Old Wounds (Chance Assassin Book 4)

by Nicole Castle

  “I was. I took the wrong train.”

  “Why?” Vincent knew Frank wouldn't have the same directional discrepancy that had caused Sebastian's untimely demise, but his eyes were filled with unwavering trust.

  If Frank had been headed to Simon's flat in Kensington, he wouldn't have got off at Knightsbridge. “I think I was going to Alan's flat.”

  “For what? To try and find that other assassin?”

  Frank hesitated to verbalize the truth, but Vincent was there with him now. He would follow him wherever their paths took them, past insanity and straight to death. “I'm not sure.”

  Vincent reached for him, a gesture of solidarity as if Frank's unconscious journey across London was as much a part of their plan as Vincent taking out Sebastian with the wrong direction. Or Frank pureeing Yuri. “We know there's another one out there. That's the next logical place to try.”

  Only Frank wasn't sure of that either. Logic had been elusive recently, and had undoubtedly played little to no part in the decision to head there on his own. He took Vincent's hand and curled up behind him in bed. Holding Vincent in his arms, he could almost forget where they were. Forget that he was losing his mind. “Maybe we'll have better luck in Paris. Repeat Miranda's shopping trip.” He paused, finding himself in higher spirits already. “You're familiar with the traffic pattern at least.”

  That earned him a magnificent glare. “It's not my fault.”

  “It's absolutely your fault.” Frank nuzzled Vincent's neck, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone to show him the photo he'd taken of Sebastian's final moments.

  Vincent laughed and smacked him. “You can fuck right off.”

  “Even given the direction of traffic, shouldn't you be looking both ways before crossing the street?”

  “I'm a child of neglect,” he stated. One really couldn't argue with that.

  “What did Joe have to say about this?”

  “I don't know. I'm ignoring his calls. He'll probably be on his way here by now.” He brought Frank's hand to his lips. “You didn't attack the driver for almost hitting me, that's progress.” Before Frank could feel even remotely reassured, Vincent continued, “Or just my amazing superassassin skills. I totally nailed the landing.”

  Frank brought his hand back to Vincent's mouth, and covered it. “A moment of silence for the man tragically killed on Bond Street this afternoon when an American, neglected as he may be, carelessly stepped into oncoming traffic.” He pulled his hand away before V could bite him. “But you did nail the landing.”

  “It was my fault,” Vincent admitted, albeit in a tone more proud than humble. And he was only getting prouder. “You could almost say it was deliberate. Like I was fucking up to make you feel better. You're welcome.”

  Frank laughed harder than he'd ever laughed on English soil. “You're so good to me.”

  Vincent merely smiled, basking in the glow of Frank's appreciation even though he hadn't been entirely facetious. “I really am.” Sitting up and taking Frank's phone, Vincent admired himself and his handiwork. “And so good looking.” The phone rang and Vincent immediately passed it back. “It's Joe.”

  “Pink team speaking,” Frank answered, giving Vincent a disparaging look.

  Joe got straight to it, having already established that Vincent was ducking his calls. “Sebastian's cellphone was unfortunately as smashed as he was, but Miranda was able to use her step-aside-I'm-a-doctor skills to get close enough to steal his wallet and the Tesco bag.”

  Raising his eyebrows with an unexpected feeling of hope, Frank asked, “Oh?” He put the phone on speaker. “We're listening.”

  “First, I have a joke for you.”

  “Why did the assassin cross the road,” V said flatly.

  “That's the one!” Joe chirped.

  “Ha. Ha.” Vincent rolled his eyes. It wasn't actually a joke, at least not one Frank understood.

  Joe said, “We went to his hotel.”

  “Did you find something?” Vincent eagerly bounced on the bed, seeing an out for his “almost deliberate” fuck up.

  “Yeah, we did.” Joe let Vincent's excitement crescendo before adding, “Just nothing useful. What the hell were you—”

  Vincent took the liberty of hanging up on him. “Shut up,” he told Frank.

