Last Hit (Hitman) (26 page)

DAISY

"Man, this weather is awful."
Regan peers out the window at the pouring rain and recoils when it thunders. "You sure you want to walk to work? I can drive you."

"It's only two blocks," I say, reaching for my coat. I shrug it on and then head to the window that Regan is peering out. It does look awful outside. I hesitate, watching the rain slant sideways. By the time I get to work, I will be soaked, and it will make for a miserable evening. There's no point in taking the bus, though, not for a walk of two blocks. I consider Regan's offer. "If you drive me, can you pick me up, too?"

She gives me a thumbs up and then just as quickly frowns. "Oh. I'd have to borrow your phone. I dropped mine yesterday and now it won't work."

I glance out the window again, at the furious storm, and then I reluctantly pull my phone out of my pocket. I don't want to give Regan my phone. It's my only connection to Nick while he's out of town. I'll miss his sweet, thoughtful texts that make the hours at work pass faster. But it's either that or sit in soaked clothing behind the counter all night. With only a little hesitation, I hand her my phone. "If Nick calls, just let it go to voicemail."

"Of course," Regan says, pocketing my phone and not even glancing at the screen. "There's no dirty selfies on here, are there?"

"What? No!"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding, Pollyanna." She waves a hand at me. "I'm not going to look at your phone. Don't freak out. I won't even use it. Just call it when you're ready to be picked up, and I'll hop into the car. I promise."

I nod. "I trust you." She's my only friend besides Nick. Of course I trust her.

"So…you and Nick are pretty serious, huh?" She turns away from the window and heads to the counter to grab her car keys.

"I think so."

"He's your first serious relationship, isn't he?"

I nod, though I can feel the blush stinging my cheeks.

Regan puts a hand on my shoulder, the look on her face serious. "I know you're pretty innocent, Pollyanna. Do we need to have a birds and the bees talk?"

"I know how sex works, Regan!" I can't believe we are having this conversation. Regan's not more than a year older than me. Sexually, though, I suppose she is vastly more experienced than I am, even after my few encounters with Nick.

"I'm just looking out for you, girlfriend." She pats my shoulder. "I'm glad to hear it, though. Don't let him pressure you into doing something you don't want to do."

"Nick's not like that," I protest. If anything, I am the one pressuring Nick into more sexual experimentation than he's asked for. I'm just so eager to experience all of what life has to offer that I can't hold back. I'm greedy with him. He offers me kisses, and I want more. "You don't have to worry."

"I can't help but worry," Regan says as we step out of the apartment and into the hallway. "You're just so sweet and innocent. I kinda thought you'd be with, I don't know. A different type than him."

"What do you mean, his type?" Now I'm curious what she thinks.

"I don't know. I just pictured you with some nice, equally innocent, sweater-wearing mama's boy. Not one that runs around on a crotch rocket."

I think of my Nick, with his tattooed hands and strong body and eyes that can be so cold…until they look at me. Then they have all the warmth in the world. "He owns a sweater," I mumble. At least, I am pretty sure he does.

"Like I said, I'm just looking out for you," she says, and there is concern in her eyes as we head down the hall and down the stairs. "I know it's none of my business, but I feel a bit like an older sister around you, and I'm just trying to make sure you don't get hurt."

"Nick would never hurt me," I say softly, and I know it's the truth. He keeps warning me away from him, as if certain I will wake up and realize he is bad for me. He doesn't realize that I love his differences. I don't mind that he's had a hard, ugly life before we met. I know what it's like to not want your past to define you. Only the present matters, and in the present, I am with Nick, and he is with me, and what I feel for him can't be contained by regular words or thoughts.

"Once you meet him, you'll see what a great guy he is." I think it's sweet that Regan is concerned. She is a good friend. She voices her concerns, but in the end, it is still my choice, and I have made it.

I feel naked without my phone in my hand. Surely I can surely go a few hours without Nick's texts, though I already feel their loss keenly.

"So are you expecting a call from Nick?" Regan asks. "Want me to call you up at the gas station if he calls?"

