Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0)

by Jennifer Bene

  “Bill -” She flinched.

  “He did. You two both had so many secrets from each other, so much bullshit, and I won’t pretend to know the world you live in, or the things you’ve been through, and I don’t think I want to, but -” He waved at the waitress as she passed by, tilting his hand in the shape of a glass. With a sigh Bill returned his gaze and locked eyes with her, completely serious. “But he did love you, C. I’ve known him for years, longer than you have, and I could read that boy like no one else. Better than he thought I could, and…”

  It made a place in Camille’s chest ache as she watched the older man’s eyes water, but the waitress rescued him by delivering a glass with ice. He poured the vodka and drank it down fast, barely giving it a breath of a chance to chill.

  Refilling his glass, he cleared his throat. “I was glad you two found each other. He came to life after you appeared, C. I don’t know if you just drove him crazy, or if your kind of crazy was what he needed to reconnect with humanity again – but he was better with you. More whole. Happier.”

  “I…” She swallowed. “Thanks, Bill.” The words were rough, and she tried to smooth the growing pain behind her ribs by finishing the vodka. Ever the solid bartender, Bill replenished her glass as soon as she set it down.

  “Are you sure about this? I mean, are you sure that Smith is -”

  “I saw him, Bill.” She lowered her voice to a hushed whisper, “I buried him. Trust me, I’m sure.”

  “Fuck.” He took a drink and she did too.

  “Yeah.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the sound of the heat pumping into the bar and the low chatter of the TV fill the emptiness. “So, what does this mean?”

  “It means you get this table back. Permanently.” Camille ran her fingers over the well-known grains, adding a fresh lime before tilting her drink up once more.

  “I don’t need it, C. You can come here any -”

  “No.” She shook her head because this was the one thing she’d known for sure before she’d even decided to come. “I won’t be back, Bill. I can’t come back. This was Smith’s place. It was how I found him, it’s how so many others have found him, and -”

  “I get it.” Bill swallowed hard, not even flinching as he set the glass back down and refilled it. “I don’t like it, but I get it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know, when you first walked in here I pegged you for trouble. I said it in my head, and when you walked towards Smith I was just waiting for him to send you running – but then he went with you.” Bill chuckled and leaned back in the seat. “I didn’t know if you were some kind of blonde witch, or just his particular brand of woman since he’d never even looked twice at anyone else, but from that moment on I knew something had changed. When he started to bring you around, with your terrible fucking mouth and your razor sharp attitude, I would have bet money that you’d disappear in a month or two. As soon as you realized you wouldn’t get whatever you wanted from him – but… week after week, month after month, there you were.”

  “Is this supposed to be a compliment? Because so far you’re kind of being an asshole.”

  “That is exactly what I’m talking about. No one that knew Smith would have picked you out of a crowd to be the person that brought him back to the world, that warmed him up, made him smile again – but you did that. You made him happy, and I don’t fucking get it, I don’t think I ever will, but I want you to know that as his friend, I’m glad he met you.”

  She felt the smile on her lips, even though on the inside she felt raw, like she’d swallowed shards of glass instead of vodka. “I told him you were his best friend. He didn’t believe me.”

  Bill shrugged. “Who knows, it definitely doesn’t matter now.”

  “Right.”

  There was a stretch of silence again where they both nursed their glasses, and he refreshed them again before he let out a slow breath. “So, what’s next for you?”

  “I don’t think you want me to answer that, Bill.”

  He chuckled low, tilting his drink towards her like a toast. “You are probably right about that, C, but if I’m never going to see you again I want you to know that I’ll keep you in my prayers. No matter what you believe.”

  Smiling she raised her glass and tapped the edge of Bill’s. “I’m just going to shut the fuck up for once and say thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, C. And I mean that literally, you will always be welcome here.” He kept his glass in the air, his eyes hazing over again. “To Smith.”

  Swallowing down the rush of emotion she clinked her glass with one of the only other people on the planet who had ever known him to any real level. “To Smith.”

  They both took a deep drink, and she couldn’t help wondering if there was a person alive who knew him completely – but she doubted it. He had always been a ghost, a shadow, her own personal gun-toting, male-model gorgeous, guardian angel of death.

  And fuck everything if she wouldn’t do everything in this life to make him proud.

  With a sigh she stretched out across the luxurious bed in the suite she’d booked. The sheets were cool, but the room was comfortably warm – and it was technically Christmas now as the clock ticked past two AM.

  Merry fucking Christmas, Camille.

  Her veins were abuzz with alcohol, a pleasant hum, and she was ninety-nine percent sure she’d spend the entirety of Christmas Day watching television in her underwear while ordering room service. Pancakes, and bacon, and spaghetti. Comfort food.

  Maybe they’d even deliver a bottle of vodka and she could just ride this bender into the New Year.

  Just as she rolled over to fall asleep, awash in a swath of pillows, she heard the buzz of her phone. Reaching for it, she went to answer and realized it was not hers that was buzzing. Jumping out of bed she dove to grab Smith’s cell phone off the table before the call rolled to the voicemail she had not figured out how to access yet. “Hello?”

