Driven to the Edge: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance

by Morgan Black

  “You can have the car,” I say. “It’s insured.”

  “I’ll probably take the car, but right now it’s more useful to me with you in it.”

  He’s busy flipping through something on a phone, scanning over the screen. But I can tell by the way he has his pistol tilted my way that he could shift back to full awareness in a nanosecond. He’s some sort of professional. There’s no doubt in my mind.

  Is he mafia? Some sort of hired gun?

  This all feels like it can’t be real.

  There’s a part of me that wants to freak out, wants to break down sobbing, shaking and begging for my life. But that part isn’t winning because I’m not sure a guy like Jake Hawthorne would be moved by that display.

  No, my best bet is alerting the authorities.

  My phone is in my pocket, but I have to figure out a way to retrieve and dial it without drawing attention to myself. There’s the car’s hands-free unit, but that would be obvious.

  Trying to come up with a way to call the police distracts me from my nerves, at least. I don’t know the odds of survival that go along with being carjacked, but they can’t be great. The Touring Club provides all sorts of training to its drivers on how to handle emergencies, but a lot of those scenarios envision the clients themselves as the targets of the violence.

  Not the perpetrators.

  God, he lied about everything. Other than the fact that he had enough money to hire me, was anything Jake told the Club true?

  Suddenly, this man who just moments before had been charmingly inviting me up to his hotel for a drink was a complete stranger. A murderer.

  Before, all I wanted to do was go home and get some rest. Now I’d settle for seeing my home ever again.

  Fear knotting in my stomach, I turn the Maybach onto the road that begins to wind up a hill, ever closer to Griffith Park Observatory. This time of day it’ll be crowded with tourists, but maybe that’s what Jake wants.

  We sit in tense silence as I drive up the hill. As we pull onto a deserted stretch of road, Jake pockets the phone he’d been obsessively looking over.

  “Your phone,” he says, extending his now empty hand.

  I hesitate. My work phone is in my pocket, but my personal phone is still in the glove compartment. Does he know I have two? If not, maybe losing the first won’t matter so much. I slip my hand into my pocket, hesitant.

  “Don’t make me wave the gun at you,” he says, almost as if bored.

  I comply, passing him my iPhone without looking up from the road. I watch in my peripheral vision as he removes the sim card. He rolls down the window, throwing the sim card out, then wipes the phone down on his coat. He chucks it out the window a moment later.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say. “I’m doing everything you ask.”

  “You’re doing fine, Alicia.”

  I hate the way he says my name, like he still savors it.

  “Just tell me what you want. You don’t have to destroy anything. I’m obeying willingly.”

  A brief smile stretches up just one half of his mouth.

  “It’s not about whether you obey willingly now,” he says. “I need to know you’ll still be obedient when my back is turned.”

  I snap my mouth closed, anger rising in me like a tide. Who does this guy think he is?

  The grassy, hill-dotted area surrounding the Observatory is thick with tourists when I pull up to the top of the hill. Jake instructs me to park in a spot near the corner of one large lot, across the street from the observatory building itself, and I comply.

  “I have some handcuffs that I usually carry with me,” he says as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket. “But these might be better on your wrists for driving.”

  Then before I can even attempt to protest, he wrenches one of my hands into his own. Holding my hand to the steering wheel, he zip ties my wrist into place, pulling the plastic tight, although not tight enough to be painful. His hands are warm, covering mine entirely, their fingers thick and tipped with hard calluses. He has a worker’s hands.

  “If you behave, I’ll only tie the one.”

  He says that like he’s doing me a favor.

  Then he sits up straighter in his seat, tucking the handgun back into his jacket. He stares straight at me, capturing my eyes with his. It takes my breath away, the intensity in his stare.

  “Alicia.” He speaks softly, almost as if we’re intimate. Friends. Lovers. Anything other than criminal and hostage.

  “What?”

