Plain Jane and the Hitman

by Tmonique Stephens

  Emmet didn’t move. Instead, he faced the trio, providing a big ass target. Bailey eased off the gas and switched her foot to the brake. Her hand landed on the gear shift, prepared to slam it into drive.

  “You have friends in low places. Wanna keep them? Step the fuck off. Me and who I work for as enemies, ask yourself, is it worth it?”

  The trio took Emmet’s advice and stepped off. Exit stage right, they got in a black Escalade and gunned it.

  Emmet didn’t move. He kept them in his sights until their tail lights were in the distance. He gave a thumbs up to the man with the gun on the G6 stairs, then pivoted.

  Bailey turned off the car and climbed out. Emmet waited, a silent statue with those artic eyes, for her to close the door. Now she waited for him to say something. They had a moment when their eyes locked with a ton of steel and a windshield separating them. He'd read her mind, and that had never happened before, with anyone.

  Without a word or further acknowledgment, he snatched up the duffel full of something worth killing for and led the way to the plane. He played the gentleman he definitely wasn't and halted at the stairs. Bag slung over his shoulder, gun still in the other hand, eyes hooded. She crossed the hangar, her bare feet slapping on the concrete. Staring straight ahead, she ignored his presence and carefully placed her foot on the first stair. She gripped the rail and cranked her head around.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Miami.”

  “To Hank?”

  His scowled, and a question formed in his eyes. “No.”

  “Why not? Where is he?”

  “Get on the plane, Bailey.”

  She glanced at the entryway.

  “You could’ve run me over.” He tipped his chin to the car. “Roadkill and you would’ve been on your way back to your umbrella drinks and gropy dance partner.” He leaned in and dropped his voice low. “But you didn’t.”

  True enough. “I don’t kill children and dumb animals.”

  A dry bark escaped him. “I don’t need to guess which one I am.” The low hum of the plane’s engine kicked up a notch.

  The same guy appeared at the top of the stairs. “What’s the holdup? Bad weather is coming. We gotta leave now.” He vanished into the interior.

  One step at a time, she climbed, fully realizing the precarious position she’d placed herself in. She didn’t stop until carpet tickled the soles of her feet.

  Wow. So, this is how the rich lived. The interior was done in gray and silver with white leather seats trimmed with gray, Bailey took in the opulence along with her dirty feet and her less than haute couture attire that screamed she didn’t belong.

  With a solid thunk, the door closed and locked behind her.

  Emmet moved past her, deeper into the plane, to take a seat at the conference table. For the first time all day, she was kind of at a loss.

  The plane lurched and started taxiing. She sunk into the first leather seat and buckled up. There was nothing to see outside the window at one a.m. with night claiming the landscape.

  A bell chimed, and a voice came from overhead. “Butts in seats. We’ve been cleared for takeoff. We’ll be in the air in ten.”

  She'd only seen one guy, but surely another guy was flying the plane, a co-pilot. Too bad she had no one to ask.

  Not going to ask him. Nope.

  She loved flying. Especially the lift off to new destinations. Growing up as the child of a diplomat, flying all over the world had become routine. Funny how she always thought of Theresa every time she stepped onto a plane.

  Her heart twisted at the thought of her mother's name, and she quickly locked down the memories. Some things were too painful to dig up. Theresa was at the top of that list.

  Shit, Daisy! Bailey peeked over her shoulder at Emmet. He had his back to her, ignoring her. He got her on the plane, mission accomplished. She fished out her phone from her pocket and sent a quick text.

  Met someone interesting. Left island for more intimate encounter. Don’t freak out & yes, it’s me. You’ve finally rubbed off on me.

  Bailey chewed on her thumbnail, wondering how much more she should tell her. Not much more, she decided.

  See u in ATL in

  What was a reasonable time? How long would this misadventure take?

  2 days. Love you.

  That’s how long she’d give Hank. Two days was all she owed him.

  The whine of the engines went from idling to full throttle. The G6 rocketed down the runway. She gripped the armrest as her body pressed into the leather and didn’t let go until the plane leveled off.

