Thin as Smoke by Erin O'Quinn
A muffled cough, a shimmer of silken shirt, the smell of a man’s cologne… Simon felt the presence of a stranger before he saw his shadowed face. A man, a very slender man, was leaning over Michael, his mouth close to his ear. Yet Simon heard his words clearly.
“May I have this dance?”
Michael seemed as startled by the intrusion as Simon. He saw his companion begin to shake his head in automatic denial. And then his eyebrows shot up, and his jaw slackened a little. Leaning close to Simon, he mouthed, “Finally,” and then he lifted his head and grinned at the gangly man.
“Sure. Love to, me dally.”
He stood. A languid hand seized his, drew him away from the table and into the crowd.
Simon sat dumbfounded for a few minutes, not hearing the music or seeing anyone in the cluster of bodies except for Michael groin to groin with a thin, even gaunt, yet not-so-bad-looking partner.
Even from a four-meter distance, in the wavering light, through a film of smoke, Simon could see the man’s features. The languorous dancer had a shock of dark hair combed straight back from a narrow face, and over his top lip crouched the razor’s edge of a mustache. His eyes were unreadable. Black, heavy-lidded, almost deliberately expressionless. Dusky smudges under the eyes bespoke either sickness or sleepless nights, or both. Below the dark circles, his prominent cheekbones reminded Simon of a bird of prey. A raven…or a vulture.
He shuddered. Who is this creature, and why is my gut in knots looking at him?
Sunset Lake by John Inman
Chapter One
HERE IN Nine Mile, kinship still shapes daily life. Familial bonds are strong, and the ties of friendship are lifelong and rarely broken. We seem to possess the tattered remnants of a pioneer culture, with all the spirit and cohesiveness that entails, and at the same time, we find ourselves coexisting with satellite dishes and microwave ovens and shiny computer-driven automobiles that beep and boop and flash annoying little lights at us every time we do something stupid.
The people here are good, most of them. Kind, simple country folks. Many are farmers, and like good farmers everywhere, they have an undying, tongue-in-cheek faith in the ability of God or government, or both, to somehow mangle the next harvest and render it worthless.
In reality, these people haven’t changed as much as they might think they have. Their accessories have, certainly, but not the people themselves. Like the pioneers before them, their hearts are strong with reverence for country, family, friends, and church. And the land, of course. With citizens such as these, it is always the land that comes first. Always.
Put simply, they are nice, decent people. On the whole.
Exceptions, of course, can always be found.
And on this, the last day of her life, Grace Nuggett would meet one of those exceptions face-to-face.
It wasn’t the sort of day one would choose for the last day of life if one’s options were open. The rain had not yet come pelting down, but by the look of that dismal gunmetal sky above our heads, I figured it was only a matter of time before it did. From the occasional grumble of distant thunder, it seemed a safe bet Someone up there agreed with me.
Being the only Methodist minister in Nine Mile, and knowing full well the farmers were scanning the sky for the least little promise of rain to ease the long drought they had been enduring (God did it to them this time, since they couldn’t very well blame the government for the weather), I should have sent up a grateful prayer of thanks that the withered crops in the fields would finally get some much-needed moisture. But in reality, all I did was lean against the outside wall of my church, cross my arms, stare balefully at the sky, and sigh. If I were a farmer in need of sunshine, I would have had the pleasure of blaming God for this outrage, but being a preacher in need of sunshine in the middle of a drought, I didn’t quite dare. Not that I wasn’t tempted.
After two long months with nary a hint of moisture in the air, today, of all days, the sky had finally decided to open up. Sam had warned me, of course. He always does. About everything.
Sam is my go-to guy for all things mechanical, since I’m about as useful as a box of sick hamsters. Sam is also my best friend. We have known each other since we were kids growing up in this one-horse town. Looking at us, one would think we were polar opposites. Sam stands about five foot six, and I’m six four. Sam is well built, and I’m a beanpole. His hair is reddish blond while mine is black. The only thing we truly have in common, other than friendship, is the fact that we are both single. Which, of course, opens up a whole new can of worms since every woman at the church is constantly trying to set us up with a female relative or two. Or three. But so far Sam and I have held on to our bachelorhood with tooth and claw.
