by Sam Crescent
So his witness was going to disappear without a trace, and nothing would be linked back to him or to Semenov’s assassination. He still wasn’t sure what the fuck he was going to do with her, but he’d figure that out later. Killing was what he did best, and he’d handled worse complications. Bain drove a few miles up the road, then got out to remove the false magnetic plates. He opened the trunk to toss them inside, ignoring his human cargo. She gasped when she saw him, although with no street lights on this stretch of road, he’d be a dark shadow. Not that it mattered if she saw him clearly or not because he wasn’t letting her live.
“I’ll do anything. Please let me go. I promise I won’t say anything.”
She definitely wasn’t one of Semenov’s girls. Bain had been scoping out his interactions and routines the past week, and the old bastard preferred his bitches stick thin and highly processed. His witness had thick curves and not a stitch of makeup—definitely not Semenov’s type. He wasn’t sure what she was doing there—maybe applying to scrub the toilets or some other domestic shit. Then he remembered the camera equipment.
“Why were you at Alexei Semenov’s house?”
“I was just on a job, I mean I was doing an interview … well I was going to do an interview,” she stammered. “I’m a reporter. Well, I’m a researcher trying to be a reporter. I swear I don’t know him or you or anything about what happened.”
Of all the damn luck. A reporter, researcher, whatever the hell that meant.
“Who knows you were there?”
“Nobody.”
He didn’t believe a word she said. For all he knew there would be a media frenzy tomorrow. He’d have to keep her breathing until things settled down. Once he was sure her disappearance wasn’t an issue, he could finish her off and burn the remains at the dump a couple counties over.
“You should have stayed home.” He locked her back in the trunk.
Bain had a house in the rural area outside the city. He didn’t like noise, people, or distractions. He valued his privacy.
After his contract with Bernard Sutherland went bad, Boss had shown up at Bain’s house uninvited. He wasn’t sure how the fuck he got his address. Bain had refused to work for Killer of Kings when Viper signed on years ago, not comfortable being under anyone’s control. But Boss wasn’t ready to give up, offering him the kind of cash he couldn’t refuse.
No one else popped by to pay a visit. Salesmen were greeted with a shotgun, and soon no one dared to set foot on his property. His house wasn’t luxurious. It was a shitty, century farm house that had been deserted and sold off in a power of sale. He liked that it was off the grid, open concept, and surrounded by acreage. There was no way he could live in a cramped condo or row housing. The confinement of city living didn’t suit him.
He unlocked the front door and disabled his security system. It cost more than the damn house. Bain dropped his duffel bag on the slab kitchen table and unzipped it. He’d only used his handguns today, so it wouldn’t take him long to clean them. All his weapons were well maintained, clean, oiled, and precision tested. This contract had been easier than he expected. Easy money was always a good thing. Then he remembered the woman in his trunk, and his mood soured.
Bain pounded his fist on the table, the weapons clanging together in the bag. Just thinking of her pissed him off. He hated complications.
He shrugged off his jacket, and then grabbed a black garbage bag from the cupboard and returned to the car. There were few stars in the sky, the darkness only cut when the light in the trunk clicked on. He stared down at the woman. Sweat matted her hair to her cheek, and even the minimal lighting made her squint. She held her forearms in front of her face in a defensive posture.
Bain shoved the bag over her head and heaved her out of the trunk. “Walk. If you try anything stupid, I’ll kill you.”
She kept quiet as he led her into his house. This was the first female in his place. When he fucked around, he did it anywhere else. Those occasions were few and far between. He was raised in hell itself, forced to seduce and fuck rich, older women so his captors could bribe them or get closer to their husbands’ money. Sex had become something he hated, a punishment. He preferred the brutal beatings over the nights in strange beds, knowing he often had to murder the women he’d been forced to deceive.
Once inside, he locked the door and led her to the basement. He never went down there, but he wasn’t going to keep this bitch under foot, so it was going to be her home until he decided otherwise. Bain thought about how much he hated women, but that wasn’t true—he hated everyone. The whole world was against him, and even God abandoned him long ago.
