Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2)

by Holly Hart

  I watched, and watched as it fell through the air, almost in slow motion.

  And I heard as it crashed to the ground, making as much noise in this quiet, librarian space as Yellowstone erupting.

  "I knew you were in here," the fat man wheezed. Because it had to be him – the overweight, creepy officer who'd seen me in the corridor. I knew I was right to distrust him, had been from the start. But smug self-satisfaction would get me nowhere. "Come out, little girl, and I'll make this easy on you. Don't make me come back there, will you, birdie?"

  You wouldn't fit… I thought sourly. If ever there was a contrast between two men, Roman and the fat man provided it. And the fat man didn't come out in front.

  I stayed quiet, silent as the grave. I'd seen enough horror movies to know how this ended. I'd already made the classic mistake, I sure as hell wasn't planning to make another. I even slowed my breathing, in one, two.

  Out one, two.

  In one, two…

  I took a step into the corridor between the shelving units, not bothering to hide myself from the bulbous turtle -like security cameras, searching for the right rack. Like the one I'd backed into, many of them were old, poorly-maintained, and ready to fall. Like a rotten, hollowed-out oak tree in the middle of the forest, it might only take one slight push to bring the whole thicket tumbling to the ground.

  That was the plan, anyway. I eyed the one to my side carefully, ignoring the incriminating fallen cardboard box, stacked full of yellow legal papers, but dismissed it. The whole bottom shelf was stacked three high with boxes, weighing it down like an anchor.

  No, I needed something top-heavy. Like the fat man.

  "Come on," he puffed, sounding closer. "I won't hurt you. I won't even touch you, if that's what you want," he said, his voice dripping with longing. I shuddered at the thought of his fingers coming within 10 yards of me.

  My eyes wandered, searching for my get out of jail free card – though, in this case, it was rather more a get into jail card, given where I was currently breaking into. Still, I figured, better locked up than dead.

  Jackpot.

  I sprinted to the shelf, not bothering who saw me, the cameras or the man chasing me. I was in a race now, a race against time, and the seconds were ticking away. I reached it, tensed my body like an NFL player and drove forward, shoulder-barging it. It rocked, boxes stacked on the top shelf wiggling as the unit rocked from side to side.

  "I'm coming!" The plump officer choked, sounding delighted.

  I rammed it again, and again, and again –.

  "Stop!" He squealed, and I turned my head and I saw him pointing his service pistol at me, held in two hands, shaking. The enamel top button at the top of his navy uniform shirt bulged against the stress of keeping it pulled tight, and in a strange moment of clarity, where the rest of the world seem to slow down around me, I realized that he'd tried to brush the doughnut dust off his collar, only to grind it in. I grinned.

  "You're not going to shoot me, Frank," I said, injecting a boatload of confidence into my voice. In reality, I wasn't nearly so sure – so I stopped pushing, just to be certain.

  "Frank?" He repeated stupidly. "What –?"

  I shrugged. "I dunno, Frank," I said, emphasizing it. It seemed to be pushing him off balance, and I only hoped that his emotional baggage was as unwieldy and poorly distributed as his gut. "You look like a Frank to me. A fat Frank." I said, digging the knife in for good measure.

  He reddened, blood surging to his face as he stiffened with anger. Suddenly his gun hand wasn't trembling anymore, and I cursed inside. I seemed to have touched a nerve…

  Ah, crap. I thought. In for a penny, in for a pound. I span, kicked the rack as hard as I could, and dived for cover.

  It didn't fall. But Frank did fire, and in the confined, concrete-walled warehouse that stored Alexandria's police evidence – tons upon tons of weapons, plastic-backed spent bullets, the seized contents of houses and blood-stained children's toys – in short, the detritus of a city falling apart, it sounded like the world ending.

  I scrambled for safety, bashing my knees, palms and elbows against the coarse concrete floor, ducking and weaving and throwing myself behind stacked racks of evidence, cursing as I saw that row after row was filled with just flimsy, feeble cardboard boxes. I was no expert, but I didn't think for a second that they would stop a bullet.