"I don't know that he'll call me," I tell her honestly. "He's out of town."

"Business?"

"I think so."

"What's he do?"

"Computer stuff," I tell her. Nick hasn't really said too much about what he does, and I haven't asked. It's clear that he doesn't want it to define him, and I understand that. I am no more just a gas station employee than he is…well, whatever he is.

From what Nick has told me and his sense of shame at his profession, I suspect it is something not entirely legal. Perhaps he pirates movies and sells them on the Internet. Maybe he is a hacker. Either of these is possible, and neither matters, though I do worry that one day his calls will be from jail.

But Nick is a grown man. I don't want to control him any more than I want him to control me. So I haven't broached the subject. When he wants me to know more, he'll tell me.

"Well, regardless," Regan says as we get to the bottom of the stairs. "If he calls, I won't answer."

"Thank you," I tell her. And a moment later, I add, "But you'll still call me and tell me, right?"

She laughs. "Will do."

With my phone and Nick
to text, a night at work never seems to drag.

Without both, the hours tick by slowly. I stare at the security monitors for an eternity—the most boring television viewing ever, even compared to PBS—and think about Nick instead. Does he miss me? Is he thinking about me? Is he texting me and wondering where I am? I should have texted him to let him know Regan has my phone. I didn't think about it, and now he'll be wondering where I'm at. Poor Nick. His evening will be just as lifeless as mine.

When I can stand staring at the security cameras no longer, I decide to stock candy bars and lottery tickets. I don't like to leave the counter, even though Craig said sometimes you just have to. You pick a slow moment to go to the bathroom, preferably late at night. I have learned to pee fast and to not drink much prior to my shift. But boredom causes me to retreat to the back room for the occasional retrieval of a box so my hands can have something to do while I monitor my lonely counter.

The last person to purchase a Slurpee complained about the flavoring, so I decide to refill the machine by changing out the syrup bag. They're kept on a shelf in the back so I pull out the step stool and climb up to get it when I hear a familiar chime. It's the door, letting me know there is a customer in the store. That's hardly unusual in itself, but it's one in the morning, it's raining, and foot traffic has been slow. "Just a minute," I call out, tugging the box of diet soda syrup out from under a stack of root beer flavors. While I do, I glance at the security camera.

There are two men in suits that have entered. Both are wearing sunglasses. One has paused by the door and puts a hand inside his jacket and leaves it there. He scans the room as the other stalks around inside.

This…makes me anxious. I'm not entirely sure why. It strikes me as unnatural, even more so when they begin to speak in a language I recognize but don't understand: Russian.

My skin prickles with alarm. Do these people know Nick? There are surely not that many Russians in the city, are there? And why would they show up at a gas station at one in the morning in suits? I think about Nick's job, his likely computer hacking. Are these people looking for him? Maybe they are police, but that doesn't explain why they speak Russian.

I'm scared. I'm so terrified I immediately begin to shake, but I somehow manage to go to the stock room door and shut it—and lock it—before anyone can come back here.

Two seconds later, a hand jiggles the knob. I hear swearing, and then a man calls out to the other in Russian. They're clearly angry, and one slams against the door. I turn to the cameras but both have moved out of sight. They are probably at the door.

I am trapped.

My brain shuts down. I stop shaking. I've been trapped before. I spent twenty-one years trapped and cornered. I know how to function like this. The best thing I can do is to stop thinking, stop processing, and just exist. Do what needs to be done.

I calmly drag a shelf in front of the door, though it's heavy and I can't push it more than a few feet. Once they figure out how to open the door, it will fall over and block the way out, but I'm stuck anyhow.

I'm not helpless, though. I go to the time-clock and the lockbox that is kept underneath it. I open it and pull out the C2 Taser Gun. The bat is under the counter up front at the cash register, so I can't get to it. Calmly, I pick up the body of the Taser and then the battery pack that goes into the back. I slide it in and consider the air cartridge. These men look like they could carry guns. If I aim mine at them, I need to be faster. Better to have the element of surprise. I skip the air cartridge and will use the C2 as a stun gun instead. If they come close enough to grab me, I only have one chance anyhow.

