Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2) (5 page)

"Get off your high horse, Ellie," I muttered to myself as I hefted my handbag onto my shoulder. I was already regretting stuffing all my research notebooks into it before I punched out instead of just letting them gather dust over the weekend, but my aching shoulder quickly faded into nothingness as I disappeared off into my own private dream world. My legs ate up the blocks like they belonged to a marathon runner, not me, and in my daze I failed to realize that I'd strayed further than I needed, and worse – uncomfortably far into the industrial district.

"Ellie."

My brain recognized the voice before I fully comprehended what it meant. The second the gears clicked into place, I froze, as still as a hunted animal. A white-hot crescent of pain lanced across my forehead, as though my body was remembering what the owner of that voice had done to it over the years. Under the pain, but no less powerful for it, a knot of fear began to writhe in my stomach.

"You know better than to ignore me, don't you baby?" The voice said again. Rick's voice.
No!
I screamed silently,
it can't be
.
You're supposed to be locked up. They said you weren't getting
bail, that you were a flight risk
,
that you had a record
.

My stomach clenched, and my eyes screwed shut even harder than they had been before. I felt as though turning to look at him would be recognizing that he existed, that he was here, and that he still had power over me.

I yelped his name. I’d never forgive myself for not turning and running, but my feet were locked in place with fear.

"Rick, please..."

E
llie

Time slowed as I turned. I blinked, and then he was upon me, his face mere inches from mine. I took an involuntary step back, shocked by his sudden closeness. His presence violated everything I had thought to be true.

"No, you can't be here, you just can't…" I breathed, my brain struggling to process the evidence my eyes were providing. If I so much as reached out, I could have touched him. But it couldn't be.

He chuckled, an evil, biting, discordant racket that tore at the fiber of my soul. It reminded me of every harsh word, every raised fist, every cut and every bruise that he'd ever meted out on me. I saw him then as if for the first time. It was as though he was bathed in a revealing, cleansing light. I didn't see what I had wanted to see for so long – a kind, loving man. The kind of man I'd tried so hard to convince myself he could be.

I saw him with fresh eyes, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that all the self-doubt and loathing that I had put myself through, the coals I had raked myself over in trying to understand how I could stop constantly disappointing him, and how I could be a better partner – all of that was a mistake. He was the problem, not me.

Too late, my legs started working. It felt like a clamp had been released around my toes, and I could move again. The problem was Rick had backed me into a corner. Literally. He kept walking forward, and I kept backing away, the adrenaline in my system paralyzing me instead of doing what it was supposed to – fight or flight. In the end, I did neither.

My entire world condensed into a bubble about six feet wide. The sound of hammering and mechanical tools from the half a dozen auto repair shops that were the last, struggling remnants of a once-thriving industrial district faded away. The smell of pollen on the breeze, that I hated so much, disappeared, replaced by the damp, dank, fetid smell of trash cans. Even the light above me began to fade as Rick herded me to the end of the alleyway, the weak twilight sun blocked out by the towering, crumbling walls of red brick factories.

"Please…" I begged. I couldn't retreat another step. A chill cold radiating from the nearest factory wall began to lick away at the backs of my legs. A shiver traveled down my spine, meeting with the chill, and I felt weak, paralyzed with fear. "You can't, you don't understand. I didn't mean –."

No. Don't beg. Don't cry. Even if you have to die, he doesn't have power over you anymore
.
The only power he has is what you give him
.
He's weak, sad, and pathetic
.

What kind of man attacks a woman, a defenceless one at that?

A bully. That's what. And my mom, God rest her soul, she told me never to give in to bullies. Without consciously thinking about it, I straightened up, just like she would have wanted. I stood tall, chin thrust proudly forward, and waited for Rick to do his worst. He raked me up and down with a mocking stare and sneered, opening his vulpine, narrow-lipped mouth for the first time.

"What, you think you're going to get out of this?" He looked over his shoulder, then gestured at the empty street behind him, a mocking, crooked smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. "You think someone's going to come save you,
baby
?" He rolled the nickname that I'd once loved so much, before he showed his true colors, around his tongue, savoring it.

"Don't," I said, my voice cracking under the strain. I gritted my teeth, determined not to show fear that was coursing through me. A throwaway line I'd once written in a long ago newspaper column fluttered into my mind.
Courage isn't the absence of fear; it's what you do when you're afraid.