But that’s another story altogether.
“Give the farmers a break, Brian,” Sam told me. His voice was a booming, sonorous echo because he had his head buried in the church’s old upright piano. He had his head stuck in the piano because he was trying to tune the thing himself since the church couldn’t afford to pay an actual piano tuner to do the job.
I didn’t say anything, but it sounded to me like he was getting questionable results as far as the tuning went. His words, however, would later prove to be right on key.
“Set the date for the annual basket dinner,” he said. “That’s the only way the poor farmers’ll get any rain, and you know it.”
He must have heard my derisive snort, for he poked his head out of the piano and gave me a glare. A dust ball the size of a mouse was stuck in his hair. “Just wait. You’ll see. And while you’re waiting, hand me that velvet hammer. The one in the toolbox.”
I handed him the hammer, and here I was, two weeks later, propped against the side of the church like a tired wooden Indian, the back of my neck heating up, remembering how I had scoffed at Sam’s prediction.
Well, to make a long story short, I did see. All too well. As I watched, the good ladies of my congregation, with their starched Sunday dresses flapping like flags about their legs, tried rather unsuccessfully to place tablecloths and napkins atop the plank-covered trestles arranged in rows beneath the elm trees at the edge of the churchyard. Unsuccessfully because as soon as someone neatly spread a tablecloth, the wind would come along and flip it into the grass. Or happily toss the napkins into the air. Or simply poof the poor lady’s skirt up around her ears until she was forced to drop everything in an attempt to maintain her dignity, and the moment she did, the wind would take everything—tablecloth, napkins, paper plates and cups—and gleefully scatter them to hell and back.
At my back, through the walls of the old church, I heard the sweet voices of the Methodist choir practicing, yet again, one of the hymns they had chosen for this occasion. Behind the emphatic lead of the ancient upright piano—which still wasn’t tuned right, dammit—I heard the choir sing the old familiar lyrics I grew up with.
Shall we gather at the ri-i-iver,
The beautiful, the beautiful r-i-i-iver.
Before the verse was finished, a particularly energetic gust of wind rattled the elm branches, and rain began to splatter the sidewalk at my feet and plunk against the tall windows of the church. Then something a bit more insistent began plunking at the window beside me, and I turned to see Sam tapping at the glass from inside the chapel and pointing to the ladies out there beneath the trees as they frantically gathered up the tumbling paraphernalia of our ill-timed basket dinner. With squeals of laughter, they began scurrying, light-footed, through the wet grass toward the church to seek shelter from the quickening rain.
As luck would have it, the food was already in the basement.
“Just in case,” Sam had said earlier, with a wary eye on that ugly sky overhead as the ladies began arriving with dishes upon pots upon containers of every sort, filled with heaven knows what but all smelling so wonderful it sent saliva dribbling off the end of my chin as if the gaskets in my mouth had dissolved from the sheer splendor of it all.
As my nephew Jesse, fifteen years old and looking uncomfortably spit shined on this summer afternoon, and his friend Kyle, looking equally clean and miserable, ran past me to help the ladies do what they had to do, I realized it might not be a bad idea if I helped them a bit myself. They weren’t paying me to prop up the church. I was supposed to be the man in charge.
Before I could set off to assist the ladies of Nine Mile, a loud crack of thunder made me jump straight up into the air and bang my head on the underside of the electric meter nailed to the side of the church.
One of the ladies squealed in mock terror as she ran for the door, trailing a tablecloth over her head to protect her hair from the rain. Manly enough not to squeal, or so I hoped, I caught one last glimpse of Sam’s laughing face in the window as I sprinted for the door myself. Rather than mowing the good woman down in my haste to escape the now cascading sheets of rain, it seemed a bit more gallant to grab her arm and lead her safely, but hurriedly, up the church steps and into the vestibule. There we shook ourselves off like a couple of wet dogs and laughed at the silliness of the situation.