The wooden stairs leading into the basement were rickety, each step punctuated with a groan or creek. There was only one lightbulb swinging from the ceiling, barely lighting up the damp space. Once they were on the concrete floor, he tugged the garbage bag off her head and tossed it aside. She gasped for air, brushing her hair off her face. Her eyes were wild with panic, a look he’d seen too many times to count.
“Where are we?” she whispered.
“It’s your final destination. No hard feelings, but damn, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
She hugged herself. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Relax. I’m not raping you,” he said, insulted. Bain could get any pussy he wanted. He didn’t need to kidnap women just to get laid.
“Please let me leave.”
“That’s not happening.” He pulled an old wooden chair from the darkness and set it against the wall. “Keep quiet down here. If you annoy me, you won’t eat.”
“But—”
“I don’t think you understand how this works. It’s very simple. You do as I say or things go bad for you. Behave yourself, and you’ll get food and bathroom privileges.”
He wanted to get the fuck upstairs, the dankness already creeping along his skin. There were a few facts he needed from the woman—her name, family history, basic description. It would help him keep tabs on the news reports and aid him in digging deeper if he needed to.
Bain took a section of hair that had escaped her loose bun and felt it between his fingers. Then he tilted her chin up and took a good look at her—brown hair and green eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Scarlett.”
“Scarlett what?”
“Scarlett Meyers.”
“You married? Kids?”
She shook her head.
“Your parents work for the government?”
Scarlett narrowed her eyes. “No, why does any of this matter? I’m nobody. I’m not a threat to you or anyone.”
He put a finger to his lips. “Who do they work for?”
“I don’t know.”
Bain grabbed her jacket and gave her a quick jerk. “Hey, I asked you a fucking question.”
Her eyes welled up with tears. “I don’t know! My dad left when I was six, and I haven’t talked to my mom in years.”
Good. The fewer people looking for her, the better. He pressed her shoulder down to get her to sit on the chair, then squatted down and patted her hips, feeling for pockets. “You have any weapons on you?”
“No.”
His cell phone rang, so he stood back up and walked away from her.
“You get the job done?” asked Boss.
“I always get the job done.”
“That’s what I like to hear. I have another contract for you. Interested?”
Killing was all he knew. From the planning stage, surveillance, to pulling the trigger, it was all a rush. Something dark resided in him, for as long as he could remember, and it seemed his job as a mercenary was the only thing that kept it sated.
“Sure, why not?”
“Excellent. Now that Viper’s retired, I’m short a good man. You can go far with Killer of Kings, Bain.”
Bain wasn’t worried about the next paycheck or maintaining a lavish lifestyle. His life was no frills. He also had so much fucking cash th
at he was already set for life. He did his job because he had to.
“Help me!”
He whirled around. The little bitch had some nerve. Bain glared at her, his jaw twitching with his rising anger.
“Who was that?” asked Boss.
“Don’t worry about her. You’re not the only one I work for,” he said, dismissively. “Text me the details. I’ll be busy for a while.” He put his phone in his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest. There were so many wicked things he could do to Scarlett to make her pay for her disobedience. He’d doled out every kind of torture in his day, most learned from personal experience. Right now, all he cared about was ensuring she kept quiet while he was away on his next hit. With his luck, someone would come to his front door and hear her screaming.
“You’ve been a bad girl, Scarlett.”
She stared at him, her big green eyes roaming over his body. He looked down at himself. Over the years he’d gotten so much fucking ink that there wasn’t much skin left untouched. It was a necessity, his way of covering up the past, an attempt to change himself into something new. It was never enough, the scars and memories continuing to haunt him.
“What do you think I should do to you for that little stunt?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Of course you did. You’re trying to save yourself, but what you don’t realize is there’s no escape. Nobody knows where you are, and by the sounds of it, nobody gives a shit.”
“You’re never letting me leave?”
“There you go, now you’re catching on. But until I can trust you, I’m sure you understand why I have to use this.” He pulled out a black gag from his back pocket, waving it in front of her, and then motioned her to walk up the stairs. There was no way he could stand coming down into the shitty basement to check on her every few hours. The dank space was worse than he remembered, so he’d keep her within arm’s length for now.
When they got to the top of the stairs, she made a break for it.
End of sample chapter
http://www.evernightpublishing.com/broken-bastard-by-sam-crescent-and-stacey-espino