"Don't call me that! I'm not your baby. I'm not your
anything
, not anymore."

The smile disappeared from Rick's face in an instant, and he lurched forward, acting out of pure, spiteful rage. He raised his palm and slapped me full across the face, sending me spinning with the force and crashing against a filthy trashcan. My shoulder took the brunt of the impact, and radiated pain. I lost my overstuffed handbag somewhere in the scuffle.

"Oh, ho," he scoffed, picking it up. "What's this, then? Still using all the things I bought you, are you? Fucking women," he spat. "You're all the fucking same. Just take, take, take. You let us go to work every day, bring home the bacon, and spend it on clothes and makeup and handbags and all this shit." His voice dripped with anger, and his speech had the flat, monotonous sound of a well-practiced diatribe. I could tell that he'd been working on it for a while, probably planning it out in his head while lying in a bare, gray, concrete cell.

Each one of his lies hit me with a dozen times the force of the slap that had just sent me stumbling to the floor. A pang of anger coursed through me. It was all lies! In all the time I'd known him, Rick hadn't spent more than three months at any job. Laid off, fired, pushed out… The excuses never stopped. All the while, I went to work every day, earned enough for both of us, and he lay at home drinking it away until
my
credit cards were maxed out. But never his.

And the fact that he had the sheer, brass-balled cheek to stand there and say that to my face while holding a bag containing months of my life worth of hard-fought research smarted something fierce. I wanted more than anything for him to drop that bag, which was more than just a handbag, it was my life.

Enough to do something stupid. To provoke him.

"You never bought me a thing," I said, moaning over the pain sparking from my injured shoulder. "Not with your own money, anyway."

It was like showing a red rag to a bull. I had signed my own death warrant, or near enough. I heard the gentle 'whumph' as the heavy handbag hit the ground. It gave me just enough warning to protect myself, for all the good that did. I curled into the fetal position, hands gripping my rib cage as the first of many kicks rained down on my body. My kidneys were exposed, and my neck, and my head, but something primal inside me compelled me to do it – to protect my core, my stomach, my womb. There was neither rhyme, nor reason for it, just an intense, irresistible urge, and I succumbed without so much as a second thought.

The first blow hit with enough force that a thousand stars exploded behind my eyes, the second landed in my side and knocked all of the wind out of me. After that I stopped counting. After that I stopped caring, but I never stopped trying to protect my belly.

In the background, I heard shouts, a scuffle, and the sound of running footsteps.

And then nothing.

R
oman

Ten months later

I walked into the hospital by a side entrance. Turns out you can buy hospital scrubs at a costume store, and they look close enough to the real thing that no one bats an eyelid.

Rule number one when you're breaking into somewhere you shouldn't be? Carry a clipboard and look busy. Check and check.

I knew I wouldn't be the only operator who'd been enticed by the promise of a thirty thousand dollar job, so I knew I'd have to hurry. Especially as this time I couldn't just take another hitman out after he'd done my dirty work for me and claim his bounty.

No, this time I need her alive
.

A bead of sweat dripped down my face, and I tasted salt in my mouth before I had a chance to mop my brow. The stakes were as high as they could be, and for the first time in years, I actually felt nervous on the job.

I grabbed a med cart that had neatly been stowed away in a corner, put my handgun in the top drawer, so it was out of sight and re-checked my phone one last time. The bright white display was sparsely populated, and formatted in exactly the same way as every job I'd ever received from the Agency.

It simply read: Ellie Francis, Alexandria General, room thirty-two. $30,000. It was a cold way to sum up a life.

But not bad for a day's work
.

Except this time, I wouldn't be claiming the bounty.

The cart bumped over a slight indentation on the linoleum-covered concrete floor as I neared a bank of elevators, and I heard my weapon rattle against an assortment of glass medicine bottles. I looked down at the drawer and cursed. The damn thing was flimsier than a balsa wood table. I reached in and held it tight. The last thing I needed was the drawer's bottom dropping out and my gun spilling out into the acerbic medicine-scented hallway.

