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Prologue
West
There’s a saying somewhere that “fear of the unknown is the greatest fear of all.” That was one emotion I was all too familiar with, not only on a personal level, but a professional one as well. For twenty years, I had been committing first-degree intentional homicide, and watching fear overcome the strongest of men. Policemen. Firemen. Cage fighters. Even a Navy SEAL.
One of the first things I learned in my career as a contract killer was that there was a fine line between genuine strength and a pussy.
Wayne Lawson, muscled-up brother to the founder and owner of Cardomia USA, one of the world’s leading manufacturers of playing and trading cards, was the true definition of pussification.
“You can’t kill me. I’m the owner’s brother and have a baby on the way.”
“Oh, but I can kill you. And will. Unless, however, you want to man up and tell me who you’re selling the gaming cards to.”
“Fuck you! You have the wrong man. I haven’t taken shit!” He blinked rapidly, his thin bottom lip quivering.
I pushed the jaws of the pliers underneath the left side of his fingernail, then slowly pried the nail upward, removing it. His scream mixed with the sound of piss hitting the floor sent a bolt of energy down my spine. I lowered the pliers to the middle of the nailless finger next to the others. “Ready to talk now?”
“Go to fucking hell,” he said, spitting blood from his mouth where he was missing three teeth.
“I’ll see you there.”
The single gunshot blasted the air with a muffled pop, and his body twitched as the bullet penetrated his skull. Eyes wide open with a trickle of blood seeping from the wound, his body went limp and his head fell forward.
I’d given the guy every opportunity to turn over the stolen merchandise or admit to taking the exclusive gaming cards worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Damn shame he gave up the chance.
“Ignorant fuck,” I uttered to no one as I returned the Glock to my coat pocket.
Chapter One
West
The Square. Such an average name for the array of cafes and specialty shops nestled in the heart of the Dallas suburb. I pushed the thought from my mind as I eyed my destination. Wall Street Journal in hand, I entered the quaint little pie shop in hopes of fresh, strong coffee, and running into Ben Nelson. Besides the wailing of an ambulance somewhere close and soft alternative rock playing over the speakers, the place was silent. Not a single customer.
“Thank you.” I slipped the ginger a fifty and gave her a bland smile. Not bothering to wait on change, I reached for my large black coffee and slice of cherry pie. From what I’d read on the handwritten menu on the wall, the little eatery sold gourmet pies by the slice or whole, coffee, tea, and water. The concept of the place was unique and the location good, but it needed updating, and the sign outside was in dire need of replacement.
Bonafide Brook’s Pie Shop was owned by Brooklyn Nelson, Ben’s sister. Since I’d learned just an hour ago that Ben had been released from his job at JC Construction, I was hoping he might be around. The two of us had a serious heart-to-heart in our future.
Fragrant dark roast was just about to reach my lips when a raven-haired goddess exited the kitchen and stopped me in my tracks. Christ, what I’d seen online did this beauty no justice. It wasn’t just the long, silken tresses damn near reaching the middle of her back, or the fawn-colored skin that was smooth, creamy perfection. It wasn’t her phenomenal shape, full pink lips, or the small, straight nose with its scattering of freckles that she probably hated but I fucking loved. There was a softness about her. An elegance. A grace in the way she held herself. And those big blue eyes.
She took my goddamn breath away.
Like she sensed my presence, her ocean-strong eyes lifted and locked with mine. Swollen, bloodshot, fathoms deep with worry, they also flickered sexual blue fire that had me visualizing them looking down at me—glazed over, pupils large and dilated—as I draped her legs over my shoulders and took my first taste.
Her brows lifted and her lips parted like she wanted to speak. Instead, she blinked away, dismissing me. Fitting, I suppose, being who I was, what I could do, and the fact that I was going to bring even more gloom to those gorgeous eyes.
This time tomorrow I will have killed my twentieth—and final—victim.
I often wondered if my grim childhood had provoked me to earn my living ruining lives. Shattering hopes and dreams. Over the years, I’d read a lot on the subject. Some believed it to be a cognitive control issue. Others were convinced it connected with one’s upbringing. Fuck if I understood the logic behind it, but what I did know was that many born to drug-addicted parents struggled with certain sensations and emotions such as compassion and empathy.
I lacked in both those traits.
When I learned my parents walked into oncoming traffic while spaced out on meth, I felt nothing. On my first kill, I smiled, proud as goddamn punch as I watched the father of two bleed out after severing his carotid. And I’d laughed in the faces of many beautiful women over the years after fucking them into thinking they could gain my love.
Was I a good person? No. Was I good at my job? Damn straight. Empty inside, I felt nothing toward people in this cold, selfish world. Growing up with a mother who only cared about her next fix, and a sperm doner who got off taking his sick, sexual frustrations out on little boys left me heartless. Emotionless. Soulless.
When the gut-wrenching beauty walked my direction, thoughts of her hands gripping one of the chairs with her pants at her ankles as I thrust inside her, pulled blood to my dick. I’d likely jerk off later while thinking about violating. Overpowering. Taking, controlling, and owning.
Christ, I needed to get laid.