  "Oh shit, oh Christ," Frank mumbled behind me, sounding like a man on the verge of panic – a man who had realized he'd made a terrible mistake. I'd got my wish, that was for sure – you couldn't fire a weapon inside a police station without someone coming running, even in a police force as incompetent as Alexandria's. The question was, though, whether Frank would double down on his error, and whether that meant that I was in his firing line. I gulped.

  A door crashed open, and heavy boots thundered against the hard, cold floor – salvation, if I lived long enough to see it.

  "Officer, put your weapon down!" A woman cried, and the call was taken up by a dozen more voices, all echoing some variation of: "drop your weapon!"

  I made my peace with the consequences, and made a break for it. Breaking into a police station? It had to be a felony – or some other equally terrifying legal term that I didn't have any experience of. Still, it was better than a bullet from Frank's gun.

  I sprinted for the door, for the line of armed officers with their weapons drawn, my hands above my head. The heavy police belt weighed me down, and I reached down with my right hand to unclip it. I turned round the final rack with one hand in the air, one on my waist, and waddling at top speed like a terrified duck. The first police officer I saw, a young woman, perhaps twenty-eight years old, looked as surprised to see me as I was her.

  "Put your hands above your head!" She screamed without flinching, in a parade ground, battle-hardened roar.

  "It is," I squeaked, hurriedly putting the right one up to join it.

  "Get on the floor," she shouted, and I dropped, and then there was a knee in the small of my back, and the woman screaming, "you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…"

  My cheek rested against the cool concrete, and I closed my eyes.

  My work was done.

  I just hoped that Roman's was, too.

  37

  Maya

  I leaned forward, wincing as the couch groaned and squealed with every inch. "Alina, tell me. Is there a child here?"

  Her face was as guileless as a toddler's. She wrung her hands together like an old washerwoman, and I saw her jaw clench and face grimace as she tried to work out what to say. I knew the bind she was in, and so did she. She was between a rock and a hard place. It wasn't me who was the rock, but Massey, his presence as good a threat as any – even if I never meant it that way.

  A tear crept into the corner of her left eye, and then another, and another until both were wet and a stream ran down a lined face that was entirely free of makeup. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she cried. "I knew it was wrong, I knew that I should have called police. But Mister Victor –"

  "Alina," I interrupted. "I understand. Believe me, I understand. I know it wasn't your fault. I know you didn't have a choice. But tell me the truth. There's a baby here, isn't there?"

  She nodded, like a child on the verge of a flood of tears, as though she didn't trust her voice not to betray her.

  "In that bedroom?" I asked, jutting my chin at the only door it could be, the only other door in here.

  Alina nodded.

  "Okay, Alina," I said, speaking to her softly, slowly, as if I was speaking to a child. "You see, I have to thank you for everything you've done to keep him safe. But he's my friend's son, and I need to take him home. You understand that, don't you?"

  She nodded, though it was like her neck was moving through wet cement. Her lips seemed locked together, she was struck dumb.

  "I'm going to go in there now," I said, still measuring my words. "And get him. I want you to know
that nothing's going to happen to you, okay? Mister Victor," I said, copying her name for him. " Isn't going to be a problem anymore. Not for you, not for anyone." I could tell she didn't believe me. But I knew she wasn't going to stop me.

  I stood up and walked for the bedroom. Alina didn't follow. I turned the handle, and the door opened to reveal a room full of five or six kids who looked like they were trying to pretend as if they were doing anything but listening to every word of our conversation. I figured Alina must be the neighborhood childminder. Made sense. The oldest kid, a girl of perhaps twelve years old, with pretty emerald-green eyes and light brown hair that fell almost to her waist, cradled a bundle of cloth in her hands. The head, just peeking out, was topped with a light covering of sandy hair.

  "Hey…" I said softly. "You mind if I take over?"

  "Hey, boss lady!" Massey cried out. "High five!"

  I looked pointedly at the sleeping five-month old baby boy cradled in my arms.

  His face fell. "Oh, yeah," he stumbled. "You're right. Maybe not."