  Frank did not shut up. “Comparatively, we got a great deal of information from Yuri.” Vincent tried to cover Frank's mouth but ended up pinned beneath him instead. “And don't forget, this will actually be on the news, whereas Yuri simply disappeared. Anyone who sees it will know for certain—”

  “Not to fuck with us.”

  “That we're onto them.”

  “Shit.” Vincent's face fell. “I hadn't thought of that. I really did fuck up, huh?”

  “Good and proper.” Frank smiled. “But yours was an accident.”

  “And yours was temporary insanity. So it wasn't truly either of our faults.”

  “Not entirely temporary,” he said glumly.

  “Not entirely insane, either,” Vincent said, as if he were defending Frank's mental state from Frank himself. “You didn't hurt me. And we know I'm more important than anything.”

  “That you are, baby.” He kissed him and let him go. Vincent made no attempt at getting up and Frank leaned back on his elbow to regard his husband, an entire world of beauty encapsulated in one awe-inspiring and awful human being. He stroked Vincent's hair, still perfect even after his death-defying leap and flawless landing, and Frank felt a great pain in his heart realizing that it wasn't progress that had prevented him from attacking the driver. He wasn't getting better. Vincent was. V was constantly improving whereas Frank was on a steady decline. “Perhaps Joe was right to keep me out of this.”

  Heaving a sigh, Vincent gave him a reproachful look. “I know this country is all fire and brimstone for you, but let's be realistic, huh?” He pushed Frank onto his back and straddled him again, which may not have converted Frank into a realist but certainly helped the shift away from pessimism. “Yes, you've lost your shit a few times, but it's not like those times were completely unwarranted.”

  “I've come close to losing my shit on times that were mostly unwarranted.”

  “Close only counts in hand grenades and...” Vincent waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever the other one was.” Frank cocked his head. “Rocket launchers. Anyway, when you do your killy face—”

  “Stop calling it that.”

  “When you do your not-killy face, you're sorta animalistic, right?”

  “Sorta.”

  “Well maybe there was a reason you were going to Alan's. Maybe it's instinct on a deeper level than you're used to. And maybe we should pay attention to it.”

  “You think we should go to Alan's flat because while I was not entirely in control of my faculties, I might've been heading there?”

  “Where else would you have been going? To visit Grace Alcott?”

  Frank had forgot all about Vincent mentioning that he'd seen her there. He was more unnerved at the prospect of visiting her than visiting Alan's place. There was only one feasible reason he'd go after the daughter. To get at her parents. “To visit any Alcott.”

  Vincent appeared thoughtful for a moment, his eyes stormy as he considered the ramifications of Frank defecting and assassinating them on his own. Whether he got himself killed or got himself in the papers again, the number one suspect of their unquestionably violent murders. With an irritated sneer, he said, “Being crazy is one thing, but this is my hit, Frank Sullivan-Moreaux and you'd better not steal it.” Then he smiled. “Shall we go before Sebastian makes the evening news?”

  Frank shrugged and nodded. “Considering how the rest of this job has gone, what's the worst that could happen?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The worst that could happen was absolutely nothing. No Alcotts. No assassins. The fish and chip shop I'd enjoyed before was closed. That part was actually the worst, although Frank didn't seem to believe that the
unexpected closure due to a “family emergency” was part of Simon's dastardly plan to exterminate us. Joe and Miranda were keeping watch on Sebastian's hotel and Frank and I were bored out in Belgravia.

  “Didn't you meet Alan breaking into his flat?” I asked between mouthfuls of not as good fish and chips.

  Frank sat on the other side of the bench with a cigarette, offended by my consumption of sea creatures. “Yes.”

  “Wanna get to know Grace Alcott?”

  He turned to look at me like I was the one slowly losing my mind. But through the madness, a smile emerged. “I thought you'd never ask.”

  G. Alcott, as the name on the buzzer called her, lived on the second floor. There was a concierge in the lobby and CCTV on the street, which gave the wealthy tenants a false sense of security and made it that much easier to break in through the unguarded bathroom window.

