by Alix Labelle
“Eh.” The big man shrugged. “Sometimes it’s worth it.”
#
Sunlight and the smell of something delicious woke Wren from a deep, dreamless sleep. Since coming to the T.J.’s safe house in Provence she had done little more than sleep, eat and think. The time had come to get up, get dressed, and tell her handler about the decision she had made.
Wren winced as she slowly eased her battered body out of bed. The Slav had been outraged to find she wasn’t the boy he’d wanted, which had saved her from rape. It hadn’t spared her a vicious beating, however. At least now the swelling in her eyes had gone down enough for her to see where she was going. For the first day after her rescue they’d been completely swollen shut.
Wren pulled on the pretty floral frock left hanging on the back of her bedroom door and dressed. Slowly she limped out into the front of the old farm house, where she breathed in the savory perfume of the stir-fry drifting out of the kitchen. Once she sat down at the battered old dining table, she rested her forehead on her hand.
“T.J., we need to talk,” she said, knowing he could hear her. “I can’t do this anymore. Well, I can, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life risking it every time I step outside. Or inside. Or anywhere.”
A grumbling male sound came out of the kitchen.
“Yeah, I know, I’m a wimp.” She took an apple from the get-well basket Simon Denning had sent her and studied it. “But the guy who helped us – Tashiro – he’s in love with me. I’m kind of in love with him, too. So I want to take a desk job in Tokyo so I can hang out with him. See where this goes.”
“Kind of in love?”
Wren’s head snapped up and she stared at Eliot, who wore a flowered apron over his immaculate suit and carried a large pan of sizzling stir-fry to the table. “What are you doing here?”
“I am cooking.” He placed a plate in front of her.
She blinked to making sure she still wasn’t hallucinating from the Slav’s drugs. “How did you know where I was?”
“Do you know what happens when you call MI-6 and threaten to create an enormous media scandal in which you will expose two of their best agents?” he asked as he placed a mound of rice on her plate. “They will answer almost any question you ask.”
Wren’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t.”
“No, I did not. T.J. took pity on me. I may have threatened him a little.” He added a big helping of stir-fry to her rice. “But I would have like to have a word with your superiors. I still might, after we return to Tokyo. Is your jaw too sore for this? If it is, I made soup.”
“It’s fine.” She knew before she agreed to anything she would have to tell him the truth. “Eliot, please. Sit down.”
“I will listen, if you will eat.” When she nodded he sat down beside her. “All right. Tell me, and chew.”
Wren smiled and tried a bit of the stir-fry, which was delicious. “There’s a reason I don’t exist, and it has nothing to do with my work. I actually don’t exist. MI-6 raided a yacht off the coast of Ireland, and me and a few other young kids were living on it.” She set down her chopsticks and met his gaze. “We’d been bred by a pedophile ring. They created us in a lab at a bogus fertility clinic, hired surrogates to carry us and, after we were born at sea, rented us out to abusers.”
Eliot’s expression softened. “So MI-6 rescued you.”
“They did. We were a bit older than they thought, too. Our masters starved us and used drugs to keep us from going into puberty. At the time I was sixteen, but I looked about ten.” She grimaced at her flat chest. “Anyway, I don’t have any parents. I was born in international waters, so I have no country.”
“What happened after you were freed from these monsters?” Eliot asked gently.
“The authorities placed me in a special juvenile recovery program where I got the help I needed,” Wren told him. “When I was older MI-6 put me through school, and then recruited me to work in their human trafficking department. I wanted to stop this from happening to other kids.”
Eliot nodded slowly. “You are not eating.”
“Kills my appetite to talk about it.” She saw compassion in his eyes, but no disgust or revulsion. “The point is, I’m damaged goods. Seriously damaged. Mentally I’m okay, but the abuse left me underdeveloped and sterile, and that’s not going to change.”
“So that is what you meant when you said you were safe.” Eliot reached out to take her hand in his. “You were afraid to tell me about your past. Why? All that matters to me is you, little bird.”
