Saved by the Outlaw: Motorcycle Club / Hitman Romance (19 page)

That’s four guards down. And counting the two outside the door, and the two at the car, that’s all of them. But the job’s far from done.

I head back into the hall, avoiding the main party room and its boisterous laughter and music. I go to the main door, open it up and take out the two guards there. The blood spray disperses wide, and won’t be as easily noticed, so I haul them into the penthouse suite.

Now it’s my time to join the party.

There’s too many of them, even with how drunk and drugged they are. If I just walk in and start killing them, it’ll be a noisy mess. So I go to a small, hidden fuse box in the wall. Something you’d never know was there unless you were an employee. I pry it open, cut the lights, and all is dark. But the music still plays.

I hear voices of surprise, laughter, mockery. Anger.

But the darkness is nothing to me. I switch on the night vision of my mask, but I don’t really need it. I can still visualize them all where they were when the lights went out, pinpoint them by the sounds they each made. The guards took professionalism, skills, and training. These rich and powerful men? They are like slaughtering hogs on the farm.

I walked in, and one by one I began to end them. Grab, stab, slash. Grab, stab, slash.

It isn’t until there are only three of them left that they even began to notice the silence of their fellows. Another was dead before worry set in.

“Stop fucking around, where’d you guys go?” asks one of the two remaining, flanking each side of the drugged woman, her body lewdly revealed and left splayed upon the sofa between them.

Before I can kill another, the man on the left turns on his phone’s light and it blinds me. But I don’t need my eyes and pain is nothing that can distract me. With gun in one hand I put a bullet through his head, and almost simultaneously I lunge into the man on my right, the dagger jabbing up beneath his jaw and into his skull, crunching through cartilage as I kill them both.

They’re dead. They’re all dead, but for the guards at the car. And this lone woman.

The light from the phone is still surprisingly bright and I turn off the night vision. I’m now able to see her laying there, chest heaving as she looks up at me, glassy eyed, but aware.

I point the gun right to her forehead. I’ve done my mission so far with no more than a low gurgle of alarm. I’ve done it all with pure professionalism, and more than that, I’ve done it all happily. I’ve not regretted or failed to enjoy a single death tonight. And while I kept a stoic facade, all business, inside my heart’s raced with glee rather than anxiety.

No one lives. Or we’re all fucked,
rings Oleg’s voice in my head.

What’s one more anyways?

I
awake to a pounding headache
, something worse than I’d ever experienced. No hangover has ever approached this nightmare in my skull, and I’m pretty much the Queen of bad hangovers. The light that ekes through my eyelids was already too much and I kept them shut as I clutch my forehead.

How much did I drink?
I ask myself, confused.

But no amount of nursing my skull is gonna make things easier on me, though, so I force my eyes open. The sun streaming in through the window takes a while for me to get used to, stars appearing behind my eyes. Eventually I adapt, and I realize that the curtains are drawn, and it’s still a pain. The red drapes filter the light so that the Spartan, unfamiliar room is seemingly drowned in blood.

It gives me a nightmare I had the night before.

Me, lying there, blood spattering in the air as I watched some tall, dark, looming man points a gun at my head. He was like a specter of grim death. Stoic, towering, broad and powerful. Hidden beneath dark clothes and a terrifying mask, blood soaking into his clothes.

It sends a shiver down my spine, doubly so as I try to understand my foreign surroundings. The cold concrete floors and brick walls, the simple bed that looks more like a cot.

What the hell happened last night?
I brush back my blonde hair, the strands still clinging to each other with leftover hairspray. My red dress is almost eerie in the strange light, and for a moment, for just a single moment, I wonder if I’m dead, surrounded in the color of blood.

I stand, my feet bare, my high heels tossed to the side.
I can’t be dead
, I tell myself.
Dead people can’t feel this damn hungover.

Every beat of my heart sends a throbbing pain right to my temples and I nearly stumble back to the bed, giving up in agony, but now I’m a bit curious. Did my boss take me somewhere?

“Hello?” I try to shout, but it comes out as a groggy murmur.

There’s nothing, only eerie silence. The place is so still. The pain in my head seems to plead with me to relax and take my time, but the unfamiliar place urges me to get up and get out. So I head to the dark metal door of the room and try the handle. I fear that it’s going to be locked, but a simple turn and it opens.

And more dreaded sunlight spills in. This time it’s unfiltered by curtains, and it’s abrasive on my eyes. I feel like a vampire, or the walking dead.

“Where the hell am I?” I mutter, because last I remembered I was with the congressman at some hoity-toity dinner. And this doesn’t seem like the kind of place that my rich boss would’ve taken me. Even my place is less grey and unremarkable.

I step out into the room, and slowly force my eyes to adjust. I can see a table, a kitchen, even a sofa. And while all of them are crisp and clean, they’re once again simple, unremarkable. There’s no real personality to the place at all, not even in a hotel kind of way.

