Old Wounds (Chance Assassin Book 4)

by Nicole Castle

  He spat blood on the floor. “Then who are they?”

  “Clients,” I sighed. Clients we would soon be free to murder. “What did you call yourselves?” Connie looked at me questioningly, but didn't respond. “You know, your team. Your side of Assassin War.”

  “We didn't do this. We didn't call ourselves anything.”

  “You know what I'm gonna call you?”

  “Connie?”

  I retrieved my knife. “I don't like your attitude. Let's try again. You know what I'm gonna call you?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut in exasperation like I'd been chanting “Are we there yet?” for the last hour. “What are you going to call us?”

  “Losers,” I said and shot him in the face. Then I bowed for Nasir.

  “You really do watch too many movies.”

  “Mostly TV to be honest,” I admitted. “Can I call you Vanna?”

  “I'd rather you didn't,” he said dryly. But he didn't say no.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  With the losers disbanded or deceased, it seemed we were finally free to get on with our lives and end the lives of the Alcotts. But Vanna had one more letter to turn that threatened to fuck up the entire puzzle. He answered Simon's ringing cellphone, not saying anything, just sitting there listening. We could've let it ring, but it had been silent for weeks and in light of our recent successes there was bound to be a setback.

  Finally he spoke, his voice sharp, unyielding. “He is unavailable. I'm his associate. Who is this?” Nasir's expression didn't change as he said, “Simon is unavailable.” Whoever was on the phone was clearly just as unyielding, but for some reason Nasir decided they were worth humoring. “One moment.” He put the phone on mute, turning to face Frank with a growing smile on his face. “Can you do snooty? You'll need to be Simon long enough to get her to speak with me instead.”

  “Her?” Frank asked.

  Nasir smiled wider, all fucking pleased with himself. “If I'm not mistaken, you're about to speak with Helena Alcott.”

  Frank wasn't about to speak with anyone. I was too shocked to speak myself, but Nasir handed him the phone and Frank cleared his throat, assuming a pompous accent in his best Simon impression. “Yes?” he asked in annoyance. “No, I have a bloody cold. This had better be good.” Whether it was good or not, hearing Frank play Simon was disconcertingly hot. “I beg your pardon?” he scoffed. Nasir gestured that he was spot on. “I don't have time for this. Talk to my associate. I'm going back to bed.” He held the phone out to Nasir, mouthing, “She wants to cancel the hit,” while simultaneously cupping his other hand around my mouth to keep me from playing associate.

  “What's the problem, ma'am?” Nasir asked. “I understand,” he said, his tone softening. “We can certainly cancel, however, all deposits are forfeit.” We most certainly could not cancel, but I suppose she didn't need to know that. “Because this isn't Harrods, ma'am, you cannot just return what you no longer want.”

  Brav-fucking-o, Vanna. Bravo.

  “If you'd like to discuss the matter further I would be happy to meet with you. In person.” The “in person” was politely threatening and I had a strong feeling that she'd just tried to bring up her dissatisfaction with the last job. “No, ma'am, I thought not. That matter is settled, as you well know. If you have any future needs that we could assist with, you have Simon's number. Good day.” I was about to applaud when Nasir said, “Your hit has been canceled because her daughter called off the wedding.”

  “Did she say why?” Frank asked innocently, his hand over my mouth the only thing preventing me from expressing any number of it's-my-fault expletives. Because she was still in love with Henry and we sent her flowers went without saying.

  But the widening and quick aversion of my eyes wasn't lost on Joe. “Why don't you tell us?”

  Frank wisely did not remove his hand. I shrugged.

  Joe made his unhappy handler face. “What. Did. You. Do?”

  I mumbled “cold feet” around Frank's fingers. He let me go, since I was obviously going to start talking anyway. “It's not like we're really doing the hit hit anyway. What's the big deal?”

  “The big deal, Vincent, is that now the client has been spooked and she'll want to get the hell out of Dodge for a little while.”

  Frank and Nasir exchanged a “where's Dodge?” look. I said, “Figure of speech. They'll leave town.”

