Last Hit: Reloaded

by Jessica Clare

  I put my hands on his shoulders and cling to him as he fucks me hard. He leans in to kiss me, and his hand moves to the tattoo of his name over my heart. He holds it as he makes love to me with his mouth and fucks me with his cock.

  I whimper with need as I feel my orgasm building, and I breathe his name over and over again. His movements intensify, and he fucks me even harder, until I’m screaming his name. And then my orgasm is coming over me and it’s incredible, and Nick’s thrusting into me so hard I can scarcely breathe.

  Then he pumps once more into me, and his release washes over my insides. He buries his face against my neck and I hold him close as he comes.

  I’m wet and sticky between my legs from his spend, and so utterly replete that I sigh. “I bet we used up all the hot water and we haven’t even gotten into the shower yet.”

  “Then I will keep you warm,” Nick says, and nuzzles my neck. His hand reaches for my nipple, and at the brush of his thumb against it, I’m tensing and moaning.

  And I forget all about the shower again.

  Hours later, when we have exhausted our bodies, we lay in bed, and Nick’s head is pillowed on my breasts. I toy with his hair, feeling content as he dozes against me. He’s finally relaxed, and now I can, too. I’m a little concerned that something’s bothering him so much that it drove him this far, but maybe it’s the school lockdown that had him so on edge. I hope.

  As I run my fingers through his now-dry hair, I yawn and wonder if Christine took notes during class.

  ***

  Nick wants to wait a week before going back to classes, but I don’t want to destroy my grade. I insist on returning for the very next class, and I can tell that Nick doesn’t like it, but he agrees. Classes are mostly uneventful, though everyone’s gossiping about the lockdown from the other day. The police haven’t caught whoever it was, so the campus is on high alert for any sort of criminal activity. Idly, I worry that Nick is skipping his own classes to lurk outside of mine and make sure that I’m fine. But when I emerge for my lunch hour, he’s nowhere to be seen. I head for the commons and automatically find Christine.

  She’s at her normal table, head down. I head over, smiling. “Hey there. Did you take notes from Tuesday’s class? I—”

  My words break off as she lifts her head.

  Her bangs are flat against her forehead, her hair messy, but there’s no hiding that she’s got a black eye.

  “Hi,” Christine says in a small voice, attempting to smile. She tries to fix her bangs in an attempt to disguise the bruise. “Glad to see you’re back.”

  “What happened?” I ask her. It wasn’t there when I saw her last.

  “Oh, this?” She touches her cheek and waves a hand in the air. “I spilled some olive oil in the kitchen and slipped and hit a cabinet door.”

  I relax. That’s a totally logical explanation. I’m just a crazy girl imagining all sorts of grim possibilities when it could be something as simple as that. Not every situation means someone is being abused, or that Christine is trapped like I was. I’m just . . . oversensitive to such things. “Spilling oil is the worst,” I sympathize. “I did that once and it took forever to get it off the floor.”

  She nods, just biting her lip and watching me.

  I unpack my lunch and automatically set aside the portions I’ve brought for her. It’s become a thing for me to double my lunch and just bring the additional food. I don’t mind. If she can’t afford to feed herself, I’ll gladly feed her. “Do you have notes from Tuesday’s class?”

  She hands hers over and they’re not very complete. It’s obvious Christine doesn’t pay as much attention in class. Where I normally leave with five pages of tightly written notes, Christine has only a half page of idle comments. I still copy them down. Not everyone is a great student, and I can’t criticize her for that.

  “Have you started the midsemester assignment?” Christine asks. Our architecture teacher has asked us to study a particular architect and one of his works and answer an exhaustive list of essay questions. I ended up with St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, and Christine oddly has the same thing.

  “I’m almost done,” I admit.

  “Can I see your notes?”

  I hesitate, but then dig into my bag for the library book I’ve checked out on the subject, and pull my notes out and hand them to her. “You must be super busy at night.”