  An overhead monitor showed the flight time to Miami. One hour and forty minutes. Shorter than the flight time from her home in Atlanta. How would he get her into the states without her passport? That would be her chance to get him arrested and get help.

  Damn it. She needed information and wouldn’t get it sulking near the cockpit. She unbuckled and made the trek back to the man who saved her twice.

  Bailey found him eating sushi with chopsticks when he hadn’t even offered her a drink of water, but there was a beer opposite him, waiting for her she supposed. She sat and hated to admit she felt safer with the solid table separating them.

  “There’s a stocked kitchen behind you if you’re hungry.” He hadn’t paused his food to mouth exchange, had barely spared her a glance.

  “You said when we got to the airport you’d prove you know Hank. We are well past the airport.”

  Emmet placed his chopsticks on the side of his plate and wiped his mouth on a linen napkin. He took a deep swig of beer, then he leaned back in his seat, king of his domain. All those muscles flexing in his hands and arms, she watched with a dispassionate eye. This wasn't a date, and she wasn't interested.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket, swiped his thumb to unlock it, and pulled up a video. The one person she never thought to see again was on the screen. He’d aged. Gray peppered his hair, along with a wealth of crow’s feet and frown lines.

  “Bailey. Circumstances have changed. My associate, Emmet Streeter will protect you until the situation is resolved.” The video ended.

  Emmet picked up his phone, closed the screen and returned it to his back pocket.

  Streeter, AKA Streets. “That’s it. That’s all I get. Three sentences.” Which was more than she’d gotten in the last seven years.

  “Your father has enemies. They want him dead. Us dead. To get to him, they will get to you. I’m here to prevent that.”

  Her lips curled back from her teeth, and she spat, “I’m a means to an end.”

  He gave a slight inclination of his head. “Good, you understand your situation.”

  Yeah, she understood. She was caught in the middle of a war she had no part of and no way out. A long swallow of her beer cooled her temper and allowed her to think instead of reacting. “Who’s this enemy?” Maybe she could make him an ally.

  “No one you need to worry about.” He picked up his chopsticks.

  “A mystery man is trying to kill me. I don’t know his name. Don’t know what he looks like, and I shouldn’t worry about it?”

  His chopsticks returned to the side of his plate, and he planted his elbows on the table. "His name is Rogers. He's a killer. As am I. As is your father who trained us."

  Wow, she'd learned something new. Not that Hank was a killer, that she'd already known and accepted. The latest information, her father trained killers. All these years she thought he followed orders, didn't realize he gave orders. Men followed him, not the other way around.

  And one of those men wanted him dead. Maybe there was a way she could help him.

  She picked up the beer in front of her and took a long swallow, before demanding, “Tell me about Rogers.”

  Chapter Six

  God, she was a piece of work. Stubborn, self-possessed, and unflappable. Emmet expected hysterics, anticipated a spoiled, pampered, privileged bitch he’d have to hogtie and carry. He expected to find someone he’d hate.


  Instead, he was intrigued. She knew Hank was her father, and by her lack of surprise at his announcement, knew what he was, what he did for a living. However, she didn’t know Hank, not how a daughter knows a father. Not how Emmet knew him, as the man he admired, respected, loved like the only father he’d ever had.

  And Rogers…

  “Rogers and Hank worked for the Company. Co-workers, you could say.” He couldn’t call it the agency. It would give too much away.

  “The name of the company, what is it?”

  He snorted. “You think we have a name? Like Apple or Nike? With a cute logo?" Aww, he'd hurt her feelings. She glowered at him, and he found he liked her glare. There was depth to her blue eyes and not just the navy color. Though she failed to hide it, every hope, dream, and lie resided in her eyes. One merely had to peer deep enough to find it.

  “Are you black ops? Part of the government?”

  Yes, and no. The government paid them a hefty salary, but no part of the government claimed governance, that’s how deeply buried their existence was. However, that was privileged information. He waited for her next question.

