“Right.” Camille tugged the curtain open so she could look out at the bustling morning of the city, and she wished they were on a lower floor so that the traffic could be a dull roar to fill the silence. Instead she stood and flipped the television on, changing the channel from news to some movie that she didn’t give a shit about, but she stared at it so she wouldn’t stare at Smith.
There would be no more staring at Smith. There would be killing, and training, and meals like this one, but there would be no more staring.
No more wishing and hoping for what would never happen.
Liar, liar, liar.
Chapter Eleven
It was after two AM and they were sitting outside the shitty, rundown little bar where Clinton Porter squatted after working hours. She and Smith had spent over a week in the bad part of this bullshit Northeastern town, waiting and watching for Clinton to give them an opening. Fortunately, it seemed like tonight would be perfect.
A poker game.
The same one Smith’s contact, Lacroix, had tracked the asshole to two weeks before.
Gamblers always returned to their haunts, and she knew that the cards were not Clinton’s only addiction. He was twitchy, jumpy, and probably had more tells than a toddler. It was likely why those men kept showing up to play, but they wouldn’t return for another hour at least. This was their chance, and she wanted to go in, wanted to put a few bullets in Clinton’s pleading face, but Smith was casually scanning the street from inside the car. The same car he’d picked her up in that first night – still pristine, still perfect, like everything in Smith’s life except for her.
“What are we waiting for?” Camille asked.
“If you think we’re good, we’ll go now.” Smith’s gaze landed on her, and the teacher-tone in his voice grated her nerves, but a stroke of the gun hidden in her lap made her feel better.
“I think we should go before those idiots come back. He’s alone, we know it.” Her gaze tracked to the front of the bar, the welcoming neon turned off for almost half an hour. For a moment she imagined what he was doing inside. Cleaning the bar that he apparently worked at? Setting up the cards? Putting out a nice charcuterie platter and other hors d'oeuvres for his asshole friends?
Not fucking likely.
“Alright. Then we go.” He nodded, but just as Camille reached for the door handle, Smith touched her arm. “You’re going to pull the trigger?”
“Smith.”
“It’s a serious question, C. I need to know if you’re going to freeze.” There was concern in his voice, and she subconsciously rubbed at her thigh with her gun hand.
“I’m not going to freeze. He dies. Tonight.”
“Oh, yes. He will absolutely die tonight.” Smith leaned back from her and flipped a knife over his hand before he tucked it away somewhere hidden. Then they were both out of the car, guns tucked away, just another couple making their way through the streets, but Camille didn’t even let her mind wander to the way his arm felt against her side, wrapped around her waist.
Nope. Not at all.
“I’ll go in first,” she whispered as they paused in front. A soft tug of the door revealed it was unlocked, and Smith just nodded at her. His face half in shadow and unreadable.
“Do what you need to do,” he whispered.
With his blessing she stepped inside and heard a not-so-subtle crash from behind the bar. “ – the fuck?”
“Hey, you guys still open for business?”
“No, no we – oh, shit.” Clinton Porter froze on the other side of the bar, and Camille smiled as she raised her gun to point it at him. If she were the kind to gamble, she would have bet he pissed himself. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh sh-”
“Keep your hands up, and come around. If you even twitch your hands towards your waist, I’ll paint the liquor bottles with your blood. Got it, asshole?”
“Right! Right, yeah, uh…” he sidestepped his way around the end of the bar, hands hovering around his shoulders. Even from fifteen feet away she could see the glassy, shifting gaze in his eyes. He was high, or jonesing for a high, his muscles twitchy. “Listen, take the booze or whatever. All the cash is in the safe, I swear, I -”
“You think I want your fucking money, Clinton?” With her use of his name he stilled, his eyes narrowing and focusing on her, and then they went wide.
“Oh. No, no, no…”
“Oh, yes.” Camille growled as he dropped to his knees on the floor, near the table holding a deck of cards and a few unopened beers. “Tell me, do you remember me?”