  But the big deal, Vincent, was actually: “You've likely just added weeks to this job to put her back at ease,” Joe clarified.

  “Shit. Why'd you have to be so mean to her, Vanna?”

  “Because I don't like when you call me that,” Nasir said without pause.

  “Touché.”

  Joe said, “Being amenable would've spooked her more. The Harrods bit was a nice touch, by the way.”

  Nasir thanked him, then proved his aptitude for game show hosting by revealing a mystery prize. “This could work to our benefit. Her daughter has just embarrassed her and she's lost fifty thousand pounds that she cannot recoup from an insurance payout. She's frightened. She'll want to go somewhere isolated. Quickly. What could be cheaper or quicker than staying at the summer home of a friend?”

  A friend like the one who invited Helena Alcott out to tea with Alan.

  Joe rubbed his face in the you're-hurting-me way that usually stemmed from something I did wrong. Then he said something quietly to Nasir and left the room, shaking his head.

  “If I stop calling you Vanna will you tell us what he said?” I tried.

  After looking to Frank for confirmation that he'd make me keep my word, Nasir said, “Apparently I wasn't supposed to give it a positive spin until you felt bad for what you'd done. What have you done?”

  “Sent her flowers from Henry. What about Pat Sajak. Can I call you that?”

  “No,” he said, having learned from his previous mistake of ambiguity.

  “You're more of a Trebek anyway.”

  Nasir ignored me and headed after Joe.

  I climbed onto Frank's lap. “This was all part of the plan.”

  “Just like hitting Sebastian with that car.”

  “And liquifying Yuri.”

  “And Alan being helpful. Again.”

  “Shut up.” I craned my neck back for him to kiss me, getting all cozy and settled in until I heard Joe from the next room, shouting, “They what?”

  Frank raised his eyebrows but leaned in regardless, waiting just long enough to kiss me to ask, “Should we send him flowers?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Having arrived early for their meeting with Alan, Frank brought Vincent to the first floor to view Delacroix's “Liberty Leading the People.” V was less than impressed, but apparently Michel hadn't seen enough of her. Vincent grabbed hold of Frank's elbow as if there were any possibility of stopping him if the rampage began, but Michel just turned back to the painting, his hands at his sides.

  Frank approached, Vincent flanking him. He had a feeling they would've run into one or both of them whether they'd taken this precaution once more or considered the matter settled and met Alan at home. Vincent began scanning the room for Serge while Frank kept his focus on the enemy they could see.

  Without turning around, Michel said in much better English than Serge, “Silva had one of these. A Delacroix.”

  “Oui,” Frank said, unable to help himself. He could see Michel's smile raise his cheekbones in profile, but Frank kept his distance, not close enough to see his entire face.

  “They looted the house when he died. Were you there?”

  Vincent's grip tightened on Frank's elbow. There was no way Michel could know the truth about Silva's death. Especially if he hadn't been there. “Oui,” Frank said again.

  Steepling his hands in front of himself, and further from his pockets, Michel finally turned his full attention to them. “Do you know who took it?”

  “No,” Frank said honestly. “Joe might. I can ask.”

  Michel smiled again. He had a wily l
ook about him, eyes like a fox. “Did it go well? Your...reconnaissance.”

  There wasn't time to cover Vincent's mouth before he chimed in, “Oui, reconnaissance.”

  “Yes,” Frank said. Michel was clearly speaking English for Vincent's benefit, there could be no other reason. But he barely looked V's way. He was keeping their meeting neutral. Keeping his hands where Frank could see them, and his eyes off Vincent.

  “I only ask to make conversation, you understand. I know it went well. For you at least. Not for them.”

  “Paid them a visit, did you?”

  “Oui,” he said proudly. “Simon too, when Sebastian called to tell us.”

  They were vultures. That's what they were. Picking over the bones to forage what was left. “Find anything?”

  “Not really. At Simon's we did.” He smirked like he was fully aware of how irritating he being.