Wren almost laughed out loud. “Tashiro, I was cooked up in a Petri dish by perverts. I have no country. I can’t have children. I may even have to deal with some serious health issues later on in life. These things matter, if not to you, then to your family.”
He nodded slowly. “My American mother is open and understanding, but my Japanese father is quite traditional.” He kissed the back of her hand. “We will lie to them.”
He startled a laugh out of her. “Eliot.”
“We can adopt children, Wren,” he told her gently. “Whatever health issues may come, we will see you through them together. And when you marry me, you will have Japanese citizenship.”
She thought she might burst into tears. “You want to marry a woman you’ve only known for a couple of days?”
“I would have married you while you were unconscious, but T.J. would not allow it. He is very strict, isn’t he? Now you must eat.” He picked up her fork and used it to bring a mouthful of vegetables to her lips. “I have scheduled my jet to leave in a few hours, and the flight to Tokyo is very long. I should not have sent my driver back to Paris. Do you think T.J. will take us to the airport? ”
Wren took another bite of the stir-fry, and smiled at the man she loved. “If we ask nicely.”
THE END
The Hitman’s Hunger
Bound to the Alpha Billionaire
Book 6
(Can be read as a standalone book)
By: Lucy Wynand
The Hitman’s Hunger
Chapter One
“Do you have plans tonight, Mr. Riley?” the flight attendant asked after she intercepted him outside customs.
T.J. regarded her with his skeptical, mismatched eyes. As petite and blonde as he was big and dark, she had been eyeing him since they left Paris. His Southie accent and leather coat always made him stand out from the Manhattan suits in first class. Since sex with him made rollercoasters look tame, however, he had rules: no nice girls, no fashionistas, and absolutely no one he might accidentally break.
“Yeah, I do.” He wondered if he should tattoo his chest with one of those measurement signs that read: “You must be this tall to take this ride.” Might make his life simpler. “Sorry, babe.”
She tucked a business card in his shirt pocket. “My number, in case you change your mind.” She sauntered off with as much sass as her pencil skirt would allow.
T.J. spotted Arthur Lecourt waiting outside the international arrivals gate. Although he wore a chauffeur’s uniform, the small, wiry man didn’t hold a name sign. Nor did he allow T.J. to elude him.
“Please, Mr. Terence,” Lecourt said as he appeared beside him and tried to keep up with his long strides. “He only wishes a word.” When T.J. didn’t reply he added, “I am authorized to use force if necessary.”
“That’d be entertaining.” He glanced at the older man and saw strain lines bracketing his thin lips. “Your hip giving you grief again, Arthur?” he asked, slowing his pace.
“The arthritis. They want to replace it.” He watched T.J. pick up his duffle from the luggage carousel. “He gave me the Taser, Mr. Terence.”
Because he liked the old thug, T.J. followed him out to the limo parked illegally at the curb. The back window lowered and another voice from the south of Boston said, “Get in.”
“No.” The only way to deal with his father was in words of one syllable. “What?”
“Get in, Junio
r, and I’ll tell you,” the elder Terence Jamison Riley said. “Or don’t, and Arthur will Taser you, throw you in here, and I’ll be late for my three o’clock class.”
T.J. got in the limo and sat across from his father. “Class?”
“Yoga.” As elegant in Armani as a reformed mob boss could be, Terence popped a piece of nicotine gum in his mouth. “Your mother thinks it’ll help with my anger management issues. I don’t mind so much. The girls are pretty, and hooboy, so flexible.” Terence gave him the once-over. “Why you over here? Work?”
The old man looked tired, so T.J. took pity on him. “What do you want, Pop?”
Terence shrugged. “Same old. Give up this spy shit, come home and work for me. I’m legit now, remember?”
T.J. rolled his hand.
His old man sighed. “Your mother wants grandbabies. We’re not getting any younger, you know. Your sister Margaret’s doing that test tube thing, but it ain’t working out. Her and Jack are talking about adopting.”
T.J. rolled his hand again.