“Don’t do this, I was always nice, don’t kill me. I’m not like Steve, I didn’t -”
“Didn’t what? Didn’t fuck me? I remember things a little differently.” The door swung open behind her, but Smith’s presence barely registered. Had it been anyone else she would have known.
“Aw, man, fuck, I never hurt you. I was always so sweet to you. I was good to you and the other girls. I was nice!” He pleaded, and in his high-as-a-motherfucking-kite state he seemed to believe himself.
“Right. You used to bring us presents.”
“YES! I brought you presents, remember? I made sure you had candy and stuff, oh shit, I never –”
“Never… what? Never thought I’d show up again, never thought I’d track you down out here?” Camille watched as he squirmed, his hands resting on his knees as he groaned out murmured pleas. “You know, you always tried to be there when no one else was. You’d show up when Steve was the only one there, you’d get high, and then you’d come to us. Never wanted to be around with the other guys… except for the poker nights. When Steve had poker nights you always showed up.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it!” Clinton’s voice broke as he started sobbing, and she couldn’t help but smile.
Ah, sometimes wishes do come true.
“So, you look like you’re going to have another poker game, Clinton. Any special guests I should know about?” Camille tilted her head at him as he randomly cursed under his breath. With a sigh she paced in front of him, keeping the gun trained on him while his curses grew more fervent. “Clinton, I’m going to give you two seconds, and then I’m going to shoot you in the knee. Alright?”
“Oh, fuck, man, I didn’t mean anything by it! I didn’t want to hurt you! I was -”
“Tell me who’s coming to the poker game. Is it Barry? Roger?” She flipped the safety off and waited for him to stop hyperventilating long enough to look at her again. “Clinton.”
“What? No!” he shouted at her, and Camille put a bullet through his kneecap. The whisper of the shot leaving the chamber was quiet thanks to the suppressor, but his scream echoed off the walls in ear-splitting decibels, and then she felt Smith step up behind her.
“We should have gagged him first,” he whispered.
“I have questions for him,” she whispered back and watched as Clinton writhed on the floor. Camille snapped her fingers on her free hand, trying to regain his attention. “Clinton. Hey! Dickbag! Stop screaming or I’m going to put a matching hole in your other fucking knee.”
“Oh God, I don’t wanna die, I don’t -”
“Who else is coming to your little game?”
“Just some local guys! FUCK! My knee, oh fuck…” he groaned. “Please, please don’t kill me. Come on, I was always nice, I was always so good to you.”
With a growl Camille shot at his other knee, but he was twisting in agony and the bullet went into his thigh instead. Still, he screamed, and he was begging for his life.
He had cried, he had begged, and pretty soon he’d die sobbing. Don’t they call that a hat trick in soccer? Or was that hockey?
Whatever.
“Tell me where Barry and Roger are, or the next time I pull the trigger I’m aiming for your cock.” He responded by sobbing harder, and it made her smile. She had maintained her calm, even face to face with him, with one of the monsters from her nightmares. She wasn’t panicking like she had with Joe. Everything was going perfect – un
til she heard the door open behind her.
Loud, male laughter filtered through the opening just as she twisted at the hips to take aim. Smith was already facing them, gun out, and he took down the first man without hesitation. A surprised shout came from one of the men, and Camille stepped to the left to get better aim and knocked a clean shot through the second man’s chest. Someone took off at a dead run from the back of the group, dropping things to the cement as they fled, and Smith growled and charged the door. There was still one man in his way, and that man was fumbling for a pistol stuck in the waist of his jeans. Smith slammed his forearm into the man’s throat, grabbed his gun hand and twisted it, before breaking the arm with a drop of his elbow. The guttural scream the man released was pure pain. With a sharp shove, Smith threw the guy into the bar making him crash into a chair which had him howling in pain again.
Then he picked up the pistol off the floor and pointed directly at her. “Get information out of him, C. Who are they? Who knows them? Be quick about it, and kill Clinton – now.” Keeping his gun down at his side, Smith took off outside after the one that had run, and Camille had to remind herself to breathe. He had moved like a shadow, fierce and powerful, and she was now ninety-nine percent sure he was still holding back with her when they sparred.