  “And what's that?”

  “The money. For you, I am guessing.” They'd contacted Joe well after Simon's death. They would've had the money in hand before declaring a truce. Before backing off.

  “Didn't think to mention that?”

  “Is it important?”

  When Frank was paid for a job he'd ensure it was completed, but these two obviously didn't have the same work ethic. Or any work ethic at all. “You tell me.”

  Briefly looking back to the painting and placing himself in a position of vulnerability, he shrugged and thoughtfully said, “She is beautiful.”

  Frank nodded as Michel shifted his gaze back.

  “Serge, he likes Delacroix. This one the most, but the other would do.”

  Vincent groaned, “Get on with it, we have a meeting.” He didn't care about the meeting, Frank could hear his stomach growling and they were meeting Alan at the cafe. “S'il vous plaît.”

  “You could find out for me, who took it from Silva?” He paused, the slyness returning to his face. “Does your friend paint, as well as draw?”

  Opening his mouth to speak, Frank sighed instead. “You want a forgery?”

  “I want a Delacroix. For Serge. I can pay.” With a wink, he added, “For you.”

  Vincent was less impressed with Michel than he'd been with the painting. “You realize how close you're coming to decorating Lady Liberte?”

  Michel looked questioningly at Frank, as if he couldn't comprehend why anyone would possibly want to harm him. “Oui,” Frank said.

  Michel blinked, then carried on. “It would be a surprise for him. His birthday.”

  “You're the top, am I right?” Vincent asked.

  “Top?” he asked.

  Frank cleared his throat before Vincent could continue. “You could've called Joe. Avoided any...”

  “Misunderstandings,” V added.

  Cocking his head, Michel said, “You two are tense, no?” Then he laughed. “I thought now that you no longer have your tail you could meet monsieur Barker at home. No need to come to the museum.”

  Frank realized that the misunderstanding was on their part. Michel wasn't here to meet them at all. He was at the museum today because it was the first Sunday of the month. The lines may have been long, but entrance was free. Vincent tugged at his elbow and Frank looked up to see Serge, sans the beard he wore at the airport, holding two coffees, a rushed, panicked expression on his face. He must've seen Alan at the cafe. Which was precisely where they should've been. “I'll see what I can find out about your painting.”

  “Merci.”

  Frank nodded to Serge as they passed. Vincent blew him a kiss.

  When they got to the cafe, Alan looked even more panicked than Serge. “I just saw someone from your pictures!” he said in a dither.

  “We know,” Vincent grumbled, as if Alan's distress was completely unfounded while he was still gripping Frank's arm. He finally released him in the safety of the cafe, so he would have two hands free to snatch the untouched petite scones off Alan's plate. “He's on our side.”

  “Oh.” Alan fanned himself. “Well. He was cute.”

  “His boyfriend is at the liberty painting. I'm sure you could catch them if you hurried.”

  Frank stepped into Alan's path to keep him from hurrying. “That is not advisable, Alan.”

  “And we're here for a reason,” V added as if they had been waiting for Alan to show up and not the other way around.

  “Right.” Sitting back down, Alan glanced at his empty plate with a look of resignation and pulled an envelope out of his coat, pointedly handing it to Frank and not to Vincent. “I think that's all you'll need.”

  Peering inside, Frank noted that it was more than they'd need. A floor plan. A key. “Camilla gave you all of this? What did you tell her?”

  “Well, darling, Camilla's summer home is currently being renovated and therefore having guests is absolutely out of the question. But...” he gave a dramatic pause, “it just so happens that I have a property that would be perfect for her needs. And yours.”

  “This is your place?” Frank asked, looking back inside the envelope.

  “One of them. It's isolated. They'll arrive on Wednesday. Cleaning staff will be in to find the bod—check on them next week. I trust you won't make a mess.”

  “Nothing that can't be cleaned up,” Frank reassured him, neglecting to mention that razing the place to the ground had always been his version of tidying. “You have outdone yourself.”