  For a moment, Christine looks utterly chastised and I feel like a jerk. “Second job,” she tells me, and her voice is tiny.

  “Of course,” I say, and I’m overwhelmed with sympathy. She can’t even afford lunch. How can I give her a hard time? Tuition must be killing her. Just because money is easy for Nick and me, I am forgetting that the rest of the world works hard and suffers to make ends meet. I feel like such an awful person. Christine is my friend. “I’m not finished with the book, but I’ll make additional notes for you this weekend. If you like.”

  Her beaming smile tells me that I am forgiven for my doubts, and I bask in her happiness.

  “What’s for lunch today?” she asks, picking up one half of her sandwich.

  “Chicken salad,” I answer.

  Christine takes a bite, and as she does, a man walks up and knocks the sandwich away from her mouth.

  “I thought I told you to cut back on the food, babe.” The voice is mean and cruel. A big man sits down next to Christine and leans in. “You don’t want to look like a piggy, do you?”

  Her gaze drops to the table. Chicken salad is splattered all over my notes. “Of course not,” she whispers.

  I stare in horror at this rude man. Why isn’t Christine saying something? Should I?

  I’m just about to snap at him, when he gives me a calculating look, and then leers in my direction. “You gonna introduce us, Chrissy babe?”

  Christine licks her lips, glances at the huge spread of food I’ve brought for our lunch, and then looks away, her hands clasped in her lap. “Daisy, this is my boyfriend, Saul.”

  I’m aghast. This horrible man is sweet Christine’s boyfriend? He just called her piggy. He just knocked a sandwich out of her grip.

  Is . . . is this why she doesn’t eat lunch?

  Is this why she has a black eye?

  Even as I stare, he reaches over and grabs a cookie from my spread. “You the one that’s feeding my fat cow of a girlfriend? I thought she looked a little heavier lately. Now I know why.” He gazes at my breasts as he eats the cookie in one bite. “Though it doesn’t seem to be doing you any harm.”

  As I stare at this human stain on society, I realize that I’m going to have to talk to Nick about this man. I can’t allow him to bully Christine. I can’t. She’s sweet and deserves better. In Saul’s presence, she’s practically cowering, her shoulders hunched as he eyes me like I’m a slab of meat. I resist the urge to cross my arms over my breasts protectively.

  Then, a cold feeling washes over me.

  I can’t ask Nick for help. Nick will take this man out with a bullet to the brain. And while I don’t think the world will miss Saul, I can’t allow Nick to kill someone again. He’s no longer a hit man. He can’t solve things with the barrel of a gun any longer.

  If I’m to save Christine from Saul, I’m going to have to do it myself.

  Chapter 10

  Nikolai

  I do not like that Daisy leaves for classes, but I know by now that she would like it less if I protest. Quietly I follow her. One day we watch a James Bond movie and she proclaims I am Bond. But I am no spy. Spies can lie, change their appearance, seduce without effort. I am a poor liar and have never once had plastic surgery as many spies do. My work is done in the background, where I watch and wait. I am a ghost and a hunter.

  Today I hunt. After seeing her safely to the building where her classes are today, I take an easel and set it up close to the security building. I have a sound amplifier in my bag, which I point toward the small concrete slab where the security officers congregate to smoke. With my earphones and my paint suppli
es, I believe I look like an average student.

  Settling in against the cold, I take out my pencil and begin sketching the mane of a lion. My patience is rewarded. Within fifteen minutes, one guard and then another appear. The conversation is easy to pick up. In between the strands of fur on my sketchbook, I take notes.

  “I heard they found three shell casings on the roof of BF.”

  BF would be Blackfriar, the main residence and dining hall. There are several exits and entrance points, and according to the young girls who sit in the front, students often sit on the roof and smoke—often illegal substances.

  “Yeah, a .222. One of the detectives said it looked like it came from a bolt action. Someone had been lying there.”

  “Bolt action? What’s the point of that?”