“Sit,” comes a deep, dark voice from right beside me. I didn’t even see anyone there!

It’s a lone man, broad in the shoulders, with sleek black hair brushed back. He sits in that grey metal chair by the small table, one other seat waiting for me. He’s dressed darkly, a turtleneck and pants, both simple, clean but definitely not a fashion statement. While his face… his face is chiseled, with a wide jaw and sharp, emerald eyes.

He’s ominous, sure, but he’s hot as hell. He’s not cute, not like a guy my age. He’s all man, but his seriousness gives me pause. I feel like I’m about to be chastised for something. Or hell, he can’t be a cop, can he? I didn’t do anything more than have a few drinks last night, I know that much. I might like to drink, but I never touch anything illegal.

Immediately it gets my back up, and I fold my arms across my chest. I must look silly with my messy hair and raccoon eyes, bare footed in a slinky mini-dress in the middle of the day.

“Where am I?” I ask, not sitting, because it’s the only bit of rebellion I have. I don’t deal well with authority figures, I guess you could say.

My first guess is that this is some security man, left to watch over me by the congressman. It’s the only thing I can think of that makes a lick of sense. Maybe there was a national security threat and I’ve been taken to a secure bunker. Except I’m above ground, so that can’t be it...

“You are at a safe house,” he explains to me, that husky voice curiously accented, but my mind’s too fuzzy to work out exactly what kind of accent. Not that I’m any kind of expert. “Now sit,” he says, uncrossing those thick, bulging arms from over his chest as he nudges a plate across the table towards my intended seating place.

It’s a breakfast meal, hearty and much more than I’d ever eat. Eggs, ham, various veggies, toast. It doesn’t exactly look fancy, but it looks healthy and recently prepared. “I’m not going to tell you again,” he instructs me and I finally stop fighting.

There’s something about his tone that makes me want to obey. He’s probably way out of my league, but with a guy as hot as him, I’m not going to piss him off. The chair is cold against my upper thighs, and the food both tempts me and makes me a little queasy.

“Where’s Mr. Gallego?” I ask as I lift my fork, taking a bite first of the vegetables since they seem the safest. And with how bland they are, I can’t imagine they’re going to upset my stomach. “I’ve never been in one of his safe houses before. I didn’t even realize he had one.”

The man gives me a stoic stare, his dark eyes piercing into me as he watches me eat. There’s no answer at first, he simply stands up from his seat and I catch a glimpse of just how towering he truly is. He’s at least a foot and a half taller than me. Without a word, he goes to the kitchen, pours a glass of water and returns, placing it beside my meal before reclaiming his seat.

“Do not worry about your employer,” he instructs me in that dark tone of voice. “You won’t be seeing him again any time soon.”

That’s... cryptic.

Though honestly, I can’t really remember much about last night. We had our business dinner, and that was grand, but I definitely must have drank too much according to my hangover. I swear I was only ordering wine. After all, I wanted to be on good behavior. I wanted Mr. Gallego to take me seriously.

I take another bite of food, mulling over what he’s said.

“You’re not the cops, are you? He’s not in trouble, is he?”

He’s a hard man to gauge, but when I ask if he’s a cop I can see some slight betrayal of amusement upon his otherwise calm, chiseled facade. It sends butterflies into my stomach, and for a brief second, I wonder what he’d look like with an honest smile on his face. I bet he’d look sexy as hell.

“You worry a lot about others, for a woman I had to drag out, drugged and unconscious from a party of rich men,” he says, his amusement dry. Really dry. If you could call it amusement at all.

But it makes him sound like a man who is tired of cleaning up other people's messes. Is this who the congressman calls when he’s done something bad that needs covering up? Does that mean…

I nervously sit up, my hand running through my hair and getting caught in the tangled curls at the bottom.

“Wait, shit, am I in trouble? Did he say I did something wrong? Because I don’t usually drink that much, I swear, and I don’t even really remember what happened, so if he’s afraid that I’m going to blab, I’m not going to. And I definitely didn’t use any kind of drugs last night. Maybe it was just mixing the whites and reds.”

His brows furrow and he crosses those arms back over his chest, studying me with something between confusion and consternation. It gives me further opportunity to notice just how immaculate the man is. He’s hard — hardened looking, to be exact — with dark stubble, a few faded scars upon his jaw, but his brows were so rigidly formed, eyebrows dark and naturally perfect. His eyes look almost kohl lined. Overall, he’s yummy, even if I am freaked.

“I got you out of there before they did anything to you,” he says simply, but it’s hard to tell if he’s being honest or just feeding me the line he’s supposed to.

“Oh.” I take another bite of my food, the churning in my stomach not getting any better, but not getting any worse either. “Well thank you,” I say with a forced smile before glancing around at the barely furnished room. Whoever decorated has no sense of style. I tug up on the strap of my dress, feeling self-conscious. There’s such a difference between being all dolled up at night, and being dressed the same under the harsh light of day.