Fucker.
With a sigh Camille wandered over to the man on the floor and he stared up at her in shock. “Hey asshole, I have some business to finish. I want to be very clear, if you move, if you go for the door, I’m going to shoot you somewhere very uncomfortable, and then I’m going to break your other arm. Got it?”
“Fuck you, you stupid bitch, you’re gonna -”
She cut him short by pistol-whipping him across the face. If he hadn’t lost a tooth or three, he was lucky. “I’m gonna fucking kill you if you call me a bitch again, got it asshole?”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with!” he shouted through a bloody mouth as she wandered back to Clinton.
Turning back towards the man she pinched two fingers together. “Shh. You can tell me all your info in a minute when I’m torturing it out of you, until then? Shut the fuck up.”
He gaped at her through the twist of pain on his face, but she didn’t give a shit. Clinton was still alive… barely. The pool of blood under his leg was larger than she would have expected, she’d probably nicked the god-damned artery. Fucker should have kept his leg still and then he’d only be missing another kneecap. Idiot. “Wake up, Clinton.”
Crouching she slapped him hard across the face and he groaned in pain as he shuddered. Holding his face by the chin, she slapped him again and his eyes opened. “Oh, God, my legs, I’m -”
“Where are Barry and Roger?”
“Fuck, I don’t -”
She pressed the end of the gun against his jeans, aiming right between his legs. “Listen, do you want to feel what it’s like to have a bullet rip through your cock and balls? Because I’d really enjoy pulling the trigger.”
“I don’t know where they are! FUCK! I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die.”
“Focus,” Camille growled and dug the gun in harder. “Barry. Roger. When was the last time you saw them?”
“AT STEVE’S! I didn’t know them. Jesus Christ, I’m gonna -” Rolling her eyes Camille pulled the trigger, annihilating what had counted as his manhood, and then she cut short his scream of pain with a bullet between the eyes. His blood had blown back onto her arms with each shot made so close, but it didn’t matter. Clinton Porter was dead, and she had killed him.
It felt good.
Three down. Two to go.
When she stood, the man at the other end of the room was a lot more polite, terror and pain turning his face white as she stalked back towards him. Rolling her neck she counted the shots in her head as she aimed the gun at him. She’d used five, which meant she still had plenty in the Glock 19 9mm to persuade the asshole in front of her. “You get one chance to tell me why you’re here.”
“The p-poker g-game!” he stumbled over his words, scooting back against a chair with his good arm.
“Nothing else?” She cocked the gun for emphasis.
“Ah, fuck! Drugs, okay? Drugs. We cook up a little meth and Clinton sells it here at the bar, but we don’t kill anyone, we’re just trying to make a little cash!”
Narrowing her eyes, Camille watched him carefully. Tracking his expression and his twitchy movements to see if he was telling the truth. “Ever spice up the poker games with some girls? Maybe some younger ones?”
The man looked sincerely disgusted. “The fuck do you mean by that? I don’t touch kids. Who the fuck told you that?”
She ignored him. “Who’s your boss?”
“My uncle helps us do it, but – shit, oh man, Mike. Mike’s dead, you fucking killed Mike.” The man’s reality was settling in as his eyes focused on one of the two dead bodies by the door.
“Does your uncle know you’re here, and what you’re doing here?”
“Yes! Yes, he does! And he’ll totally come looking for me, he’ll be all over this. You should just get out now -”
The door opened, and Smith was slightly flushed, carrying two grocery bags in one hand and his gun in the other. “Runner is dead, and we need to leave.” With a glance at Clinton he nodded at her and then tilted his head towards the man on the floor. “What do we know?”
“Clinton was selling meth for these assholes out of the bar, I’m guessing the poker game was the time they exchanged goods. Nothing more than that it seems. Also, he’s fucking annoying, and he called me a bitch.”