I'm so calm as I slide the safety cover on the switch back and ready the gun. Then, I crouch in the farthest corner of the room, my hands tucked between my legs so I can hide the gun, and wait.

On the camera, I see one man return to the front of the store. He's watching so no one else comes in. The other continues to fuss with the knob on the storeroom door, and I'm waiting for the click that will tell me he's worked his way in.

It comes a moment later, and I stiffen, though I am calm.

The door opens. Just a crack, and then it meets the shelf I have dragged forward. With another muttered curse, he shoves at the door and the shelf careens forward in slow motion.

It makes an enormous crashing sound, boxes of candy bars sliding forward and smashing to the floor.

One man barks a command in Russian, and the one at the door answers, clearly annoyed. Then, he pushes forward, stepping over the fallen shelf, and I get a good look at him.

He could be my age, but there's something hard and familiar in his eyes that makes him seem older. His suit is rumpled, and he looks irritated at the shelf. He scans the room, and his gaze finally falls on me, huddled in the corner and crouching low.

"Come," he says to me, and he flicks his hand in my direction.

I don't move. I refuse to. I watch him with wary eyes instead.

He calls something over his shoulder at the other man, and he steps over the fallen shelf, moving toward me.

I tuck myself back further into my corner, doing my best to look frightened. I'm not; my brain is still numb.

The man steps forward, approaching me. His hand is out, but I don't take it. I know he's trying to look not-scary but it's failing. His eyes are too cold, too gleeful.

Then, he's standing right in front of me, bending over.

"Please don't hurt me," I whisper, since I know he wants to hear something like that.

"You come and no one gets hurt," he tells me, and his hands go to my arms as if to grab me.

I jam the Taser forward, shove it between his legs, and hold down on the button. Without the air cartridge in, it acts like a stun gun. It crackles with electricity, and I hear
flick, flick, flick, flick
it makes as it contacts his flesh and sends shockwaves through his groin.

He jerks, shudders, and collapses.

I calmly stand up, though my knees ache from my crouch. It's clear he didn't expect me to fight back, but my father's anxiety has trained me well for this sort of situation. I step over the fallen man and climb over the shelf and out of the room.

The other man is clearly surprised to see me. He's bigger than the other man, his face hard. His eyes narrow when I am not followed immediately out of the room. I see the realization on his face; I have disabled his companion somehow. I clutch my stun gun closer, my hands sweating, and circle the shelves as he begins to walk forward, keeping distance between us. It's still raining, but I can run into the night, run all the way home.

"So," the man says, and his accent is thick, and sickeningly like Nick's delicious one. "You are his little flower,
da
?"

I say nothing. My hand is tight on the button of my stun gun. He's moved away from the door, but he's still too close for me to make a break for it. His words make my belly cold; this isn't a robbery. I knew it wasn't.

They've come for
me
, and it's something to do with Nick.

The man's hand goes into his jacket again, and it remains there. He has a gun, but he is not going to draw it. Not yet. I keep my hand low on the off chance he has not seen my Taser. I am stupid; I should have grabbed the air cartridge. If I got within fifteen feet of this man, I could shoot him with it and disable him and run straight to the police. But I left it in the other room and now I can't go back. I don't know how long the other man will be unable to move.

I need to do something other than hide behind shelves. But what?

The man's hard gaze remains on my face. "Yury," he calls out. Then he says something in Russian. There is no response, and the eyes narrow, the focus tightening on my face. He pulls the gun out of his jacket and shows it to me. "If you come to me, I will not have to use this."

I know that if I go with him, I am dead. I circle back behind another shelf as he takes a step forward. "If you kill me, Nick won't like it," I tell him.

He barks a laugh. "There are many ways to use a gun, little one. I do not have to kill, only disable. But, very well. We do it your way." He puts the gun back into his jacket, and pulls something else out. It's oblong, flat, and black. After a moment, I realize it is a phone.