Never one to miss an opportunity to embarrass me, as old friends always seem to do, Sam gave me a good-natured ribbing as I stood in the vestibule, dripping. “Good Lord, Brian! It’s raining cats and dogs out there. Let’s have a picnic, shall we?”
Sam’s aunt Mrs. Shanahan, a rotund lady of eighty-some years with blue finger-waved hair that rolled across the top of her head like a corrugated tin roof, and possessing a voice that could crack obsidian, came to my rescue. Not. Mrs. Shanahan and I were adversaries from way back. She used to chase me out of her scuppernong arbor back in my youthful, barefoot days, and she had been chasing me one way or another ever since.
“Now, Sam. Mustn’t pick at the poor man just because he chose the worst day we’ve had in six months to hold our annual basket dinner. We’ll get by. We always do. Old Reverend Morton, now. He knew how to pick ’em. Always chose the prettiest day of the year. I asked him once how he managed to do that year after year, and he said he asked God to set the date for him. Now, there was a man of faith!”
He was also a pompous old windbag who inevitably smelled of garlic and cheap aftershave, I thought, rather uncharitably, I suppose, for a Methodist minister. Especially when referring to the man of God who had preceded me at my post for nigh on fifteen years. But it was true nevertheless. Reverend Morton was the dullest man to set foot on this planet since the conception of time, and if he ever spoke directly to God, and God actually deigned to answer, then I was a Kurdish camel driver on the road to popedom.
“But never mind,” Mrs. Shanahan yammered on, giving Sam a wink and me a snarl. “We’ll eat inside. Lord knows we haven’t had to do that for ages. Kind of defeats the purpose of an outdoor basket dinner, don’t you know. But what the hey? The food’s good. That’s what counts. Right, Jesse?”
A hand the size of a thirty-dollar pot roast came out of nowhere and slapped Jesse on the back. I could hear the boy’s teeth rattle from the impact. The poor kid looked vaguely appalled at being thusly singled out for an opinion, but he carried it off well enough. “Suppose so,” he mumbled to no one in particular. At the same time, he rolled his shoulder around to get some circulation back into it. “I like the rain.”
Mrs. Shanahan enthusiastically pounded his back again, this time nearly driving the boy to his knees, which elicited a snicker from his friend Kyle. She appeared oblivious to her own strength. “Of course you do, Jesse!” her voice boomed out. “You and everybody else within shouting distance come from good American farm stock. Ain’t a farmer been hatched yet that don’t like the rain. In decent doses, that is.”
The woman stuck her great arm through mine and dragged me toward the basement steps. “Come on, Reverend. Let’s get the tables set up downstairs. Gotta work before we eat, you know.”
Sam stood on the sidelines, watching this exchange with laughing eyes and a heart, I’m sure, that soared with happiness. Nothing amused him more than my own embarrassment. If you get to really know Sam, sooner or later he’ll tell you about the time I peed my pants in first grade. But let’s not get into that.
I was still being dragged along in Mrs. Shanahan’s wake when a sudden burst of lightning made her tighten her grip on my arm and hasten her step. She came to life like Frankenstein’s monster, I pleasantly conjectured, rather happy with my choice of metaphor, and at the same time, I wondered how the woman could so unfailingly steer my mind into such unchristian corridors. It was a talent at which she positively excelled.
Sam made a face as if he knew what I was thinking, which he probably did. He grabbed Jesse and Kyle around their necks and dragged them down the basement steps behind me. As we headed underground, the sound of thunder receded, to be replaced by the confused babble of a hundred happy voices all jabbering at once in delirious abandon.