Just as she said the last word, Smith raised the gun and fired twice, landing a bullet in the man’s head and another in his chest. “He should not have called you that.”
“I told him the same thing, he listened when I threatened to kill him. Didn’t think you’d disagree so strongly with him calling me a bitch though.” Camille glanced around, unworried about the false security camera hanging out of the ceiling. Lacroix had already verified it was a fake. After all, security footage would be foolish if you were running drugs.
“I never said I disagreed,” Smith muttered as he turned one of the grocery bags upside down, spilling out several gallon Ziploc bags. Each bag was filled with tiny bags containing crystal-looking shards. Back when she had stayed with Thomas and the other heroin boys, she had seen them smoke meth a few times, always refusing when it was offered. To see piles of it like this would have been their dream come true.
With a tilt of her head she realized exactly what Smith had said. “Wait, you think I’m a bitch?” she asked as he kicked a few bags of the meth over near Clinton. He dumped the other bag on the poker table, tucking the grocery sacks with his fingerprints away. Setting it all up so the cops would just see a drug deal gone sideways.
There was a faint smile as Smith walked towards her. “I think that men like to use that word against women who they can’t control. Women who are too strong. I’d suggest you take it as a compliment.”
She chewed on her lip, fighting the urge to smile as he got closer. “Thanks, Smith,” Camille muttered and her heart rate tripled as he ran his fingers down her arm.
“Well, if you did feel like toning down the attitude with me, I’d appreciate it.” With a shrug he raised two fingers up, swipes of crimson across them, his voice light and casual. “And you have blood on you.”
“Asshole,” she grumbled and brushed past him to stomp behind the bar. Snagging a rag she wiped down her arms and tucked the rag into her back pocket before grabbing a bottle of vodka from the shelf and coming back around. She’d let him get inside her head again. Dammit. “Let’s go.”
“What are you doing with that?” he asked, his voice no longer playful.
“Celebrating.” Her gun was tucked away already and she leaned back on the door to open it. “Coming?”
“You’re not getting drunk in the car on the way back to New York.”
“On the way back to New York? You’ve got to be fucking with
me.” Camille laughed as he moved to follow her. “I’m going to be drunk before we get back to the hotel.”
He stayed silent as they turned off the lights in the bar, stepped over the bodies, and left behind the bloody scene for someone else to find. Without waiting she opened the bottle in the car, and watched for the tic in Smith’s jaw. His anger, or frustration, or whatever with her was barely restrained, and she found that all she wanted to do was fucking set him off, wanted to hear the kind of open honesty he’d shown when he’d found her on top of her one-night-stand.
Bottoms up.
Chapter Twelve
Two Months Later
The shower had been going for too long, the steam of it making the room feel humid in the boiling heat of summer. Not even the little air conditioner tucked under the window could counteract it all – and since it was only 3AM that was even worse. The day was going to be like being in an oven, or hell, but hell never seemed far away from Camille even in the dead of winter.
She’d had another nightmare.
Another sharp gasp of air that had ripped him from sleep, on alert, reaching for his gun – but then he’d heard it.
Another series of soft pleas escaping her lips that would never be spoken if she were awake. A chorus of ‘stop’ and ‘don’t, please’ that burrowed inside his head and made Smith’s stomach turn.
For weeks after Clinton died Camille had been unstoppable. They’d done three jobs back to back, and she was cold, efficient, fearless. One of the men had even tried to run, targeting her because he assumed she was weak, but Camille had caught him and put him on the ground hard, ending him with a shot to the back of the head. Then she’d looked over at him, a small, proud smile creeping across her lips – and she’d asked him if they could catch a movie.
As if pulling the trigger were as easy as breathing to her.
Death didn’t bother her. Killing didn’t bother her. The intense training he made her keep up with only seemed to fuel the fire inside her. But the nightmares? The memories of what those men had done to her? They were eating her alive, and for the last few months they’d been growing frequent again. Too frequent.
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