  I started walking down the stairs. I kept my eyes trained on every one, ears peeled for any hint of trouble. I knew Ellie would kill me if I returned her baby with so much as a hair out of place.

  "Oh, and Massey?" I called back.

  "Yes boss?"

  "Make sure that lady's taken care of."

  "Yes boss," he barked. There was a slight pause, and I realized the sound of footsteps from behind me had died away.

  "Massey?" I said, turning to face him – eyebrow already raised in question.

  "Yes boss," he said – again – as he started walking down. “Only, boss?"

  "Yes, Massey," I hissed. "What is it?"

  "I was just wondering," he said, scratching his elbow awkwardly. "Whether you want her taken care of, like getting her a new car, not living in a shithole; or, you know – taken care of."

  I stared at him with dumbfounded amazement. When I finally regained the power of speech, I spluttered. "Massey, if I ever find that you've killed a nice old lady who gave me a steaming hot cup of a drink my grandmother used to make me," I gasped. "You'll be taken care of!"

  "Yes, boss."

  38

  Ellie

  Six weeks later…

  "Your honor, in the light of the unprecedented levels of public interest in this case, the arrests we have seen over the past month and a half, and with full respect to statutory whistle-blower protections as laid out in section 73, paragraph five of the criminal code, the state does not feel that a prosecution serves either the state or the public's interest at this time –"

  The rest of the prosecutor's short, planned speech was drowned out by a panoply of cheers that rose as one, combined, joined forces and began to echo off the roof like a drum beat. The courtroom was packed to the rafters, with dozens of reporters – some I recognized, and many more from out of town; jurists, legal scholars, and dozens, nearly 100 members of the public. Every single person in the room, even the prosecution team, was wreathed in smiles, and I saw more congratulatory handshakes, hugs and even kisses than I'd ever seen in one place.

  I felt like I'd won the Super Bowl.

  But out of all that mess, I only had eyes for one person. Well, two.

  But Roman had the small bundle of blue cloth clutched so tightly to his chest that he was practically one with it, so hard my heart began fluttering – hoping he knew what he was doing.

  Chill, girl. He saved that kid's life. He's hardly about to hug the boy to death…

  "Order, order…" The judge cried out, banging a small wooden gavel against his lectern. The sound barely penetrated the pandemonium, and before long he placed his head in his hands, shrugged, and massaged his temples. I felt sorry for him. I doubted many of his cases gathered this much attention.

  I leaned over toward my lawyer. Like the rest of his high-powered team, he'd shown up one day out of the blue. Compliments of Conor and Maya. "What now?"

  He shrugged, and attempted a long-suffering sigh, but his lawyerly act wasn't fooling anyone – least of all me. The grin that stretched from ear to ear on his face, like a preening Cheshire cat, showed it for the lie it was. "We did it!" He cried, gathering me into his arms. I grinned. His elation was contagious. But still, none of this felt real. I was dazed and confused, walking through a dream without a guide.

  "Seriously, Paul – what's the deal?" I pestered. Much as I was enjoying the public celebrations at my supposed freedom, right now it wasn't everything it was cracked up to be. What's that phrase? Freedom isn't free? It sure as hell felt that way to me…

  I'd have sacrificed all of this madness for just one more second with Roman – and for my first ever meeting with my son. At least, my first meeting not separated by a glass shield and two black telephones. I just wanted to hold him, to cradle him, to kiss him on the head and press him to my breast.

  I knew why Roman held him so close.

  "Ahem," Paul stuttered, pulling back and tidying his hair, as if to smooth over his momentary lapse of professionalism. "Quite, of course. Well, the protocol would normally be for the judge to rule the case closed, but as you can see –," he paused, and gestured out into the courtroom, which resembled a sports arena more than it did a firnament of the law. "It's a bit busy out there."

  'A bit busy' was the understatement of the year.

  "So you're telling me," I said, repeating it slowly, just to be certain. "That until everyone in here shuts the hell up, I'm stuck behind this damn screen, with my hands and feet chained together like a chain-gang worker?"