His father rubbed his eyes. “Look. You come home, marry a nice Irish Catholic girl, and knock her up. It’ll make your mother happy. She’s happy, I’m happy. I’m generous when I’m happy, Junior.”
T.J. looked over the seat. “Arthur, drop me at long-term parking, will you?”
“Do this, and I’ll write you back in the will. I’m worth ten billion now, boy, and – you’re bleeding?” Terence jerked aside the collar of T.J.’s shirt to glare at his bandage and then him. “You got shot? And you didn’t say anything?”
“Pop? I got shot.” As Arthur pulled over T.J. grabbed his duffle.
“Love to Ma.” When the car stopped he climbed out and didn’t look back.
T.J. walked to a black SUV with a license plate that read HOT4U2. He input the security code on the door panel keypad and threw his duffle in the back. Once inside he took keys, a wallet, a cash bundle and a smart phone from the glove box. As soon as he touched the phone it lit up and buzzed.
“Yeah?” he answered it as he started the SUV’s engine.
“Central is bloody pissed with you, Terry,” a friendly British female voice said. “Consider yourself severely reprimanded for that cock-up in Paris. Why are you in America?”
“I’m taking some personal time, Ash.” T.J. reached under the seat for the untraceable handgun tucked there. He popped the fully-loaded clip to check the rounds. “Thanks for the nine.”
“Can’t have you scampering about unarmed, love. There’s extra ammo in the boot.” Ashley’s tone turned crisp. “We have a vastly unpleasant situation brewing in Berlin. It will likely go critical by Monday. That’s all the time we can spare you.”
“Understood. Appreciate it, doll.” T.J. ended that call and dialed the number to his old boxing gym. When a gravelly voice answered, he said, “Where we at, Mike?”
“They stashed her in a brownstone in Roxbury,” his former trainer said. “Some whorehouse for pervs run by a Spanish woman. She’s got some Eurotrash managing the whole business. But Terry, you need to turn on News Chat AM. Turn it on right now.”
T.J. switched on the twenty-four hour news radio station, and listened as publishing mogul Brian O’Hara finished giving his statement to reporters.
“We would do anything to save this brilliant, brave young woman’s life,” O’Hara said sadly. “But we have seven children. If we pay this ransom, then they will instantly become targets. We can’t allow that, so we will pray for her. It is our hope that God, not money, brings her home again.”
“Cheap prick.” T.J. shut off the radio and put the phone to his ear again. “How long we got before they kill her?”
#
Bound and gagged, the hostage could do nothing but watch as the madam shut off the radio and paced around the room. The busty brunette muttered under her breath in Spanish as a slender European man named Benton watched.
“Consuela, darling, calm yourself,” Benton said. “All is not lost.”
“Isn’t it? Your father is a stingy bastard, Sarah O’Hara,” the madam raged as she dragged Sarah up from the floor. “And you, you are worthless to me now.” She pulled a dagger from her robe.
“Kill her, and you really do have nothing.” A slender man who had shown surprising strength when he’d snatched Sarah, Benton seemed bored with the universe. He lit a thin brown cigar and examined the glowing tip as he exhaled smoke. “We’ll simply have to get creative.”
The madam turned on him. “You heard that tight-ass. He won’t pay a penny for her. I’d have to drug her to make her into a whore, and then she’ll probably kill herself like half of them do. So how do you make something out of this, Benton?”
“We find someone who will pay for her.” Benton came over and inspected Sarah. “She’s pretty enough. She might even still be a novice. Surely there are gentlemen in Boston who would be delighted to enjoy such a young, tasty morsel. We send out invitations to the right clientele and sell her to the highest bidder.”
“And what happens if she escapes? She goes straight to the police. Then we are all going to jail.” Consuela made an impatient sound. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean sell her as a slave, darling,” Benton replied. “We allow the winner to use her here, in our little dungeon. We can even film it. Torture and rape porn is quite profitable, you know.”
Behind her gag, Sarah swallowed hard. She’d expected to be killed right away. Now that she was facing a fate that might be worse than death; she needed to think about ways she might kill herself.