The church basement was large, thank heavens, but still every corner was filled. Colorful print dresses were interspersed only occasionally with the more somber shirt and tie. It was a weekday, after all, and most of the farmers were in their fields, or had been until the rain started. Only their wives could afford the luxury of a day off. But even they had earned it. The array of supper dishes and cake plates and aluminum pots and pans of every shape and size confirmed that fact. Food was everywhere. The air was alive with the smell of it. These ladies hadn’t simply popped out of bed that morning and dressed for church. Most of them had been up half the night preparing dishes they could be proud of. Dishes, they hoped, that would pucker their neighbors’ hearts with envy.
Basically, they were showing off. But Lord, theirs was a vanity of which I fully approved.
It didn’t take us long, with all hands chipping in, to arrange the food on tables along the basement wall.
It was a mouth-watering assortment, to be sure. Meats first, then came the casseroles and veggies, and after that the delicacies I loved the best. Homemade pickles, wilted lettuce swimming in sugar and bacon grease (hellish in cholesterol but heavenly on the palate), tiny ears of young corn dabbed with freshly churned butter, garden fresh radishes and peppers dipped in vinegar, and a dozen other trifles.
After that, as you greedily meandered down the line of tables, you came to the breads and biscuits: Freshly baked sourdough that had been tenderly raised—covered with a dishcloth and placed in the sun for warmth—transforming it from an unappetizing wad of pale dough to one of God’s greatest gifts to man, next only to the sacred act of sex itself. Chunks of home-baked bread the size of concrete blocks that you pulled apart with your hands. Round slabs of cornbread baked in cast-iron skillets and sliced in triangles, pie-fashion. Muffins of every shape and flavor—apple, blueberry, carrot, gooseberry, hickory nut, pumpkin, zucchini, and some that were unrecognizable but delicious just the same.
After the muffins, as you neared the apex of this fattening runway, you came to the desserts. Pies of every flavor, with delicate designs carved into the crusts. An angel food cake standing a foot high if it was an inch and topped with strawberries from someone’s garden. Freshly picked cherries buried in coconut and whipped cream, cookies piled high on platters, a dozen different kinds, and at the end my personal favorite: a peach cobbler, baked, I knew, by Mrs. Shanahan, who with those pot-roast-size hands of hers could pull culinary wonders from her oven.
Guilt over calories consumed would come later. For now, everyone dedicated themselves, heart and soul, to the business at hand. We milled around like cows on a hillside, chewing our cuds, eyes half-closed in delirious bliss, as if this were the sole purpose for our existence. To eat. We did it with unbridled enthusiasm, occasionally exclaiming over a particularly delightful discovery and calling out to ask who made it. When the culprit was found, it was usually a stocky housewife with sunburned cheeks and eyes that crinkled at the corners from squinting in a truck garden for hours on end beneath a blazing summer sun. Hearing the compliments, a blush of pride from all the praise accorded her would raise the pink glow of those sunburned cheeks to a happy, fiery red. Then, to ease herself humbly from the spotlight, she would cry out in praise of some delicacy or other, and in so doing, pass the torch to someone else.
It was all very civilized and Christian. These people were, after all, friends. Many of them had known each other, like Sam and I, since birth. They understood that praise, like butter, must be spread around. One brief moment of glory was enough for anyone, but once your moment ended, lend it to someone else. Otherwise, the next time praise was being flung about like candy at a parade, you might find none of it flying in your direction. They were friends, yes, but they were friends who never forgot a kindness or a slight.
After a time, the clatter of forks on plates diminished, and snippets of conversations could be heard that didn’t always refer to the food at hand. The feeding frenzy was winding down.
I sat back, sandwiched as I was between Sam and Mrs. Shanahan, gorged like a tick about to pop. Casually, so as not to be unduly noticed, I loosened my belt a notch. Sam looked about as miserable as I did, although he was still chomping on a fistful of oatmeal cookies.
I tried not to puke watching him, and while I gave my glutted body a much-needed rest, I let my attention roam around the room as I studied the faces of my flock.
These were the people who worshipped in my church, who suffered through my sermons, who sometimes came to me with their problems. We seemed a cozy, friendly group, sitting there huddled together with our bellies full while the summer storm howled outside.