  “I’ve got a phone call to make. You stay put. If this car moves at all or makes a single sound, I’ll fill a dozen of these tourists with lead.”

  I can tell by the flat, even sound of his voice that he means it.

  “No funny business, right?” He leans forward and presses his thumb to my chin, tilting my face up to force eye contact. I can feel the heat of his hand on my skin, sending a shiver of revulsion and fear through me.

  “No funny business,” I promise.

  I mean it too.

  The second he steps out of the car, I look over toward the glove box. My personal cell phone is still inside. I’m not so rash that I’d honk the horn or try to drive off--after all, we’re surrounded by innocent people--but just maybe, if I could get a text off...

  There’s only one problem. He’s zip-tied my right wrist to the steering wheel, which severely limits my ability to lean across the car. I give it a couple experimental tries, but I can’t get all the way across the center console.

  Stretching my left arm out as far as I can, I grab for the latch on the glove box, but my fingers come up several inches too short.

  Come on, I tell myself. People have struggled out of worse situations than this. And for all I know, this could be my only chance to escape.

  I rock back and forth a couple times, then heave forward in the seat, wincing as the plastic tie cuts into my arm with my body weight resting atop it. I still can’t quite reach it.

  I peek out the window. Jake is standing over near some bushes, gazing out in the direction of downtown. He’s speaking into a phone with a hard, serious look on his face. I wonder how well he can see me through the tinted windows of the Maybach. Do I have time for one last attempt?

  I shove myself forward with all my might, gritting my teeth as pain shoots up my arm. My fingers brush against the cool surface of the glove compartment, but not close enough to the latch to grab it.

  Hissing out a curse, I slump back into my seat.

  Good thing, too. Because Jake is back. He opens up the passenger seat and slides back into the car, settling down.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  I look over at him. He’s looking at my wrist, where the zip-tie has bitten into the skin, left it raw and red.

  “You don’t need to restrain me,” I say. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Jake buckles up his seat belt and leans back in his chair. The gun is nowhere to be seen, but I can’t imagine he’s ditched it or anything.

  “Let’s hope that’s the case,” he says. “We’ve got a drive ahead of us.”

  A lump forming in my throat, I turn on the engine, awaiting his orders.

  “Get us on I-15,” Jake says. “We’re headed out of town.”

  Out into the desert? I don’t like the sound of that.

  9

  ~ Jake ~

  The second I tell her which highway we’re getting on, I see the real fear rise up in her eyes. And I can’t blame her, really. She probably thinks I’m taking her out into the desert to execute her and leave her in a ditch somewhere.

  It’s not her fault the evidence on Martinsen’s phone points toward Las Vegas.

  Lucky for the other idiots on my Los Angeles list, my priorities have shifted. All that matters is getting Eloise back. I can come back for those assholes any day.

  Flipping through Martinsen’s emails, I found confirmation of a flight booking: Long Beach to Las Vegas, two adults and a child. It could have been
nothing, but the itinerary was booked by one of Martinsen’s goons, not the man himself.

  Why would some employee forward the head honcho his flight details if he wasn’t flying with someone important? The names on the itinerary mean nothing to me, but the little girl is listed as ‘Sally,’ which is about as fake name as you can get.

  If that wasn’t enough to confirm my suspicions, Martinsen had a text on his phone confirming a delivery in Vegas on that same day. Highly unlikely that they decided to move guns or product on a flight from Long Beach Airport when ground transport was so much more secure.

  It all has to be about Eloise. I don’t know what they plan to do with her. Shit, maybe they don’t either. But I’m not going to give them a chance.

  I don’t get much time alone with my thoughts, however. Alicia is real scared now. She starts begging as soon as we pull onto the interstate.

  “Listen, I’ve done everything you asked...”

  “Yes, you have.”

  I decide to let her stay scared for a while. I’m not going to kill her--not if I can avoid it. I don’t know why I saved her in the first place, but she isn’t a part of this. Senseless murder has never been my M.O.