A gray-haired woman in a spotless, knee length white jacket gave me a curious look as I passed her, like she was searching her memory for my name. "Doctor," I nodded smartly, holding my breath. She nodded back politely and carried on. Alexandria General Hospital was a small enough place that she might have known every face who worked there. She got lucky. I got lucky. I didn't want to hurt her – hell, that was the whole reason I was in the middle of this mad escapade in the first place.

Ding!

The elevator doors rolled open, revealing two men in ill-fitting black overcoats. My eyes immediately focused on the tell tale bulges under their shoulders. They were operators. It was as plain as day, at least, it was to a man like me. They looked almost identical to each other, and I pegged them for Russians. Graying black hair, overweight, and the slightly dull look of men who never graduated high school? Yep, they were definitely Russian mobsters.

"In or out," one grunted, and his accent confirmed my suspicions.

Shit.

I'd hoped to avoid other hitmen until the way out at least, but it looked like today wasn't my lucky day.

It sure as hell wasn't theirs.

One of the big Russians stared at me with a look of incomprehension as I, at least in his eyes, seemed to hesitate. The truth was, I was always three steps ahead of chumps like these, usually more. Before the rusted, stuck gears that composed their minds had a chance to cough into action, my mind was already whirring.

"Sorry guys." I said, and pushed the cart forward hard.

The two men looked at it in unison. That was their first mistake. Their last, too. It dulled their reaction times, and by the time the big brute on the left had managed to knock it out of the way, I had my pistol in my hands and pointed at his chest. He looked with all the terror of a trout stranded on a riverbank, and desperately tried to unbutton his unseasonably heavy coat to reach his gun.

I shot him in the chest. The second the silenced gunshot went off in the confined elevator, his companion stopped dead, his hand marooned inside his jacket.

"Listen to me very carefully," I said in a measured, calm tone of voice. "If you go for that gun, I'm going to have to shoot you. Understand?"

The brutish Russian gangster stared at me with terror in his eyes and dropped his hand to his side. It was trembling, like Hitler's did in his bunker towards the end of the war. I kinda felt sorry for the guy. At least, I did before I remembered that the only reason he was here at all was to kill Ellie.

I don't want to kill you
, I thought.
I can't face adding another name to the list of men I've killed. But I will if I have to
.

I reached over, finished unbuttoning his coat for him, and tossed his gun over my shoulder and down the corridor. "Now, what the hell am I going to do with you?" I mused out loud.

"Please," he said in accented, clearly broken English. "Just let me go."

"Now, now," I chided. "I can't just let you go, can I Boris?"

"Not Boris," he said, his face wrinkling with confusion.

I waved the barrel of the gun over to the left-hand corner of the elevator, next to Boris's companion's slowly cooling body. "Doesn't matter. Sit over there, let me think."

He thought about complaining, then thought better of it, and lowered himself to his friend's prone body with a disgusted, terrified frown on his face.

What's in the cart?

I rifled through the top drawer, only to find a collection of bandages, surgical tape and syringes. Nothing useful. The second drawer down, though, was locked.

That seems promising.

I checked that Boris was safe, sound and quiet, reversed the gun in my hands so that I was holding it by its barrel, and brought the butt down heavily. The lock splintered into a dozen twisted fragments of metal, and I pulled the drawer out greedily.

Jackpot!

I pulled out a little vial and read the label. "How do you feel about epinephrine, Boris?"

He looked at me uncomprehendingly, and repeated, "not Boris."

"I know, I know. No, maybe epinephrine's not the best call. I don't want your heart attack on my conscience, you know?" I pulled out another vial. "Now we're talking."

Boris looked up nervously. "Don't worry, buddy," I joked. "It won't hurt."

But it's going to be a hell of a trip.

I injected the needle into the foil seal, and emptied the vial, filling the syringe to the top.

"Please…" Boris protested. "What's that?"

I kept the gun trained on him as I leaned forward. I injected the clear liquid directly into his carotid artery, and then smashed my handgun against his forehead, knocking him out cold for good measure. I tucked the little medicine vial in between his fingers, just in case anyone wanted to know why a two hundred pound Russian mobster was lying unconscious in the elevator.

I laughed to myself as I enabled the security override to lock the elevator doors. It wouldn't keep the bodies hidden long, but hopefully long enough for me to do what I needed to do. "A hundred milligrams of diazepam. Boris, that's going to be one hell of a dream…"