by V. A. Dold
When Cassidy stopped to think about her reaction to others, it amazed her. After everything she’d endured in her relatively short life, she could still feel empathy for those in need. Jones had done his best to stamp out her humanity. With every punishment he designed and meted out to break her, she had only grown more determined to defy him. He called her will of iron a flaw. She called it an asset. She may be an assassin, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have a conscience that kept her from stepping across the line into unconscionable behavior. She didn’t have to worry about her choice to move forward with Hanson’s contract. Her morality barometer wasn’t budging an inch for that toad.
Mark Hanson was the kind of human she considered irredeemable. She owed it to his wife and daughter, not to mention all of the nameless women he’d destroyed, to send him back to his maker. Let God sort him out. St. Peter would have a few things to say, that’s for sure. She smiled ruefully to herself. Sometimes she cracked herself up.
So, here she lay on her belly atop the two-story building across the street from the bar Hanson entered eighteen minutes earlier. Her eye was to the scope of Black Betty, her M24 sniper rifle, as she ignored the pea gravel that dug into her elbows. The chill breeze was a little harder to ignore. It ruthlessly reminded her she should have worn a heavier coat.
Instinctively, her fingers went to the sight and adjusted for a Northwesterly wind of nine miles per hour. How she knew it was precisely nine miles per hour, she couldn’t explain. She just knew.
When time dragged on, she scowled at the bar’s door. What the heck is the turd doing? He never stayed in the bar for more than thirty minutes. She’d seen him in action several times while learning his habits. He entered the bar, tossed money around like it grew on trees, attracted the attention of a gold-digging slut, and left with her. Maybe karma came calling, and he lost his mojo? The sun had set an hour ago, triggering the streetlamps. Great. Now there were shadows everywhere to contend with.
Fifteen minutes later, her mind was wandering when movement snapped her attention back to the crosshairs of her scope. Her intuition told her that this was it. She’d take the shot, make her preplanned exit, and finally go home to her own bed. God, she missed her high-end mattress and Egyptian cotton sheets.
Her breath slowed. Her vision tunneled until all she saw was the square inch on the door where the center of Hanson’s forehead would be. Her finger stroked the trigger. Then time slowed until everything happened in slow motion.
The door opened with unexpected vehemence, flooding the sidewalk with additional light and overly loud music.
Her finger tensed reflexively on the trigger in anticipation of the shot.
Hanson stumbled out the door, his aggressive exit assisted by a glowering bouncer. Well, that explained the ferocity of which the door was shoved open. Evidently, the wealthy egomaniac was thwarted in his efforts to find a willing partner and had misbehaved.
She tracked her target, waiting for a clean shot without witnesses. Ambient sounds faded away, leaving only her heartbeat and breath.
“If I see you here again, I’ll call the cops.” The bouncer emphasized his opinion of Hanson by yanking the door shut. Cassidy was impressed. Slamming a commercial door that was designed to close gently wasn’t an easy feat.
Hanson fell back against the brick exterior and shook his head. No doubt to stop the ringing between his ears. He sported two blackening eyes and a bloody lip. Sure as shit, Hanson hadn’t gotten his way and threw a tantrum. Cassidy knew from watching the spoiled bastard’s behavior that when he was denied in any way, he reacted badly, usually with his fists.
“Come on, asshole, get moving. Just… a few… more steps. You can do it,” she quietly encouraged. She needed him in front of the alley so his body would fall into the shadows and delay its discovery. That was rule number five in her how to be a successful assassin novel. Not that the manuscript would ever be published. Number five stated that you must allow enough time to escape the scene undetected.
Suddenly, Hanson pitched forward and vomited all over the sidewalk and his shoes. Cassidy’s nose wrinkled. “That’s just gross, man.”
A long minute later, he lurched from the wall and staggered the ten feet she needed him to take.
She rechecked the wind, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.
* * * * *
Back in her hotel room for the night, Cassidy ordered room service before stripping off her work clothes. She always felt a little dirty after a job. That was just another drawback to having a conscience. Oh well, it was better than being a cold bastard like Mr. Jones. She would retire before becoming the heartless killing machine he had tried to mold her into. One of these days, she would follow through on her dream of going to college. She gave that idea a little more thought and nodded. After the New Orleans job, she’d check out Loyola and Tulane. She had enough money in the bank to create a new identity for herself and her brother, then do whatever she wanted. Why not? Smiling to herself, she headed for the bathroom. Mr. Jones was going to shit himself when she didn’t return to DC.
Ten minutes later, dressed in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, she settled on the bed. She had at least fifteen minutes before her dinner arrived. That should be plenty of time to read the file she’d received via FedEx that morning. She glanced at the tab, Marcus Le Beau. Huh. A French dude.
Cassidy flipped the file open and froze. The eyes of an incredibly attractive man stared back at her. Her heart quickened and breath caught. Then to her disgust, her lady parts dampened. What the… she was not attracted to a criminal. No way. She was Cassidy Ryan, a killer of criminals. She would not be that stupid. She tossed the still open file aside and paced across the room. Marcus Le Beau’s eyes followed her everywhere she went. It was a bit disturbing. She told herself it was only a picture but couldn’t shake the feeling he was watching her and saw all the way to her tattered soul.