  “No idea.”

  I did. Bolt-action rifles were precision tools used by military snipers . . . and men like me.

  “No injuries, though. That’s good. Think we’ll actually get some working cameras?”

  The companion snorts. “Yeah, right. I saw a requisition order on the desk today, so it’ll be weeks before they go in.”

  “It was weird. Like the guy was playing target practice. Hit a stop sign, and it looked like he was aiming for the middle but none of the shots were in the middle. One missed entirely and went through a car window. The other two were in the metal, but mostly around the white part.”

  I’ve heard enough. Packing up my materials, I head for Blackfriar. There is no lock on the entrance because the building contains a dining hall available to the entire campus. It takes almost no effort to step into the stairwell and climb the stairs. I spot the black half circles in the ceiling that are apparently empty. Blackfriar is five stories tall, and the dining hall is on the first floor with a few student rooms. Residential housing comprises the remaining four floors.

  A sign above the door to the roof says that it is an emergency exit only and that an alarm will sound if the door is engaged. Using a screwdriver secreted in my art supply bag, I quickly dismantle the door latch. As I suspected, the alarm wires are not hooked up. Either the shooter undid them or, as is the more likely case given the lack of actual security cameras inside the domed glass coverings, the wiring was never attached.

  Yellow police tape surrounds the area where the shooter was lying. I search around the taped area but there is no debris. The police department has picked it over carefully.

  As I crouch near the tape, I breathe a sigh of relief. The shooter is an amateur. His body print is still visible on the concrete. He should have brought a mat. Or not rested so long as to leave a stain. The three points of a barrel rest are still evident. Did he miss killing because he was a bad shot? Or because this was a warning to someone?

  If it is someone sent to dispatch me, former Bratva hit man, it would not be an amateur. A paid killer would easily be able to hit the middle of the stop sign that is only a few hundred feet away, particularly lying down bracing his gun with a stand.

  The phone buzzes in my pocket, alerting me that classes for Daisy are nearly completed. I gather my paint supplies left inside the stairwell and move swiftly down the stairs.

  In the dining hall, I pay for two sandwiches and then eat them both as I jog toward Daisy’s building.

  She is standing in the lobby, frowning when I open the double glass doors.

  “Who has made you unhappy?” I ask immediately. Looking around I see only average students. Have any of them insulted her? I will demand they apologize.

  “No one,” she mutters and then tucks her hand around my wrist. I do not believe her but willingly follow her out into the cold.

  “Did you eat?”

  “I tried but lost my appetite.”

  Halting, I turn and lift my gloved hand to her shoulder. “Tell me what has happened, or I will be tormented by my ignorance.”

  She shakes her head and laughs lightly. “You are full of drama, Nick.”

  Rising on her tiptoes, she kisses me. I sigh because her simple touch fills me with such pleasure. “I have eaten two sandwiches but would like coffee. Will you drink with me?”

  “Of course.”

  After we order our hot drinks at the Village Bean, Daisy confesses her worries. “I met Christine’s boyfriend today.”

  “Da?”

  “He called her piggy. Isn’t that terrible?”

  “Da, terrible,” I reply uncertainly. Is it terrible? I wonder because I call Daisy kitten.

  “It’s not same thing at all.” She somehow reads my mind. “And it’s not just his awful nickname for her, it’s how he treats her. He calls her names, says she’s fat, and . . . ,” she pauses and takes a deep breath. Leaning forward she whispers. “I think he’s not . . . nice to her.”

  “How so?” I ask carefully so as not to misunderstand her. By her earnest expression and her very real distress, Daisy is concerned about something more than a man being unkind to a woman. At least I believe that to be true. “Should I talk to him? I will be pleased to share how a true man treats a woman.”

  Daisy does not welcome my suggestion. She retreats to her side of the table, and the furrows between her eyes deepen. “No. I don’t think she or Saul would respond well to another stranger. Christine is still afraid around me and I’ve sat in her class for weeks now. What do you think I should do?”