The farmers should be happy, I reflected, watching the rain slap against the little ground-level windows placed high along the basement walls. They had certainly needed this rain, even if I had not. But what the hey, rain or not, the annual basket dinner appeared to be a raging success. Perhaps the rain had brought us closer together, here in this crowded basement room, than we would have felt underneath the elms outside with the endless summer sky overhead.
Gradually, for lack of anything better to do and too stuffed to do it even if there had been, I tuned in to the voices around me.
Mrs. Shanahan’s, of course, was the first to pierce my awareness. She leaned across me and Sam to speak to Aggie Snyder, who was one of the farm wives and who, at the moment, was about as pregnant as a human being can be. Mrs. Shanahan blithely ignored Sam and me as if we were a couple of fence posts someone had had the audacity to sink into the ground smack in front of her face.
“Lordy, Aggie, I feel as full as you look! And this girdle is cutting me in two. ‘Comfortable support for a lovelier you,’ the box said. That’s a laugh!”
They come in boxes? I asked myself. Like stereos? In the meantime, Sam choked on a cookie.
Like Mrs. Shanahan, Aggie leaned over Sam and me as if we didn’t exist. “I don’t know why you bother wearing those silly things. I really don’t. You have a lovely, full figure. If you’re trying to catch a man,” she teased, “it will take more than a girdle.”
“Yes,” Sam whispered in my ear, “a bazooka,” causing us both to break into giggles.
Mrs. Shanahan cackled as happily as we did. “A man? I’ve had a man, and let me tell you, they ain’t all they’re cracked up to be. I married Mr. Shanahan fifty-seven years ago. He hung around for two months, bailed out one morning after breakfast, and I haven’t seen him since. The laziest creature that ever walked the face of the earth! Wouldn’t milk the cows ’cause he said it pained his knees. Wouldn’t hang my new kitchen curtains ’cause he said it pained his neck, don’t you know, reaching his arms way up over his head like that. That man had more pains than a window factory!”
She leaned in even closer to Aggie Snyder, pushing my back to the wall with her head a mere inch and a half from my lap. “A man, you say! What on earth would I do with a man?”
And what, I wondered as I studied those intricate blue waves that seemed to undulate across the top of her head with a life of their own, would he possibly do with you?
Kept in the Dark by Charlie Cochet
Chapter One
“My God, you’re amazing.”
Jerry stumbled through the darkened living room, nearly tripping over his own feet as he toed off his Italian loafers. He fumbled with the buttons of his designer shirt, attempting to undress himself without tearing his mouth away from the curvy brunet wearing the snug black cocktail dress. Giving up on the buttons, he stepped back and tugged at his shirt, pulled it over his head, and tossed it somewhere behind him.
“I’m going to make this a night you’ll never forget,” Jerry promised, hands sliding up her body to cup her breasts, his breath labored.
“That’s because he intends to strangle you to death.” D’s gruff voice carried through the shadows, and he grinned at Jerry’s startled red panda impression. D loved those little guys. He’d never seen a more overly dramatic animal. Except for Jerry here. Red pandas were adorable, unlike Jerry, who didn’t deserve the air he breathed.
“Fuck!” Jerry jerked the brunet in front of him, using her as a shield.
“Real classy, Jerry.” D shook his head and emerged from the darkness, gloved hand raised, his trusty SIG P320 with suppressor aimed at the monster standing in the living room of the multimillion-dollar South Florida mansion. Jerry’s eyes went comically wide from behind the brunet, who gasped, terror filling her big brown eyes. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” D assured her, keeping his tone soft. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for the guy who was planning on killing you during sex and then having his goons dump your body where no one would find it. Just another Saturday night for our psychopathic friend here. Isn’t that right, Jerry?”
She choked on air and darted away from Jerry, arms wrapped around herself as she started to tremble. Poor girl. She had no idea how close she’d come to becoming a tragic statistic. As it was, D hated he was too late to save the others, but how could he stop something he hadn’t known was happening?
Now he knew.
Jerry attempted to move, and D shot him in the leg, ignoring Jerry’s howl as he hit the tiled floor.