  “Hey, I’m – uh – looking for Smith.”

  “Ah, he’s no longer available.” The phrase had seemed to work well on other calls, explaining the situation without making her actually say it.

  “Who is this?”

  “C. I worked with -”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember you. He talked about you. You still up for a job?” The man on the other end of the line sounded bored, distracted, and uninterested in her personal tragedies. Perfect.

  “Depends on the work.”

  “I have someone who I need to disappear.”

  “Where and when?”

  A low laugh thrummed over the line. “Not going to ask me why?”

  “Does the why fucking matter?”

  Another laugh. “Oh, I think I’m going to like working with you. Listen, C, you take care of this job for me and I’ll guarantee I’ll have more for you. There’s always stuff that needs handling.”

  “Distractions are handy right now, but I can’t promise I’ll always be available. You’ll pay me Smith’s regular rate, deal?”

  “How do I know you’re as good as he is?”

  “Because the man who took Smith out of the game is also permanently retired – because of me.” She smiled against the phone as she laid back on the bed, the man chuckling.

  “Alright, deal. Same rate. Ready for the details?”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely.” She smiled as he started to speak, because she didn’t even feel the need to reach for a pen and paper. The names and locations formed themselves in her memory, and the only concern she had was that she’d need to run by the storage unit to check her ammo stock. It would be a good idea to restock before the New Year, which meant a call to Sandra – the matron of guns for NYC.

  As she ended the call and crawled back into bed she set Smith’s phone next to hers, both of them on top of the half-finished crossword he’d left behind. Eventually she’d need to tuck it away in the storage unit so she didn’t spill something on it, but for now it was a piece of him that
she could keep while she built up the life he’d made possible. A life where she was strong enough to be free, able to finally be the person he’d always told her she would be – and no matter what, she would honor the legacy he’d left behind by making sure his time spent training her, spent caring for her, wasn’t for nothing.

  She had become C. Assassin, killer-for-hire, one time protégé of the one and only Smith.

  And maybe someday the raw place he had left behind inside her would heal enough for her to trust someone else.

  Until then, there would always be another job. Another bullet. Another life to take.

  Epilogue

  Six Years Later

  “This way.” The man gestured down a hallway, but she was distracted by the gilded accents on the walls and the molding, her eyes drawn to the way over-the-top decorations. Apparently, she wasn’t moving fast enough for the douchebag who had answered the door, because he nudged her shoulder forward.

  “What the fuck, dickbag? You really think it’s a good idea to shove me?” Camille turned around fast and then smiled as the asshole took a hearty step back from her. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

  “Will you please just follow me?” he asked, clearly irritated.

  “Sure thing, sunshine. Lead on.” She smiled as he muttered curses to himself, because she was already a little irritated at the aggressive invitation she’d been given for this meeting. Not just one call, but four, along with a note sent to her hotel room proving he knew where she was this week.

  Too far, Callahan.

  The asshole stopped at a turn in the hall, and nodded towards a pair of elegant double doors. As she stepped past him he reached for her and she knocked his arm away on instinct. “Do you want me to castrate you, fucker?”

  “It’s fine, Nicholas. Mr. Callahan is waiting, and he knows she’s armed.” Another asshole spoke up from behind her as he opened the door to his boss’ office.

  “This is such bullshit,” she muttered. With a roll of her eyes she flipped off the lackey apparently playing secretary and walked forward to find the head of the Irish standing behind his desk, a stack of papers in one hand. Stopping just inside the doors she spoke loud enough for the assholes outside to hear her, “Hey, Callahan, why don’t you tell your lackeys what happened to the last guy on your payroll who touched me?”

  “You’re late. Take a seat, C.” The man waved at the chairs in front of his elaborate desk, not even raising his eyes to her.

  “No, thanks, I’ll stand.”

  “Jacob,” Callahan called and an instant later the asshole from the door shoved her towards one of the plush chairs. Just as she reached for the gun in the small of her back to shoot the idiot, she felt cold steel pressed against her temple. Fuck. When she stilled he pushed her the rest of the way forward and into the seat. “Take her weapon. You can return it to her after she’s left my home.”

  “Like hell you’re taking my -” The gun dug harder into her temple and she growled and lifted her hands slowly. Jacob ran his hand down her back, tracing her waist before he took the gun. “I’m going to kill you,” she growled, meeting Jacob’s eyes as he smirked and stepped back from her with her gun.

  “Leave. Close the doors, I need to speak with her in private.” Callahan spoke with a sigh, resting his hands on the desk. As soon as Jacob obeyed, shutting them tight, she stood up sharply enough to knock the chair over.

  “You want to speak with me?” She laughed, pointing at him. “Fuck this, and fuck you. No, thanks to whatever job you’re offering. After that little show, I think I’ll be leaving. Lose my number, Callahan, don’t ever call me again.” She turned towards the door, trying to decide if she should go ahead and take the knife out, or if she should just get her gun back the old fashioned hand-to-hand way.

  “Camille Anne Devereaux…” The sound of her full name coming out of his mouth made her freeze, and then he continued like he was reading something. “Born November 10th to Elaine Devereaux. Father listed as Andrew Walker.”