“That’s ridiculous. It’s just one of those tricks that some pictures and paintings play,” she said aloud to calm her nerves.
Jones was a jerk. He relished making her job as difficult as possible. The man was one hundred percent passive aggressive. She refused to conform to what he wanted, and this was her punishment.
He knew her type and also knew it wouldn’t be easy for her to kill a man she was attracted to. Well, she’d show him. Marcus Le Beau was nothing but a mark. She refused to imagine him naked in her bed. She glanced at the bed and bit her lip. Crap. That didn’t work. Fine, she’d show Jones who was in charge when she texted him her retirement notification. She crossed her arms and nodded. That was exactly what she’d do. A knock on the door snapped her out of her reverie.
“Room Service!” a man’s voice called through the door.
“Coming!” she yelled back. She left the security bar in place as she opened the door a crack. After a quick check to verify it was in fact room service, she flipped the bar free and opened the way for him. While he put her dinner on the little round dining table, she grabbed her purse for a tip.
He turned and ran his eyes up and down her body. “May I be of further service, Miss Ryan?”
Her fingers immediately released the ten she was about to pull out and instead grabbed a one-dollar bill. “Yes. You can refrain from fucking me with your eyes,” she hissed as she thrust the tip into his hand.
His eyes widened as if surprised at being called out on his deplorable behavior. “My apologies, Miss Ryan.”
Without another word, Cassidy opened her door and waited for him to leave before locking it again. She didn’t bother accepting his lame words when she knew he would do the same thing to the next single woman he delivered to. Some men were dogs that were unable to learn new tricks.
The tantalizing aroma of steak and baked potato drew her away from the doorway. She nabbed her computer from the bedside table as she passed. Multitasking was her thing. She could eat and work at the same time. She fired up her laptop to map out a route from DC to the Big Easy.
&n
bsp; Travel complications were an annoying aspect of her field. The TSA frowned on sniper rifles in the cabin of the plane, and there was no way she would check Black Betty. First of all, the jostling by the luggage handlers and traveling in the belly of the plane would knock her sights out of alignment. Secondly, luggage handlers had sticky fingers. Thus, she drove to her jobs with Black Betty tucked safely in her trunk.
Crap. The French Quarter was roughly a sixteen-hour drive. Nope. No way. She refused to drive more than nine hours in a single day. Eight hours would do. Which city was halfway? Chattanooga, Tennessee. That would work. Eight hours would land her there by tomorrow afternoon.
* * * * *
Cassidy sat bolt upright in bed with her gun in hand. She always slept with her weapon within reach, usually tucked under her pillow. Tracking the room, she searched for an intruder. Then she heard it. The rumble from an eighteen-wheeler fading as it pulled out of the hotel parking lot. Damn truckers and their early starts.
Sliding the safety back into place, she flopped back on the bed. She hated sleeping in unfamiliar places. Every sound disturbed her sleep and left her with an overabundance of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Sighing, she threw the covers back and made for the shower. There would be no more sleeping tonight.
She scooped her phone from the bedside table as she went. Knowing Jones would text incessantly for updates, she’d silenced it before going to sleep. The man was the most impatient person on the planet.
Yawning, she checked her messages. As expected, Jones had sent five texts in less than six hours. Rolling her eyes, she read through them.
J: I need an update…
Yeah, yeah. Whatever.
J: I mean it. Give me an update…
Sheesh. What’s wrong with him? He knows I’m still traveling.
J: I need a response. NOW.
Cassidy snorted.
J: If I don’t hear from you, I’ll send one of the boys to do the job…
Really? As if any of the guys had the balls to undermine me that way.
J: you have fifteen minutes to give me an update, or else…
She made a very unladylike noise and tossed the phone to the bed. Or else what?
Scowling, she snatched the phone back to delete the messages. With each text, his demand for information was progressively more aggressive. Jones was acting weirder than usual. Something was very off about this job.
She started the shower and sent a sharp response to Jones as she waited for the hot water to reach her unit.
C: I was sleeping, you idiot. Keep your panties on. I’m not even in New Orleans yet.
With the stab of her finger, she turned her phone off and stripped. If Jones didn’t back off, she’d kick his ass.
* * * * *
When Cassidy was on a long-term assignment, she always rented a cheap apartment. The people who lived in low-income neighborhoods tended to avoid the police and were unlikely to rat her out if law enforcement or anyone else came sniffing around.
After two days on the road, she needed a good night’s sleep. Dropping her bag at the door, she took a look around at what would be her home for the foreseeable future. She sighed and grabbed her bag. She couldn’t leave them there, everything she owned would be gone by the time she got back. It didn’t look like she’d get that badly needed rest unless she took precautions. Nothing to do about it but head for the nearest hardware store.
The tiny, rent by the week apartment was in an area called Treme’. She’d chosen it for its convenient location. The apartment met both of her criteria, it was relatively close to the Le Beau Corporation, and it was in her preferred kind of neighborhood. But like most low-income housing, the unit lacked security of any kind.