  “This is way nicer than the last apartment we broke into,” I said, admiring the bathtub while Frank struggled his way through a window that was barely big enough for me. Miranda's place hadn't even had a bathtub. “I can't wait to see her TV.”

  Frank elegantly lowered himself down, where I'd more or less landed with a plop. We made our way into the main room of the apartment. Her TV was pitiful even by European standards but she had a fair amount of books and miscellaneous glass objets d'art on the shelves. It was the books Frank was most interested in, obviously, and I was about to leave him to visit the kitchen when called out, “V.”

  One letter, and somehow he conveyed enough gravity to raise the hair on the back of my neck.

  I returned to his side and followed his gaze to a framed photograph. Grace Alcott and a bunch of people in matching volunteer T-shirts at what looked like a park, with some clearly underprivileged children. And Henry Mortimer.

  His T-shirt struggled to contain his massive form. He was smiling, just a regular smile in place of the I'm-gonna-fuck-up-your-entire-existence grin I remembered. Somehow that was even more unsettling and I was leaning into Frank's embrace before I'd even realized he'd put his arm around my shoulders.

  “There's the man of ill repute,” I said. “Shit.”

  Grace by name and by nature, the blueblood with the heart of gold, C-level executive of a nonprofit organization benefiting disadvantaged youths, and an Alcott to boot, she must've been Henry's unicorn. He could be just like his father and use her for his own gain, all the while getting his revenge on Frank. Grace was at least a good ten years younger than Frank, too young at the time of Frank's infamy to be aware of the effect his wealth would have on hers. A perfect target if ever there was one, eager to help the man from the wrong side of the tracks find his long lost brother.

  “Do you suppose she ever found out what became of him?” I asked.

  “His body was never identified and the story didn't make it past the local papers.” Frank lifted up the frame and carefully took off the back. Just a photograph, the date written on it, names of those shown. He'd given her his real name. Frank returned the picture to the shelf. “Let's see if she has any more in the bedroom.”

  Frank let me be the one to look under her bed, since the last time we'd broken into a woman's apartment he'd found Miranda's sex toy extravaganza. Nothing there. We rifled through the nightstand, then her dresser. Still nothing, except for tasteful lingerie which was frightening enough even without Henry's picture. Frank stood in front of the large vanity table, which I was currently sitting in front of. I couldn't help it. Rich women had the best mirrors.

  “We're such a cute couple,” I said.

  “Move your ass.”

  “Where would you like me to move it to?” I asked, looking at him and batting my eyelashes. Frank pulled me up by my arm, then lifted the cushion to reveal a small drawer. And an envelope. I knew the contents without even having to open it, and I threw up in my mouth a little thinking about sitting on Henry's face.

  Frank leafed through them while I mentally bleached my brain. And the rest of me.

  He put the pictures back and lowered the cushion, then smelled her perfume and nodded his approval. “I'm feeling romantic.”

  I gave myself a good deal of credit for not jumping his bones right then and there since that was a bit freaky even for us, but all credit was revoked when Frank clarified that he absolutely, positively was not suggesting we fuck in Grace Alcott's apartment.

  “I meant send her flowers,” he said. “From Henry. Let's see just how attached she was to him.”

  “Ooh, I like it.” I kissed him for his cleverness, and for his petty act of revenge on her over getting Henry his file, then I froze with my lips pressed against his as I heard the front door.

  We weren't the only ones interested in fucking in Grace's apartment.

  I ran to the window and looked out, but unlike the path to the bathroom it was a sheer drop. “Closet.”

  We squeezed in amongst a wardrobe that was mostly neutral colors and all conservative, not a single hemline anywhere close to indecent. I prayed that meant it would be swift, the lie back and think of England kind of sex that made little noise and didn't scar me worse than Henry had. I clung to Frank and closed my eyes tight as they came into the bedroom, quiet murmurs, the swish of clothing being removed. Frank heroically covered my ears to limit my trauma, and we stood there, stuck in the closet from hell while Grace and her replacement-Henry performed Satanic heterosexual mating rituals.