  No. Fucking. Way. She slowly turned around and the bastard had a small smile as he raised up a piece of paper.

  “I see that I have your attention.” He pointed at the chair. “Pick it up, and take a seat.”

  Swallowing hard she turned and lifted the plush chair and sat down in front of his massive desk, which sat in his ridiculously opulent office, inside his even more ridiculous house. “What the fuck do you want, Callahan?”

  “The same thing I’ve been asking you for.” Settling into his chair his eyes roamed her and then returned to the paper in his hand. “I want you to work for me.”

  “I don’t pick sides, I’m freelance. You know that. You want me to do a job for you? Fine. You want me to do five jobs? Deal. But -”

  “You misunderstand, Camille. There are no deals today, there is only you agreeing to work for me and only me.”

  “No.” She clenched her jaw as his light eyes returned to hers.

  “I’m a businessman, you know this. Do you really think I’d just bring you back here to offer you the same deal I offered six months ago?” He chuckled, his lilting voice taunting her, but she did her best to ignore the slow twisting of her stomach.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “So, what? You’re planning on outing my identity if I don’t work for you? Exactly what will that do other than let fucks like you use my full name just before they die screaming?”

  “I’m going to pretend that was not a threat, Camille.” He flipped open a folder and smiled as he turned it around and shoved it to her side of the desk. “Like I said before, if I didn’t have anything new, I wouldn’t have brought you here.”

  There were photos in the folder and she tugged it off the desk to see it better. A young boy, early teens it seemed, but she didn’t recognize him at all. “You want me to kill this kid?”

  Callahan laughed, actually laughed in a loud, lyrical voice before he reached for a mug of tea on his desk. “Keep reading, you’ll figure it out.”

  For a few minutes Camille only felt frustration as she skimmed the documents. Information about the kid’s school, a few weeks of his work schedule, and then she saw it – a birth certificate. Father? Andrew fucking Walker.

  Son of a bitch.

  “So, you see the problem.”

  “I don’t see a problem,” Camille said with a low laugh, dropping the folder of photos and papers back onto his desk. “If that kid does share some random strands of DNA with my low-life of a sperm donor, I don’t give a shit.”

  “Then it won’t bother you if I send one of my boys to take him out?” The chilling tone in Callahan’s voice shouldn’t have meant anything, she shouldn’t have cared, but the image of him sitting in front of his school, surrounded by friends, white blonde hair like hers – that was something she couldn’t erase.

  Shit.

  Forcing a casual grin, she met the Irish bastard’s eyes. “This was your plan, Callahan? This was why you harassed me for three days insisting on a meeting?” She laughed, leaning back and pushing a hand through her hair. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

  “I just want to be clear with you. If you refuse to work for me, and only me, then I will kill Luke.”

  “Why?” she asked, sincerely confused for a moment at this line of reasoning.

  “Because you have no one else. Your addict whore of a mother is dead, your gambler father is too. The man who trained you died – Smith was his name, right?”

  “You’re not helping your case much.” Camille leaned back in the chair, adopting the effortless I-give-no-fucks attitude that she was known for.

  “So, you’re fine if we kill this boy? He’s thirteen, apparently quite happy if we are to believe the pictures of him and his beautiful mother.” Callahan turned the folder around and tugged out one of the surveillance photos. “Your father did have a thing for blondes, didn’t he?”

  “Apparently he did. I didn’t really know him.”

  “Last chance, Camille. I do
not have all afternoon to waste with you. Either you agree to work for me, or I send someone to put a bullet in your last living, breathing relative.”

  “You’d kill a kid just because he shares half a strand of DNA with me?”

  “That is the point I’m making.” Callahan shrugged and dropped the photo back onto the folder. “Decision time.”

  “Why do you want me to work for you solo? I’ll do whatever fucking job you -”

  “There are things that are… sensitive in nature. Things that I need someone inside my control to handle.”

  “You want to control me?” Her skin itched at the idea.

  “This is all your choice. Either you agree to work for me, and only me, doing whatever I ask of you… or Luke dies.” There was another layer of threat in Callahan’s demand, one made more clear by the way his eyes dropped towards her chest for just a moment.

  She opened her mouth to tell Callahan to go fuck himself, to kill the kid, just so she could walk out of his fucking house and remain a free agent – just like Smith had always been. But the kid looked too much like her, and while the documents could have been faked, she could always verify them and then decide later to back out of the deal.

  If Callahan had anyone in his stable of lackeys capable of doing what she could do, he wouldn’t need to resort to pathetic, low-blow tactics like this.

  “You’re a bastard, Callahan.”

  “Is that a yes, Camille? Are you agreeing to work for me?”

  The words were physically painful to say, but she knew one thing for sure – if she said no, that kid wouldn’t live to see tomorrow night, and she’d probably get photographic evidence slipped under her hotel door. If this kid really was her half-brother, that would hurt. A lot. She could sacrifice a little of her freedom, for a short time, to keep him safe. Even if agreeing to work for Callahan felt like swallowing glass. Just say it. “Yes, I will work for you, you son of a bitch.”