Armed with a hammer, and screwdriver she got to work. She had a shiny new deadbolt, a door and window alarm system that linked to her smartphone, and an interior guard bar to install before she could sleep tonight. This wasn’t her first rodeo. She’d secured more shit hole apartments than she could count.
Two hours later, she wiped the back of her hand across her forehead and surveyed her domain. Cassidy snorted. Domain? That word was too glamorous for the dump she now called home.
Even with her safety precautions, Cassidy slept fitfully. A gang of bangers had eyed her up when she went out for groceries. They’d followed her back to the apartment building, and a few were hanging around outside smoking cigarettes. It was only a matter of time before one of the morons grew a set of balls and made his move on her.
She almost welcomed the impending attempt. Teaching a banger some manners would go a long way in letting off steam after dealing with Jones. He’d called about an hour earlier, demanding an update. She’d lost her temper and told him she’d contact him when she had something to say, and he had better not bother her again. Jones had sputtered and disconnected the call. So here she lay, frustrated, and waiting for one of the idiots to attempt a break-in.
Three
Cassidy blindly slapped the top of her nightstand until she hit the alarm clock. Blessed silence. The dang thing was as annoying as a mosquito buzzing around her head—loudly. Which was why she’d purchased it in the first place. At the time it seemed like a good idea. Now, not so much. A morning person, she was not, which was why she preferred night work and also explained the alarm clock. Sadly, this job required her to impersonate a daytime security guard.
A nine a.m. start time required an eight a.m. wakeup call. Throwing the covers back, she glared at the clock. “The instant this job is done, into the trash you go.”
Still cursing the alarm, she took a quick shower and blew her blonde hair out. Next, she put in brown nonprescription contacts and applied the natural-looking makeup sans mascara that her assassin persona preferred.
With a small scowl of distaste, she wiggled her wig onto her head. She couldn’t wait to throw the thing into the trash. It could keep the alarm clock company in the landfill. After a few strokes with the brush, she twisted it into a tight bun at the back of her head. The severe style leant to her persona of a don’t mess with me, woman. For added measure, she secured the twist with lethal hair sticks she’d customized herself. A woman could never be too prepared.
By day she was a nondescript brunette with brown eyes, in clothing a size too large for her curvy frame. She liked to refer to her oversized clothing as her armor. Not only did it hide her figure, it also allowed for concealed weapons.
By night she ditched the wig and contacts for her sun-kissed blond locks and blue eyes. Years ago, she chose the dark wig and contacts for their camouflage factor. With a shade of very pale foundation makeup and librarian glasses, she was so plain no one gave her a second glance. The complete look was perfect for her profession. When she made the hit, no one would have given her a close enough look to describe her if they remembered her at all.
Cassidy excelled as an assassin, and her disguise was a necessary part of that. Regardless of how good she was, this was her last job. Although Jones didn’t know that yet. She ran her finger over the Tulane brochure wishing she was preparing for class instead of a hit. She’d read through the information last night before hitting the sack and decided once and for all that she was hanging up her sniper rifle for a Tulane sweatshirt.
She had plenty of money in the bank to support herself and her brother, Colin, while she got a degree and went legit. Heck, she had enough in her account to put Colin through college too.
Glancing at the clock, she made for the Keurig machine. Before she started a job, she always purchased a new coffee maker and a set of bath towels, two things she refused to skimp on. Sipping the hot brew, she reviewed Marcus Le Beau’s file.
Frowning, she picked up the photo and examined it once again. The contents of the file didn’t add up for her. She had a sixth sense where criminals were concerned, and Marcus wasn’t setting off any alarm bells. Her eyes narrowed, and she glared at the man looking back at her. Why did he disturb her calm? She had diligently worked to achieve an une
motional separation from the contracts she accepted. For some reason, she was unable to distance herself from this man. Why?
Cassidy wanted this final contract to be a simple, over and done, job. Her life would be so much easier if Marcus Le Beau was clearly on one side or the other. Good or evil, either way, she could get this over with and start her new life. The file painted him as the devil, but her sixth sense denied that conclusion. Dammit.
Sighing, she lifted her cup, sipping while searching the picture for answers. If she were honest, his being a cold-blooded killer wasn’t the conclusion she hoped for. There was something about Marcus Le Beau that nagged at the back of her mind and made her heartache. She didn’t like the sensation one bit.
Flipping pages back to the front of the file, she noted the Le Beau Corporation address. The historic Hibernia Bank Building, 812 Gravier Street in the Central Business District. With a quick glance at the clock, she drained her coffee cup, got to her feet, and weaponed up. Her favorite knife went into the sheath sewn inside her pocket. Bending, she strapped her palm-sized handgun to her ankle. Lastly, she put a monogrammed locket around her neck. Inside there was a lethal dose of poison. She rarely used any of the up-close and personal options but always kept them handy. No, she preferred a long-distance shot with Black Betty.
* * * * *
Marcus Le Beau pulled up in front of the Le Beau corporation headquarters and sat for a moment, scanning the street and sidewalks. Systematically, his gray-blue eyes quartered the area. His natural protective instincts made him a good security chief. His cautious streak made him a great one. After the attempted assassination that landed him in the hospital, that streak was now a mile long.