  She thinks I can’t tell, but she keeps looking over toward the glove box. There must be a weapon or maybe another phone in there, something she thinks will help her. It’s a shame she’s decided to be such a pain in the ass about this; otherwise I’d admire her ingenuity.

  Before the I-15 interchange, I tell her to pull over and gas up the Maybach. These armored bastards take the term gas guzzler to new heights. We really do need gas, but it’s also time to put her dreams of rescue to rest.

  “Pop the gas cap open for me,” I tell her as she eases the Maybach up alongside a pump. “Same rules apply as last time. There’s at least two people working here, however many customers. They’re all dead if you so much as blink wrong.”

  She nods several times, auburn hair bouncing about her chin with the force of it. I’ll be good, her eyes tell me.

  I’m used to being obeyed.

  Before I open up the door, I pop the glove box and look inside. There’s a smartphone in a turquoise case nestled in amongst all the paperwork. I grab it and pocket it on my way outside.

  As I close the car door, I see that resignation creep back into her eyes. She thought she had me fooled. Now she’s back against the ropes.

  I fill the car’s tank without incident, then stroll into the convenience store. I’m dressed a little out of its league, but hey, these things happen in the big city. I ask to use the bathroom, then detour into the ladies’ room and drop Alicia’s phone down a toilet. Even if someone finds it, who cares. It’ll be fried and there’s four separate highways within a mile of here. Good luck guessing which one we took.

  On my way out, I buy some bottled water and trail mix and granola bars. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us. And despite what Alicia may think, I’m not some monster.

  Once we’re on the open highway, the faint background tension that had been lingering in my chest dissipates.

  We got out. Or rather, I got out.

  See, I’m aware I’m not perfect. I know that given enough time, someone will turn up some material evidence linking me to Martinsen’s murder and the fire in La Jolla. My only hope is that Eloise is safe by then. Because I don’t intend to go down easy. And I certainly won’t go down until I’ve got her in the hands of someone who can take care of her.

  That list of people is tiny, though.

  In fact, it’s just Vin, who I’ve known since my pawn shop days, working the counter at a shitty cash-for-gold in North Vegas.

  I pull my wallet out of my pocket and flip it open. Inside, there’s a photo: a dark-haired man, skinnier than me, his cheekbones prominent, eyes a little sunken. There’s a sandy-haired little girl sitting on his knee, fidgeting, not looking at the camera. He’s looking down at her and smiling like she’s the only thing in his life that can bring joy to his eyes.

  There’s too much at stake for me to fuck this up.

  By the time I fold the wallet away, I notice Alicia has been watching me. She’s got one eye on the road of course, but she’s also eyeballing me sidelong, as if she’s trying to figure me out.

  Good luck with that, girl.

  It’s a shame our relationship had to get off on the foot that it did. In another life, if I weren’t set down a path that ends at an inevitable crash and burn, I could see her taking me up on that offer I gave her earlier. Back at the hotel bar, a couple drinks, a cozy table off to the side somewhere.

  I’d ask her why she was daydreaming in the airport. I’m sure I could get her to tell me eventually.

  She’d have given in.

  And then, instead of zip-tying her to my steering wheel, maybe I would have pinned her lithe little body up against the headboard in my hotel room, kissing my way down the skin of her neck, finding out what lies beneath that chic little sheath dress she wears.

  Yeah. In another life.

  For now, I’ve got a job to do. And it means taking this car all the way to Las Vegas.

  I settle down into my seat and pop a bottle of water open. We’re going to be driving for a bit.

  10

  ~ Alicia ~

  After an hour and a half of staring straight ahead at the fine grey ribbon of the interstate, I’ve got a plan. Or at least as close to a plan as I’m going to get now that the bastard holding me hostage got rid of my backup phone.

  “Hey,” I say, cautious. I’ve got to remain respectful. Deferential.

  “Hm?”

  He looks up and over toward me like my presence in the car is an afterthought. Like he barely cares.

