition, but because he wants to. He does all that without anyone knowing because his good deeds rarely hit the news cycles. I only know all this from the background check Quin ran on him.
From the gossip, some people don’t like all the support he’s getting. One person, James Cambridge, has tried to garner support, but his policies aren’t popular, so he may not get what he needs to even put a bid in. Whatever, that’s not my business. As long as the threat against Brent is dealt with, he and James can battle it out at the ballot box.
I’m half listening when I see a man walk in the door—an elaborate mask on that covers most of his face—closing it softly behind him and slinking over to an empty chair. The lights are soft, but I catch sight of a snake tattoo on his neck before he lifts his jacket collar to cover it up.
I smirk, knowing I have Mamba in my sights. And he has Brent in his.
After the speeches have concluded, Brent is honored with a plaque for his philanthropy and I feel something unexpected settle in my chest. I was nervous the entire time I was here, wondering if I would feel some type of way that I wasn’t a part of his life, but I don’t. He’s a great guy, but I don’t think I need to meet him. I don’t need to insert myself into his world. This man is a familiar stranger and I feel good about what I’m doing for him, but I don’t feel the need to be a brother he knows.
After his acceptance speech, Brent sits back down for only a moment, then exits the ballroom, probably in search of the restroom. Less than twenty seconds later, Mamba stands to follow and not even five seconds after that, I’m behind them. There is a small window for me to get to Mamba, intercept his plans and eliminate him before it looks suspicious. The good thing is no one knows either of our faces. His neck tattoo might have been visible to a few other people, but they probably won’t wonder where he is, since he sat at a table labeled “Press.”
On light feet, I follow behind Mamba. I shoot off a quick text to Quin, giving him the timeframe of when he needs to go back and doctor the video being captured while I follow this man. The masks hide our identities, but there’s no need to take chances.
I see my opening when Mamba walks past what I know to be a conference room. Before he can make it more than a step past it, I grab him by the collar and yank him back with me through the open doorway. I push the assassin away and kick the door shut. He whirls around, snatching his mask off so I can see the fire in his eyes. His face is sharp—a beak like nose, pointy chin, and flinty eyes. He’s severe looking, probably something that shocks his marks before he kills them.
Unlucky for him that I’m not a mark.
I work my tie off, smiling at him while he sizes me up. “Mamba.” He starts at his moniker and my smile grows wider. “It’s great to meet you. I am a little disappointed that this won’t be much of a fight. I thought you would have known I was behind you just then. So sloppy.” I wrap my tie loosely around my fist, waiting for him to make a move.
He doesn’t immediately speak, just looks back and forth between me, the door, and my tie. Then he says, “You’re a dead man.” His sneer twists his face into an even harder mask.
He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a sharp serrated knife. I huff, knowing I’ll probably be sliced at least once tonight. I hate blades.
Taking two bounding steps, Mamba swipes at my throat with the serrated edge and I lean back, dodging the edge, then throw out a fist, connecting with his jaw. He shakes it off and moves forward again, stabbing down at me quickly. I move back until I’m against the door, then when he advances again, I grip his wrist and try to disarm him. Mamba is quick, dropping the blade from that hand and catching it in the other, stabbing at my stomach. If my body was still there, he would have really fucked me up. As it is, I twist to the side, then shoulder check him, knocking him off balance.
Righting himself, Mamba hurries back over, stabbing at me. I reach up as Mamba gets a good slice across my palm. I grab his wrist and twist, succeeding in disarming him this time. Tossing him on the ground so he lands on his stomach, I straddle his back, wrapping my tie around his neck. I put my knee in his back and pull, making his back bow while I strangle him.
It takes longer than I would have liked, but eventually Mamba stops struggling, then stops moving altogether. I’m glad Quin suggested the tie—had I used my hands, it would have taken even longer. Though I could have just broken his neck. When I’m sure he’s no longer among the living, I let him drop.
I remove my mask and kneel beside him. I don’t know if I should leave his body here to be found by the police or have Quin set up some cleaners. I go with cleaners. I rise from my haunches and call my best friend.
“Quin,” I say conversationally when he answers.
“Tired?” he asks with a laugh in his voice.
“You fucking asshole. I should have just shot him.” I look down at my palm where it’s bleeding. The wound isn’t deep, but it stings. “This bitch had a blade on him.” Scoffing, I tuck my hand in my pocket. “I need cleaners. I can wipe up the visible blood, but I don’t know if I’ll get it all.”
“Say less. Give me the room number and I’ll have it taken care of before the event is over. Is there somewhere to hide the body, just in case?”
I look around and see a closet labeled “Maintenance” at the back of the room. Huffing, I grab the collar of Mamba’s suit and drag him over. “Hold on. Dead weight,” I tell Quin, placing my phone on a table. It takes work, but I shove Mamba in the small space and get it closed. Then I wrap my tie around the cut in my hand and wipe up all the blood I can see. The cleaners will be able to come through and get any DNA I may have left behind.
When that’s done, I scoop up the phone. “Done. I’m going to clean my bleeding hand, then head out. I think I’ve had enough of being back in the States.”
“Cool. See you soon man. The place is too quiet without you.”
“Doubtful. Red is pretty vocal, even when I don’t want to hear him being vocal.”
I hear noise in the background, then a mock angry voice saying, “I am not that loud, Michael!”