“It’s just a flesh wound, Jerry. Stop being such a baby.” D rolled his eyes. Really? The guy dragged himself dramatically across the floor like he was a WWI soldier who’d been shot in no-man’s-land. “You can use your left leg, you know. There’s nothing wrong with your left leg.” Jerry ignored him, grunting and groaning as he pulled himself, smearing a trail of blood along the way. Idiot. D approached the young woman, hands up in front of him. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Not that he expected her to believe him, what with the gun still in his hand.
“Please.” Tears streamed down her cheeks as she slowly backed away.
“What’s your name?” D asked gently.
“M-Miranda.”
“Miranda, there’s a driver waiting out front, ready to take you wherever you want to go, but I can call you a Lyft if you prefer. You’re safe, okay? No one is going to hurt you.” He offered her a warm smile. “I know that’s hard to believe coming from a guy who just shot someone, but trust me, he deserves it.”
“Was he really going to kill me?” Miranda asked, chin wobbling and voice breaking. Her eyes went to Jerry, and D glanced behind him, releasing a heavy sigh. He stopped beside Jerry and pressed a booted foot to his wrist, stopping him from picking up the cell phone he’d pulled out from the pocket of his discarded suit jacket.
“Jerry was planning on making you victim number twelve.”
“Twelve?” Miranda gasped, her hand flying to her red lips.
“He’s been doing it for years, and Daddy’s been helping him cover it up.” D crouched down, grinning broadly at Jerry. “I’m afraid dear old Dad won’t be in the race for governor next election. What with him facing prison time for helping you keep your dirty little secret.”
“You have no proof,” Jerry spat out.
D reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out the photos tucked inside. He tossed them in Jerry’s face. “I think the bodies of the eleven young women you raped and murdered is proof enough, wouldn’t you say?”
Jerry stared down at the photos. “How… how did you get these?”
“Exposing secrets is my business, Jerry, and I’m very good at my job.” He also had an entire agency and team of professionals behind him, but Jerry didn’t need to know that. It’s how he’d found Jerry’s little trophy stash.
A screech pierced the silence, and D jumped to his feet. One second Miranda was standing on the other side of the room all quiet and scared, the next she was kicking the shit out of Jerry. D cringed when Miranda stabbed her stiletto into Jerry’s back. Ouch. That had to hurt. Judging by Jerry’s wail, D gathered it hurt a lot. Should he do something? Maybe he should do something. In a minute.
“You sick motherfucker!” Miranda kicked Jerry in the balls so hard, D felt it. He sucked in a sharp breath and cupped himself. Holy shit.
“Okay. Time to go,” D prompted, wrapping an arm around a cursing and spitting Miranda. He lifted her and put her on her feet by the door. “Go home. Take care of yourself, and if anyone asks, you never saw me.”
Miranda nodded, her brown eyes almost black as she glared at Jerry, no doubt wishing him a long and painful demise. “Just promise me you’re going to make that hijo de puta pay.”
“Him and everyone else involved,” D promised. He’d knocked over the first domino in a very long line of depraved and corrupt pieces. They had no idea what was about to hit them.
Miranda gave him a curt nod, then disappeared.
“When my father finds out about this, you’re dead!”
D chuckled at the threat.
“What’s so fucking funny?”
In reality, nothing. If the average person saw even a flicker of the horrors he’d witnessed, it’d break them. D didn’t break. It was why he could do what he did, or at least what he used to do. The term compartmentalize had been created with people like him in mind. He’d come across the most putrid, dehumanized filth the world had to offer, and locked it away behind closed doors, the keys of which he’d tossed into the ocean of his mind to be forever lost. Then he would do his job. Jerry wasn’t the worst he’d seen. Not even close. Which was why D found the man amusing.
D crouched down in front of Jerry. “Can’t kill a guy who’s already dead, Jer.”