  “I’ve got to use the bathroom.”

  I try to force some awkwardness into my voice, make it sound more like an admission than a calculated ploy.

  “That sign up there said this next exit has the last bathroom for forty miles.”

  A heavy sigh escapes him. I hold my breath, awaiting his reply.

  “And I suppose you just can’t hold it?” he asks with a note of sarcasm.

  “I’ve been holding it for the last two hours,” I snipe back. And hey, that part is even true.

  He takes a moment to decide. I can’t breathe the entire time he’s deliberating.

  “Fine,” he eventually says. I pull the Maybach off the interstate toward the public rest stop advertised. It’s little more than a brick shack off in the desert.

  To my dismay, it’s empty. I was hoping there’d be someone, anyone else there. Someone I could alert in secret. A trucker, a tourist family, anybody.

  Instead, we’re the only car in sight. I hold back a curse and pull into a spot up against the side of the building.

  “Do I need to go in there with you?” Jake asks. He’s got those heavy, serious eyes on me again. He’s weighing everything I say and do for a sign. Am I trustworthy, or am I going to try to escape?

  I’ve never met a man with eyes quite like his. He looks at me like he’s already got me all figured out.

  “No,” I say. “You don’t.”

  I hope against the odds that the lie doesn’t show in my face or voice.

  “Very well,” he says. He slips a knife from his boot, which causes me to tense up all over. I flinch away from him as he leans forward, but all he does is slip the blade under the zip-tie that binds my hand to the wheel. He cuts the plastic away with a gentle snick of the blade, leaving my poor abused wrist free.

  I rub at the skin and find myself mumbling a quiet thank-you. Like he’d just done me a fucking favor.

  As Jake pulls his hand away, he glides a thumb along the inside of my wrist, examining the red patches rubbed into it.

  “You really don’t need to struggle,” he says, the rough pad of his thumb pressing into my pulse point. It sends a shudder through my entire body. I clench my teeth to avoid spitting in his face.

  Something occurs to me: he sure seems interested in touching me. Is it possible the
flirty facade he’d put on earlier wasn’t an act?

  That could be something I could use to my advantage. As an absolute last resort.

  I bite my tongue until he leaves me alone. Then I stagger out the driver’s side door and into the hot desert sun.

  The sunlight beats down on my hair and face, surprisingly warm after the air-conditioned interior of the Maybach. My legs feel like they’ve fallen asleep, weak with a combination of disuse and nerves. I stumble my way into the women’s bathroom wondering if I’m going to puke.

  But rather than heading for a toilet, I search the walls for a window.

  If I can wriggle out the window and out the back of the building, maybe he’ll just leave me out here.

  It’s a risk. I know how dangerous it is. But facing the desert alone and potentially dying of exposure sounds better than leaving myself in the hands of a murderer.

  There’s a small window in the rear of the bathrooms. If I climb up onto one of the sinks, I should be able to reach it. Especially given the extra boost my heels give me. Wary of climbing onto the slippery porcelain in my pumps, I ease myself up carefully, grabbing the frame of the window for balance.

  I open up the frosted glass pane and push it outward. The gap is narrow, but I should be able to fit through it. And the drop’s not that far, hopefully onto soft sand below.

  With slow, deliberate care, I begin the process of wiggling through the window and out to freedom. By the time I drop through and onto the sandy ground below, my heart is racing a million miles a minute.

  Apart from an electrical box and some solar panels, there’s nothing out back that could be of use to me. I contemplate carving an SOS into the wall or something, just in case I stumble out into the desert and die of exposure, but even in my worst nightmares I’m not that melodramatic.

  Out a few meters into the wilds, there’s a drift of tangled bush and boulders. It’s too close for my liking, but the desert is flat and I’ve got to take what I can get.

  I’ll hide out there until someone else shows up, I think. He sounds like he’s on a timetable, for whatever business he needs to get to. Maybe if I divert him too long he’ll just leave.