  "Ah, yes," Paul said with momentary chagrin. "I can see how that would be a little… Galling."

  I rolled my eyes at my lawyer's East Coast, upper-class understatement and studied my reflection in the plastic plexiglass screen that separated me from the rest of the courtroom. I grimaced at the picture my eyes showed me. My head hadn't seen a stylist's scissors in months – or even conditioner; my face looked tired and didn't bear even the slightest trace of makeup, and worst of all – most glaringly of all – the orange DOC jumpsuit radiated its fiery color back at me, brighter than the setting sun. I decided that it was up to me. And besides, it couldn't get any more embarrassing than this, having to wear an outfit that made me look like a giant lollipop…

  I stood up. For all that everyone in the room was supposedly celebrating my freedom, I couldn't help but notice that there was barely an eye on me. In fact, only two – Roman's.

  I cleared my throat, and Paul's curious eyes now joined Roman's. A two-man audience, now. Not impressive, but a start.

  I rapped my knuckles against the glass screen.

  "Excuse me," I squeaked, a plaintive sound that didn't reach so much as 5 feet into the crowd, and didn't turn a head.

  I sighed, and tried again. This time with gusto. "Excuuusseeee me!" I bellowed, squeezing more air out of my lungs than I would have believed they could hold. The room fell silent in waves, like a gust of wind blowing across a field of golden wheat, rippling through, quelling pockets of sound that pushed back up on others, and then, finally, you could have heard a pin drop.

  And now, every eye really was on me.

  "That's better," I said softly, slightly embarrassed by the attention of the crowd. Even the judge's eyes were glued to me, which I was pretty sure wasn't the way things were supposed to work. I wanted to sink away, find a hole in the ground and crawl right into it, but I pulled myself up, until like a yoga pose my back was ramrod straight, and my chin parallel with the ground.

  "Thanks…" I croaked, cleared my voice, and continued. "I was kinda hoping we could get on with this?" I raised my hands, and the handcuffs linking them clinked as they rattled against each other. "It's just these things aren't the most comfortable…"

  The crowd looked, as one, embarrassed. The judge, somewhat belatedly, brought his gavel down twice and said, "order," into the silent room.

  Roman's eyes warmed, and his face split into a warm smile. His was the only reaction I cared about.
It was like he was beaming one message through the air at me – atta girl.

  The judge smiled. With a grin that reached the graying hair by his ears. "Bailiff, you can set her free. Case closed." Once again, he brought his gavel down, and once again the sound was lost to a roar of exultation.

  I slumped back and closed my eyes.

  It was over.

  39

  Ellie

  The door to the anteroom closed, and took the courtroom's hubbub with it.

  We were alone, together, at last – and my tongue was tied in knots. There was so much I wanted to say to him, so much I wanted to tell him – and I wanted to hold him so much it almost hurt, but I felt as though my legs were locked in drying cement, my tongue had forgotten how to move, and my lips sealed with superglue.

  Roman looked at me uncertainly. "Are you," he ventured. "Okay? You're looking a bit white. Do you want to sit down?"

  The truth was, I was overwhelmed. Just looking at Roman, dressed in neat, fitted black jeans, a white cotton oxford shirt rolled up past the elbows, and a sleek, expensive-looking stainless steel watch clasped to his wrist was more stimulation than my eyes had seen at any point in the last six weeks, during my stay closeted in the dull, gray concrete walls of the Alexandria County Jail.

  The smell of baby powder tickled my nostrils. "Can I," I stammered. "Can I –, hold him?"

  Roman grinned, looking for the first time like the man I had fallen in love with, and not a concerned good Samaritan. "Are you kidding? Tim and I have been waiting –"

  I cut across him. "You named him?" I said, the words passing through my ears without ever seeming to settle.

  Roman fell quiet, and a look of concern wreathed his face. "Yes, I mean, no –. Just something I called him when I was changing him, you know? I didn't mean to –. It was just like I was talking to my brother again, and –." He stuttered to a halt, leaving a trail of half-finished sentences in his wake.