Being dead had its advantages. For one, people who’d been out to kill him were no longer looking to do so, and those who wanted him dead now were chasing a ghost. Dying wasn’t fun. It had hurt like a son of a bitch, and then came all the misery of leaving people he cared about behind, people he’d never be able to talk to again, but he’d brooded over that enough.
His death had not been peaceful, and he sure as shit hadn’t gone quietly into the night. Bitter betrayal and a bullet to the chest tended to do that to a guy. No, his last breath had been coupled with blind fury.
“You don’t look dead to me,” Jerry spat, eyes narrowed.
Wow. Sharp as a whip, this guy.
Clearly he wasn’t actually dead, but he had died. When Alpha found him, he’d expelled his last breath. They’d revived him and placed him in a medically induced coma. No one came to visit him. Not that anyone would have been able to find him had they known. His funeral had been lovely, or so he’d been told.
Two years later, here he was, in possession of a new name, a new life, and a new purpose. Today’s purpose was currently glaring at him in the hopes D would explode into human confetti.
Sweat trickled down the side of Jerry’s face, his soulless eyes studying D’s face, as if trying to figure out an angle he could exploit. His lips spread into a satisfied grin, and the hairs on the back of D’s neck stood on end.
Click. D sprang into action, darting toward a large leather sofa and diving behind it as a spray of bullets turned the once quiet living room into a war zone. D removed his second SIG from the shoulder holster beneath his jacket, followed by the suppressor tucked into the slim pocket beside it. Fucking Jerry. He’d clearly pushed some kind of panic button while D had been dealing with Miranda.
Where the hell had these guys come from? He’d knocked out all the guards in the small command center behind the house as well as the half dozen patrolling the property. He’d done surveillance on the place before making his move. Always did. He tapped the tiny earpiece in his right ear.
“Alpha, I’ve got unexpected company. I need eyes on the new guests.”
“I’m on it,” his boss’s digitally altered voice replied. “Accessing security feed. Six heavily armed hostiles, more on the way. Three near the sliding glass doors, two near the front door, and one with the target. Police have been notified of an intruder, and officers have been dispatched. ETA fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be done in ten.”
“I thought you took care of security.”
“I did,” he said through his teeth, rolling onto his stomach, preparing to make a move.
“I’ll look into it.”
D waited for a pause in the gunfire before darting out from behind the couch and shooting two of the goons by the glass doors—clean shots to the legs. Once upon a time, he would have aimed much higher and taken them out of the equation, but that wasn’t him anymore. That wasn’t his job. These weren’t targets. They were stupid men who’d picked the wrong employer. D landed behind the loveseat, his pulse steady. Two down, four to go.
Alpha’s voice came over the line. “Target had a panic button built into his belt buckle. Extra security came from a van parked down the street.”
“For when he killed Miranda.” Maybe they hadn’t picked the wrong employer after all. Still. He had his mission, and he never deviated from the mission.
“Five minutes,” Alpha stated.
“Got it.” D ducked behind a pillar, grateful for the open-plan layout of Jerry’s ridiculous, modern two-story mansion. “Police are on their way, Jerry. It’s over.”
“Please,” Jerry scoffed from somewhere across the room. “My dad has the police in his pocket. Not that it matters. All you’ve done is put me in a position to garner sympathy from the public, which will only serve to boost my father’s campaign.” The shooting stopped while Jerry fed his ego. “Just think about it. He’ll appeal to them as a parent, promising to do something about the crime and corruption. How crime in South Florida is out of control, his own son a victim of a violent and ruthless criminal who broke into his home and shot him.”
“All the while Daddy continues to bury the bodies of the innocent women you rape and kill.”
“What else are those whores good for?”
D stepped out from behind the pillar. One, two, three, four. The bodies crumpled to the floor. Jerry stood, stunned stupid. He gaped at D before throwing his hands up.
“Please.”
Sirens sounded in the distance, and D ignored them, stalking to Jerry who tried to hop away, his back coming up against the bar. The men Jerry had hired were too busy trying to save themselves to bother with their employer. Hire scum, get scum service. D put the muzzle of his suppressor under Jerry’s chin. “I should save the taxpayers their money and go straight to the execution.”