“Thank you for breakfast, too, I guess. My head is killing me.” I take a sip of my water. “You got an Advil or something on you Mr...”

Not eager to give his name, he reaches a hand down into his breast pocket and pulls out a pill, placing it on the edge of my plate. But aside from the fact I’m accepting some unknown drug from a stranger, I also notice for the first time that he has two holsters strapped beneath his bulky arms, attached to a dark leather harness that blends with his attire almost seamlessly.

“Mikhail,” he says at last, after taking a moment to contemplate it over. “What is your name?” he asks in return, but it’s strange that he doesn’t already know my name, if he’s working for Mr. Gallego.

What’s happening in my life right now? The fact that he doesn’t know my name or seem to even know Mr. Gallego... It’s wrong. Something’s fishy about this.

And worse, I can’t seem to get that weird dream out of my head. I can even smell that weird scent that’s completely unfamiliar to me, see the smoke rising from a gun.

“Why am I being held here?” I ask, ignoring his own request.

“For your own good,” he says simply, darkly, that gaze of his unwavering. “Why were you with those men last night, Ali?” he says, apparently knowing my name after all. Or at least my nickname with friends.

“Who wouldn’t go out for a free meal and drinks when their boss offers them the chance?” I say, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, and it is. I have ambitions, after all, and sucking up to my boss might be the quickest way to success. They all think I’m just some dumb blonde, so I have to show them every chance I get that I’m not dumb, and I’m not even a real blonde.

Something about my answer seems to bother this strange man, Mikhail. His brows furrow.

“One of these men last night was your boss, Ali?” he says, but that short-form of my name sounds so strange upon his accented voice. “Are you telling me they didn’t just pick you up at some bar, ply you with drinks and take you to their penthouse?”

“Ew, no. I’m not a
bar skank
,” I say. “What’s all this about anyways? I’m already going to have to do damage control at the office if anyone finds out about this, so if we could just keep it quiet, I’d appreciate that, Mikhail.” I give him a smile, my hand pushing out over top of the table, reaching out for his touch.

It’s been a long time since I’ve found myself curious about a guy I’d just met, but Mikhail... he’s definitely tall, dark and handsome, and mysterious to boot. I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better, see what makes him tick...

He studies me a while with that penetrating gaze of his, the kind of look that makes me feel naked, and not just because I’m still wearing the slinky dress from last night. No, this is a powerful man who can see right through me, to the depths of my being. All the questions? It’s like he knows the answers to them all, but is merely confirming them. Sometimes because they’re too ludicrous for him to buy at face value, other times because he just wants to be absolutely certain.

“How many people at the office know you went out with your boss last night?” he asks me, his voice getting even grimmer, more serious.

“A few... We left right from the office, and then he took me to my place to get changed. I mean, just whoever was working late on a Friday night. Well, and his secretary because I’m pretty sure she knows everything.”

The answer didn’t surprise him, as I knew it wouldn’t, but it troubled him. That much is clear.

He lifts an arm, runs it back over his sleek, dark hair and casts his gaze down to my food, still not finished.

“Eat up. You will need all you can get. You were out for a very long time, thanks to what they slipped you. And if you don’t eat, the nausea you feel now will be nothing compared to what’s to come,” he explains casually, standing up from the table again, looming over me.

What they slipped me?

“Mr. Gallego wouldn’t give me anything like that. He’s a congressman, for Pete’s sake. Could you imagine the scandal if I was drugged while on a business meeting? The press would never let him live that down. And his friends all seemed nice.”

“Eat,” he ordered me sternly. “You are going to need your strength, and there won’t be much else to do around here for the next few days at least,” he instructed me as he glared down, those large, powerful hands upon his hips.

Next few days?!

Instead of eating, I stand up from my chair, thinking for a brief second that if I stood up I’d feel more powerful. I had apparently forgot that I come up to his pecs, am at most half his weight, and my glare is probably not going to cow him the way I hope it will. Not to mention the fact that I’m not too steady on my feet right now.

Still, a girl’s gotta try, right?

“A few days? Listen, I can’t stay here a few days. Firstly, I have a job to get to, and that... that...
cot
you gave me might work for a drunk tank, but I’m sober now and that’s not going to cut it. And lastly,” I say, having lost count of my points, “I’m supposed to be helping Mr. Gallego on his reelection campaign this weekend. That was why he invited me out, to give me more details on what he needed me to do.”

As expected, my resistance proves absolutely useless upon him. I might as well have just blown sparkles at him for all he seems swayed by my words.

“None of that matters anymore,” he states so simply in that harsh accent of his. “You have no job to return to. Gallego will not be running for re-election. And you are going to sit down, eat your food, then get changed, curl up on the couch and watch some TV,” he instructs me. And a quick glance shows me that the drab couch indeed sits before a rather unimpressive flat screen TV I hadn’t even noticed before now.