  Bailey snorted and rolled her eyes. His evasion hadn’t escaped her notice. He added observant to her plus column. “Why is Rogers trying to kill Hank?”

  “They’re having a…procedural disagreement.” Easiest way to describe it without the intimate details dragging the story out.

  “They disagree on how to file the paperwork? Android vs iOS? PC vs Mac? That can’t be why they’re killing each other.”

  Snarky just got added to the plus column. “Rogers wants the company to go a different direction than Hank prefers.” He tossed out.

  Her gaze narrowed. “Does he want him to go legit?”

  Legit had nothing to do with what happened between Hank and Rogers. One woman and a couple of Russians had turned their battleship into the Titanic. Only, instead of an iceberg, a slow leak had their ship dragging them below the surface. The leak being Rogers.

  “Not going to answer? That’s fine. I don’t need one.” She stretched and cracked several vertebrae in her neck. It had been a long day for her, and longer for him. He glanced at his watch. Thirty-two hours ago was the last time he’d slept. Wasn’t his max. Once, he’d gone seventy-two hours waiting out an asshole who’d locked himself in a fucking safe room.

  He needed to rest before they landed because she wasn’t gonna be happy. And she needed to stay happy and healthy. Happy for his sanity and healthy for her father.

  “We’re landing in ninety minutes. There’s a bedroom and shower for you to get cleaned up and get some rest.”

  “What’s the point of getting cleaned up when I have no clean clothes. I don’t even have shoes.” She propped her dirty feet on the table, next to his half-eaten dragon roll. His chopsticks rolled from next to his plate and continued their journey off the edge of the table. Her right eyebrow rose in a graceful arch full of challenge.

  Emmet picked up a piece of sushi with his fingers, smeared wasabi all over it, popped it in his mouth, and licked his fingers clean. A little bit of dirt? Fuck, he’d eaten out of wet dumpsters before he met Hank.

  She removed her feet and sat up. Next thing he knew, she snagged his last piece of sushi, rolled it through the wasabi, slapped some pickled ginger on top and down the hatch it went. She even licked her fingers, slowly.

  How do you taste? The sudden thought struck him straight in the cock and shocked the shit out of him. Tasting her wasn’t gonna happen. Hell, she was practically his sister. Practically, except for the lack of any DNA in common. He had to say, the resemblance to Hank was there. They shared the same blue eyes, though Hank’s had lost most of his humanity. The same bold square jaw, though hers had an appealing softness. The same straight black hair, except she rocked a messy asymmetric pixie cut, shaved on the left, layered to her shoulder on the right, and had no gray. She was a regular girl. Nothing really stood out about her. In truth, she’d blend easily into a crowd. A ghost.

  Yet, everything about her grabbed his attention and kept it locked on target.

  She snatched up her beer and took another long draw, her gaze locked on his. Not the first time a woman had tested him over drinks. It was, however, the first time his balls tightened.

  “There’s more beer in the kitchen.” Say yes. He wanted her to accept his offer because of the challenge in her eyes, and the snarky twist of her lush pink mouth, but knew she wouldn’t. Soon she’d be too tired to do anything except sleep thanks to the crushed sleeping pill mixed into her beer.

  She slumped in the chair as if the fight had gone out of her. “No. I’ve had enough liquor for one night.”

  By the sudden exhaustion etching her face, he agreed. Pointing to the back of the plane, he said, “Shower, bed, and I packed most of the stuff in your bungalow.”

  “Really? I should be angry, but, thanks.” She yawned, rubbed her eyes, and rose to her feet. “What about you?”

  He shrugged. “What about me?”

  “Where are you going to sleep?”

  Aww, she cared. He had a sarcastic reply ready to go and stopped at the concern on her face. She really did care.

  Emmet tipped his head to the built-in leather sofa along the left side of the plane. “I’ve slept on worse.”

  “Oh, okay.” She looked around a bit sheepishly. “Well, I wasn’t gonna give up the bed. A quick catnap and I’ll be fine.”

  He watched her shuffle off, stumbling a little when turbulence rocked the plane. She paused in the galley for a bottle of water and continued to the suite in the rear.