D’s earpiece crackled. “Delta, killing the target is not the objective.”
D gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles clenched so tight his face hurt. “Those women didn’t deserve what they got, but you….” D moved the suppressor of his second gun to Jerry’s crotch. “You deserve to be in the ground.”
“Please. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“Police vehicles approaching,” Alpha informed him. “Get out now.”
D’s finger twitched over his trigger. He’d killed for so much less. “Those women deserve justice.”
Jerry’s bottom lip trembled, but D wasn’t talking to him.
“And they’ll get it,” Alpha assured him. “Story’s breaking now.”
An evil grin spread across D’s face. He punched Jerry in the balls for good measure before securing one of his SIGs into the waistband of his jeans, then turned to swipe the TV remote off the couch. The blue-and-red lights from the small army of police cruisers pulling into the expansive driveway sent streaks of color swirling through the many open windows and glass doors, reflecting off the various mirrors and white walls, making the room look like a seedy nightclub.
D turned on the TV, a special news bulletin blaring through the surround-sound system, Jerry’s face plastered on the screen along with images of his victims, followed by news of his father’s involvement. D smiled as he headed for the side door, calling out over his shoulder.
“Have fun in prison, Jerry. Hey, maybe you and your dad will be cellmates. That’ll be real swell.” D slipped out into the darkness of the garden as a boom resounded and the shouts of SWAT officers echoed. He moved silently among the lush greenery, removing the suppressors from his SIGs and returning them to his jacket’s inside pockets before tucking his SIGs into his shoulder holster. Officers flooded into the mansion, and he crossed the street, strolling onto the dock, where a small speedboat waited for him.
“Good job,” Alpha said, and D smiled as he steered the boat away from the crumbling empire behind him. “How do you feel?” The electronic voice had taken some getting used to, not to mention the fact he had no idea who it belonged to. He’d stopped trying to figure out the identity of his mysterious employer a year ago. Whoever they were, they’d saved him, given him a reason to get up in the morning.
“One less monster in the world,” D replied, loving the smell of the ocean, the salty wind whipping in his face.
“Good. Report to the agency.”
“You got it.”
Music filled the air, and the colorful lights of Bayside Marketplace danced on the water’s dark surface as he approached the marina, steering past a small party boat filled with women and a handful of men. Salsa music blared from the boat’s speakers as everyone aboard danced and cheered. When they saw him, they clamored over to the railing, waved, and catcalled.
“Oye, guapo!”
A perky blond wearing a satin sash stating she was the bride leaned over the rail, her ample assets on display for him. “Hey, baby, come join us! It’s my last night as a single woman!”
He slowed down and grinned up at her. Beside her, a tall dark-haired drink of water licked his lips, and D blew him a kiss. The bride-to-be’s mouth formed a perfect little O before she threw her arm around her companion.
“He’s single too!”
“I’ll take a dance from both of you,” D yelled up, laughing at the delighted shrieks. Boat secured, he climbed up the rope ladder hanging off the side, and jumped over the railing, the crowd of pretty people losing their minds, a sea of tipsy and drunk men and women up for anything as they helped their friend celebrate her upcoming nuptials. The bride took his hand along with the hand of her friend and led them to the center of the dance floor. D spun her around, smiling at her laugh before he pulled her against him, her friend stepping in behind him.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Come home with me,” the handsome man begged in his ear, his hard erection grinding into D’s ass. D wrapped one arm around the bride as he danced with her, his free hand finding his male dance partner’s neck. He turned his head, responding to the plea with a deep kiss, the taste of beer swirling around his tongue.
The music pulsed, colored spotlights casting a wave of sparkling rainbow diamonds across the dance floor. He danced and kissed his way through the crowd, men and women grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, fingers trailing through his hair, hands sliding over his biceps and tracing his spine. Handsome returned, and he’d brought a friend, a cute blond twink with pouty pink lips.
“Well, hello, boys.”