  “I do ask one thing in return,” Alan said. Vincent ceased chewing but he had defiance in his eyes over giving up what he would consider rightfully stolen. “Grace called off her wedding. No one is saying why. It'll be our little secret but I simply must know.”

  “She received flowers from the man of ill repute,” Frank said. Vincent's chewing recommenced.

  “That is naughty,” Alan simpered. “I love it. Now, which painting did you say?”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I would've considered our version of isolated and Alan's version to have the difference of at least a small village, but here it was, the idyllic English summer home, bordered by trees, a long winding road leading back to civilization and no one around for miles. Or kilometers, really. I could've almost gotten away with using my rocket launcher, but it was neither clean nor accidental. Plus it was still at home on our wine rack.

  “How picturesque,” I said, tracing my finger over a rose's thorn in the garden. There were roses everywhere. It would please Alan to know that it may cause additional turmoil to the Alcotts, seeing the very thing that spurred our runaway bride every time they looked out a window. If they even knew. Grace herself had not be invited on their impromptu holiday, and would be stuck at home watching those roses die. Just like their love. And Henry. Although with considerably less bullets.

  Entering the house, two things became abundantly clear. One: Alan and his family had way too much money; and two: it was unwise to mess with the man Alan loved. The fact that he'd given us total access for our killing ease was one thing, but front and center, the very first thing to see when you opened the door, was a gigantic gift basket to welcome them, filled with delectable treats. From France.

  “What a bitch,” I said with as much admiration as Alan could ever expect to receive from me. “Unless he meant it for us...”

  Frank didn't even humor me, he just held me by the waist and steered me around temptation. And around the rest of the house. Of course, with him standing behind me in the site of the final epic battle of Assassin War, I couldn't help but be tempted by a different French delectable.

  “I'm feeling romantic,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at him. “It'll be clean. I promise not to spill a single drop. Well, spit a single drop.”

  Wasting no time, Frank put his hand on the back of my neck and pressed me down to my knees. “There is something seriously wrong with me.”

  “Us, babe.” I gazed up at him as I slid my tongue along his length and took him into my mouth, gripping his hips with both hands like I could force him further down my throat. I wanted to consume him
, needed to consume him. This job, this moment was so personal to both of us, and so perfect for all of its mistakes, like this had always been our path, the place we would end up. Where we belonged.

  I didn't look away, barely flinched when he pulled my hair and pressed my face into him, thrusting his hips forward and rhythmically choking me. Our eyes remained locked, his breath quickening while mine was slowed, and he smiled down at me. Happy.

  His eyelids lowered and he tightened his hold on my hair as he came, pumping his cock between my lips to ensure I kept my promise. “Us,” he agreed, wiping my mouth with his thumb and then placing his fingers under my chin, guiding me back to my feet. “Thank you, V.”

  “For the blowjob?”

  “For killing them. For me.”

  “It's a job,” I said with minimal sincerity. Then I thought of something. “Wait, who's paying us for this hit?”

  Frank laughed, having obviously not thought of that himself. “I guess Simon was supposed to.”

  “Whatever. It's still totally a job.”

  He winked at me as if I were the one who cared about the difference between assassins and murderers. “Totally.”

  Chapter Forty

  Frank finally shaved his face before showtime and it gave him a clean, brutal look for our introduction to the Alcotts. And gave me a hard on, which naturally had to be taken care of before they could be.

  The rain had stopped but it remained overcast, and Alan's cottage sat in nearly total darkness behind its rampart of roses. There was the slightest glow coming from the house, a dying fire in the hearth, and we let ourselves in the backdoor with Alan's key.

  The silence was broken by comical snoring and we followed the sound to the bedroom, the door slightly ajar. I switched on the lights, which didn't have quite the dramatic effect I'd planned since they were both wearing silk sleep masks. Monogrammed silk sleep masks. And earplugs. Both had mostly empty glasses on their respective nightstands, his with melting ice floating in what I imagined was whiskey, hers with water or at least something clear, and a bottle of sleeping pills. Could they make this more convenient for us?