  Emmet waited for the bedroom door to close to head to the cockpit. “You’re clear to alter our course,” he said to Blake and Paul, pilot and co-pilot.

  “Paris still the destination?” Blake asked.

  “No. Switzerland.”

  “Why Switzerland?” Paul peered over his shoulder at Emmet.

  “Just get there.” Emmet trusted Paul, just not with this information. That was the reason for the mid-flight destination change. He returned to the cabin. Now that his babysitting duties were done for the night, it was time to check in.

  He retrieved his satellite phone from the duffel bag and sent a message. Package secured and waiting.

  Bailey wasn’t the only one who needed a shower. He could wait until later. The sounds of movement came from the bedroom. He glanced at the door, imagined her inside, fresh from her shower. Skin wet.

  “Don’t go down this road,” he mumbled. The Sat phone rang.

  “Report,” Hank ordered.

  “As planned, we are on our way to Switzerland. I’ll let you know when we arrive.”

  “Don’t. It’s too risky. I’ll call you when I can.”

  Risky? “What’s the latest on Rogers?”

  “The search continues for the hole he’s buried himself in. And not just him. Jerrod and Ivan have joined the fruitless effort.”

  If it were so fruitless, why did those he counted in the friend column continue to join the other side? What were they missing? "What swayed them to join Rogers?"

  “I’m working on that.”

  “You alone?”

  “No. Whiskey is here.”

  “Whiskey?” AKA Dylan McCallan. Once a part of their organization, he’d left on friendly terms. Yet, in these murky days where friends were now foes, could he be trusted?

  “I brought him in, not the other way around.”

  Because I’m on babysitting duty and you have no one else. “I’m coming in.”

  “No, you’re not,” Hank hissed. “I need the freedom to move without worrying about—”

  "I get it. You can't do what you need to do if you're worried about your kid. I'll take care of things on this end, and you take care of shit on yours." Emmet ended the call and flung the phone across the plane. It was either that or crushing it in his fist.

  He lunged to his feet and paced. It was the only thing he could do trapped in a flying tube. Being inside a plane
was too much like being inside a cage.

  The memory of his father locking him in a dog crate for an entire night clogged his brain. He didn’t need that nightmare cluttering his mental landscape. And he didn't need more liquor either.

  Emmet glanced at the closed door to the bedroom suite. He had to check on her, make sure the drug hadn’t had an adverse effect. She locked the door. “Good girl.” She hadn’t forgotten the basics.

  He retrieved the key hidden in one of the kitchen cabinets. The lock made a soft snick and opened quietly. Bailey had managed to strip off her clothes and cover her body with a robe provided for her by the agency they used to maintain the plane. Curled into the fetal position on the bottom half of the bed, she looked younger than her twenty-five years. And innocent, even with the smudged mascara from her rubbing her eyes. What happened between her and Hank for them to be estranged.

  Emmet hadn’t missed the fact Hank hadn’t asked a single question about his daughter. Not a fucking one. If he had a daughter, regardless of her age, not a day would go by without him hearing her voice and knowing she was safe. Not a single damn day.

  Fuck. “Glass houses, Dude.” Who was he to judge. Hank had to have a good reason.

  Emmet scooped Bailey up to lay her in the center of the bed and was surprised when a phone tumbled out of her palm. “Sneaky. Sneaky.” He was impressed, not mad. That’s what assuming her phone got lost in the pursuit got him.

  He stretched her out on the bed and covered her with a comforter. Taking the phone from her would be too easy, and after they landed in Switzerland, not Miami, she'd need a security blanket—her phone. Which would last until she tried to make a call. Good thing she wasn’t on any social media platforms. Odd for a woman today, but she wasn’t, he’d checked. He had his IT person double-check.

  He opened the back and removed the chip, and placed the phone right next to her.

  Wonder how long it will take for her to find out? Wonder how big the explosion will be? Or will she be the female version of her father and not buckle under pressure…until this unexpected betrayal by the men he’d broken bread with and trained.