  I am stymied. My problems are solved by killing people. In the past, I have needed a good reason to kill someone. I have never killed a person because they are . . . not nice. But this is my Daisy and I would do whatever she asks of me.

  I can kill this Saul, and Christine would be free of that worry, but now is a bad time for me to shoot someone. The police are watching the campus, and another shooting? I can investigate Saul but I don’t want to promise Daisy a resolution and not deliver. “There are some people who do not wish to have aid. They could be hanging from the edge of a bridge and would spit on your hand if you offered it.” She looks surprised, so I share with her an incident of my past. “Before—before us—I tried to warn a young boy who the Bratva had picked up that there was a different life he could lead. I offered him money but he refused. He said the Bratva was his last, best chance.”

  “What happened?”

  “He died, not five months later. He was delivering a package and failed to be discreet. After he was caught and released by the police, Sergei had another boy end him.”

  “That’s terrible.” She looks a bit sick, and truthfully the memory is not a welcome one for me, either. “Couldn’t the other boy have said no?”

  “That was not how it worked within the Bratva. I was lucky because I had no one, but those who had mothers, brothers, or sisters would do whatever Sergei or his sister ordered, because to not obey meant a thousand horrors were visited upon those you cared about.” I reach across the table and grab her hand, bringing it to my mouth. “I’d storm the gates of heaven and kill Angel Gabriel himself if it meant that no harm would come to you. If Saul is a bother to you, if he causes you one ounce of unease, then he breathes no more.”

  “Oh, Nick. I’m not Sergei to demand those things of you.” She twists her hand to pat my face. “I’ll think of something else.”

  Settling against the wooden slats of my chair, I shrug. “Offer her one of the empty units. Tell her we are having problems renting and that if we had a tenant perhaps we could attract more people.”

  “That’s actually not a bad idea, Nick.”

  “Da, this is good. Now I tell you about my hunt.”

  “For the shooter?”

  “Correct. He is an amateur. Not anyone that I know.”

  “How can you tell?” She plays with a lock of her hair, and my attention wanders from her hair to her hand and down her lovely arm. It is hard to believe at times that I can sit in this cafe in this city with this amazing girl. How fortunate I am!

  “He is sloppy. He left marks of his body, of his equipment. I do not know his purpose but he is not a professional.”

 
“Do you think he missed his target?”

  “Yes or he is practicing? I do not know. I think I will do some research. I would like to look at the police report.”

  “Nick,” she says reprovingly. She is whispering again. We should go home where we can talk freely. “You can’t hack into the police department. What if you’re caught?”

  Snorting, I rise and bring her to her feet. “I will not get caught. I have looked at places with more security than one city police department.”

  “I don’t want to know,” she says.

  “I will tell you when you are ready.”

  At home, Daisy makes dinner while I poke into the internet. A game called Hitman is just released, announces one of the internet ads. Out of curiosity, I click on it. The game is a first person shooter where individuals collect game money for hits that are assigned. Extra points are awarded for crowded locations and high profile individuals such as celebrities and politicians. The president, of course, is the highest achievement but there are large bounties for a female celebrity at an awards show or a driver at a famous race. There is—

  “Daisy, is the Mall of America the largest mall in the United States?”

  “Yeah, why do you ask?”

  “Come and look at this.”

  She abandons the kitchen and leans over my chair. After reading silently, she asks, “You think someone’s playing this game in real life?”

  “It is possibility. I will do some searching on the deep web, for if it is game, then there must be a way to announce it and be rewarded.”

  “That’s really horrible,” she declares.

  “Of course. But that is humanity. We are awful beings for the most part save for a tiny few, like you.”

  She blushes but kisses me softly, tenderly. “You’re wonderful, too. Don’t forget it.”

  What I forget is anything we should be doing, such as following these Internet tracks or studying or working on an art project. Instead, I want to draw patterns on her body with my tongue and fingers.