  I was on the verge of collapse when he finally let go of my head and then I collapsed anyway for dramatic effect. Frank was kind enough to catch me. “What did I ever do to deserve this?” I whined.

  “We're not exactly saints, Vincent.”

  “Well Ms. Goody two-shoes isn't exactly Mother Theresa either. She could've at least given him a handjob out in the hallway so he wouldn't take so long to finish. Did they say where they were going?”

  “Dinner.”

  “After ruining my appetite no less.”

  “There is nothing in this world that could ruin your appetite.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I may never eat again.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Clotted cream?”

  “Oh my god, yes!” I'd been so busy screwing the English accent out of Frank and accidentally smashing Sebastian that I'd forgotten all about getting more clotted cream.

  Clotted cream was our primary mission that evening, but we also stopped at a florist to steal the uniform of one of their delivery boys and three dozen red roses. I would've preferred to send her oleanders or some lovely and poisonous calla lilies but Frank liked roses and two of those dozens were for him.

  We wrote up a lovely message, Miss you XOXO Henry, for me to hand deliver to Grace's house of horrors the following morning. I waited until she was on her way out, then rushed to the lobby and set them on the concierge's desk, loudly announcing her name and apartment number.

  “Oh, Ms. Alcott!” the concierge called out and waved, though I imagined she'd already turned around.

  I picked them up again and turned around to place them in her arms. “Ma'am.”

  She regarded the flowers with a perplexed expression as she took them, her cheeks reddening. “Thank you.” She read the card; her face went white and she inhaled like I'd just sucker-punched her in the stomach. Then it turned back red and she forced a pained smile.

  “Have a good day,” I said, rushing past her before she could collect herself. I pulled off the cap as I quickly made my way down the street and into a crowd. Frank met me and slipped his coat over my shoulders as we walked, disguising the blue uniform in case she came after me.

  “What did she do?”

  “Accepted them modestly. Blushed. Read the card and went pale. She was shocked.”

  “Still loves him?”

  “Enough to be pissed at him. That was a woman scorned right there.”

  “Good. I guess this trip wasn't a total waste,” he said, right as it started to rain. “We got to torture someone after all.”

  I smiled, a
bout to cross the street when Frank caught me by the hair and pointed my head towards the ground where “Look Right” was painted on the curb. “I was gonna.”

  “Sure you were.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just think of how impressive it would be if I took out the other assassin without even knowing he was there!”

  “That would actually be really impressive,” he conceded.

  “So we should stay in London?”

  Frank grabbed my shoulder at the next curb, but instead of tilting my head down he just held me at arm's length. Then a bus sped past and sent gutter water halfway up my legs. “Look left.”

  “That's a no, then?”

  “That's a no.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Back in France and back on the contingency plan of wait and see, Frank stood on the porch with a cigarette. He could see Joe through the kitchen window, sitting at the table, on the phone with Miko's Claudius. Earning trust for the express purpose of breaking it. Joe unintentionally met his eyes and then immediately looked away.

  It had taken Frank a long time to trust Joe. It had taken Vincent's influence more than that. And now Joe was acting as the traitor again, bothered enough by it to avoid eye contact.

  Frank stubbed out his cigarette on the post that was now full of claw marks from Miko's hellacious cat. It hadn't continued its reign of terror at their home for long before Sophie took it away with her, but it was long enough that Hugo was still tiptoeing around the library. Frank didn't miss the cat, but he found that he did somewhat miss Miko. It was nice not being the craziest one in the room for a change.

  He went inside and got a cup of coffee while Joe was finishing the phone call. Frank kept his back to him as he stirred in the sugar, until Joe tersely asked, “Is this the usual morning silence, or am I getting special treatment?”

  Frank turned to face him and leaned against the counter, saying nothing.

  Joe continued, “This looming around business of yours isn't accomplishing anything. If you want to question my loyalty to you and Vincent—”