“Yes.” The madam’s mouth stretched into an evil mirror of the slender man’s smile. “But there is something that will make us even more money.”
Chapter Two
Sarah sat hunched over as far as she could to feel the heat from the fireplace. The madam had stripped her of everything but her bra and panties before cuffing her to the metal chair. If she didn’t get warmer soon she’d start shivering. She refused to do that in front of any of the men being brought in to inspect her.
She also needed a way out. Everything sharp from the room had been removed. If she tried to bolt they might shoot her, but only to cripple her. Uninjured she could still put up a fight. The prospect of being raped while she slowly bled from a gunshot wound made bile surge in her throat.
The next bidder escorted in stood tall and bulky-looking in black leather and expensive shades. His dark hair spiked out around a hard, rugged face that might have been handsome once. Now a nose broken too many times and a scattering of thin white scars all but shouted career criminal.
“Why I gotta come in here?” the thug demanded in a thick Southie accent.
“So you can inspect the prize, dear boy,” Benton said, making an elegant gesture. “Allow me to introduce our very poetically-named Sarah O’Hara. She is twenty-four years old, enjoys cheerleading, strawberry daiquiris, and long walks on the beach.”
As the thug removed his coat Sarah inspected him again. With his build and bone structure he definitely looked stronger and more dangerous than all the other bidders combined. If he won her, she wouldn’t stand a chance.
“She is also the sadly unloved daughter of Publishing’s misery prince Brian O’Hara,” Benton was saying. “As you can see she’s healthy, drug-free and mostly uninjured. Possibly virginal, too, although we can’t guarantee that. She dislocated our resident physician’s jaw when he tried to check. You’re a profession assassin?”
The thug grunted. “Hitman, yeah. So?”
“Rather convenient, considering.” Benton took out a stop watch. “You have five minutes to inspect her – and please, no pre-auction violations. Really not worth having your fingers crushed.” He started the stop watch and stepped out of the room.
The hitman loomed over Sarah, and then slowly removed his sunglasses. His right eye glittered a brilliant blue, and his left a vivid green. “Look familiar yet?”
Sarah didn’t know any killers with complete heterochromia, but th
at didn’t mean anything. As he crouched down in front of her she could smell him and hated herself for liking his scent. She flinched when he reached out to touch her face, and then tried to yell as he tugged down her gag.
He clamped his big hand over her lips to muffle her shriek. “I can wait for that.” He put his mouth by her ear. “It’s me, Rah-Rah. T.J. Terry Riley’s son. Remember, from grade school?”
Sarah nodded, and when he drew his hand away, whispered, “FBI or PD?”
He grinned as if she’d made a joke. “You’re still a riot, Rah.” The smile faded as he examined her bruised cheek. “You okay? Any of them mess with you?”
“Not yet.” She glanced at the door. “T.J., you have to get me out of here. Will you untie me?” If he would do that much, she could brain him and jump out through the window.
“I’m working on it, sweetheart. Just keep your eye on me, and be ready to move fast, okay?” He replaced her gag and kissed her brow as he stood up and slid on his shades.
A moment later Benton stepped back inside. “Before you join the others, I must inform you of the special conditions involved in this sale.”
“What conditions?” T.J. demanded.
The European walked over and stroked Sarah’s head like a fond pet owner. “If yours is the winning bid, you will have all night to fondle, torture and otherwise violate our dear girl in our dungeon. But to protect me and my associates, you will be filmed while you’re amusing yourself.”
T.J. grunted. “Anything else?”
“Oh, yes.” Benton smiled with serene benevolence. “At dawn, you must kill her.”
#
As T.J. entered the private bar he noted that the competition had dwindled down to two. Benton’s special conditions had chased off everyone except a career knee-capper with crazy eyes, and a middle-aged woman dressed in a pink twin set and pearls. T.J. sat at the table between them and stretched out his long legs.
“My, aren’t you a big boy?” Twin Set said, scanning him with an admiring eye before giving her salt-and-pepper coiffure a discreet pat. “Made, or freelance?”