HITMAN’S SURPRISE BABY

by Kathryn Thomas

  When I put the plate of food in front of him, he finally says, “We’ve got to ride tonight. You and me.”

  “What?” I protest. “Where? It’s not Friday yet.” The thought of moving again, early, puts me off like no other. I’ve kept a small backpack at the ready, but jumping houses week after week is killing me. I never thought I would admit to just wanting to stay in one place.

  “It’s not that. This place will do… for now. The guys are, well, they’re asking about you.”

  “Who? Who the hell cares about me?” I ask, surprised. No one really even knew my name even when I was with Viper. The ones who do know me are regulars at the bars or guys with girls who work with me. But up to this point, none of them have shown any interest in me outside of that.

  “Dig,” he answers gruffly. “He and his little posse want to make sure I’m not doing shit to you. They’re starting fucking rumors that I’m holding you against your will.” Bishop doesn’t look up from his plate of steaming pasta and breadsticks.

  “That’s bullshit,” I mutter. The little punk-ass lackey of a man is using me as a pawn. I know it. I should have asked Viper to cut him out of his life a year ago. Now I have to deal with him bringing my name up in some kind of power-grabbing show. I slam down the pan into the sink and storm off towards the bathroom to collect myself and get ready for the evening.

  As I shut the bathroom cabinet, Bishop’s reflection is right behind me in the mirror, staring me down again. He looks towards my hands wrapped around the edge of the sink countertop.

  “Don’t worry about it, Jane. I’m not going to let him touch you.”

  “That’s not—” I try to ease up. It’s sweet he thinks that a guy like Dig could ever scare me. “It’s just that I’m tired. We’ve been moving around so much, and I just miss my home and bed. You know? I miss my routine. I don’t want to complain; I’m not that type of girl, but I’m wondering if there’s ever an end to it?”

  My confessions catch us both by surprise. He places a hand behind his head as he asks with a lowered voice, “Well, I’m sorry to be a fucking inconvenience to you.”

  “Whoa! No. No, Bishop. That’s not what I meant. Being with you… Well, it’s all that I can ask for after everything’s that’s happened. It’s just that…”

  A million lines run through my mind, none of them adequate: I’m pregnant. I want to jump your bones. I’m worried I’m going to bring you down if I confess that you may be the father of my unborn baby. Without any real options, I finish my sentence with, “I want to go home eventually. Soon?”

  “Yeah, soon,” he spits out. “But no trouble tonight, right? I really don’t have time for shit outside of dealing with Dig and his fucking—”

  “I’m not going to be trouble. I don’t know why in the hell you would think that about me.”

  “You’re tired. I’m fucking exhausted. This isn’t exactly how I want to be president of my club.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to be president at all,” I throw back, knowing it would strike him hard.

  He sneers. “You don’t know what I want.”

  “That’s true,” I quickly reply without any pause to think about the implication. “I have zero idea of what the hell it is you want from this.”

  “From this?” He places his hand on his heart, closing the space between his large behemoth chest and mine.

  “You know what I mean.” My voice drops to the very depths of me.

  His phone ringing from the other room catches him off guard. We both stare at one another for a short second. I want to hear what comes next, but I know I come second. I have always come second to the Carnivores. His jaw slides back and forth as it rings again, and by the third, he pushes his way back out of the bathroom and towards the kitchen.

  I finish my makeup quickly and throw on the one empire waist shirt I have. I smooth out the wrinkles and the ever-so-tiny belly bump in the lone mirror. I can see it. I know I can, and the more I try to press down the small little fold of my shirt, the more it paints a bullseye right dead center at where my terrible mistake is hiding.

  I stare at my face, sunken and hollow from eating less but craving more, and try to place a nonchalant smile on my lips—something that would show Bishop that I am alright, even though I am far from it.

  I turn back towards the kitchen, hearing Bishop’s voice suddenly rise over the silence of the nearly empty house. I tiptoe back towards the kitchen where I watch from behind the large food pantry as he stands over the sink with his back towards me. His hands rest tense around the faucet knobs as if he’s about to rip the damn thing out of the countertop.

  The hair on the back of my neck rises as I watch him close his eyes tightly. His voice sounds distant and full of rage…And something else; something I’m unfamiliar with when it comes to Bishop.

  “Say it again… slower. What did you find at the warehouse?”

  Club business. Of course. He can’t go a day without drama being blown way out of proportion and someone ratting on something. He tells me that this is normal and that the guys will find a rhythm with their new club leadership. Instead of snitching on one another, trying to start wars with the factions of guys, they’ll learn to trust him.

  I breathe a bit of a sigh of relief as I walk into his view, then sit down on one of the stools.

  I mouth silently to him, “I’m ready to go when you are.”

  But he doesn’t even blink. It’s as if he’s staring right through me.

  “No. Don’t call the fucking cops, Jose. Jesus Christ! Give me about ten minutes, and I’ll be there. In the meantime, lock the place down. Make sure security’s tight. Bring the girls to the bar and give them something to do. It’s gonna be a long night.” He hangs up the phone and pauses. I watch as his sturdy chest visibly tenses in his skintight black T-shirt. His shoulder blades rise while he inhales.

  I know I shouldn’t ask, but I do anyway. “What was that about?”

  “Come on. We gotta go.” He charges at me from behind the sink and grabs hold of my hand. I practically fly off of the stool and down to the ground before I can catch my feet. My boots skid on the floor, and I’ve got just enough time to take my backpack. I’m not sure why I’ll need it, but the phrase long night is setting off little alarm bells in my head.

  The bike’s parked around back, underneath the protection of an overgrown weeping willow. When Bishop reappears through the thistle, a cloud of evening fog surrounds him. His black boots crunch through the soft ground, and a small halo of moonlight gives him the eerie glow of a man on fire. Something about him reminds me of that Halloween night… The night with the man in the mask hovering over me, ready to take claim on his mystery woman. I don’t know if it’s the cold or the fear, but shivers race up my spine as I try to hide my reddening face from him.

  We don’t bother to lock the doors or turn the alarm system on; he’s too focused on getting the hell out of here and to the clubhouse.

  We tear through the streets, taking back alleys and side streets to avoid traffic and the few cop cars I see lined up outside some local restaurants and shops. Main street lights pass by in a blurred flash with only glimpses of the couples holding hands as they stroll along the sidewalks. A couple of moms push strollers. They turn away from their babies as they hear us whiz by, like ghosts in the night.

  The warehouse is practically empty when we arrive. There are only a few bikes in the lot, but in the shadows of the streetlights, I see a few familiar faces. My heart instantly drops as I recognize them—security detail. These guys aren’t the regulars who take guard and do lookout duties. They’re the ones you hire when danger is coming. They’re the big dogs, the best shooters, the ones who would lay down their lives for this club. Bishop and I both stare at them as they pace the small lot, looking outward towards the main road.

  “What are they doing here?” I ask, knowing I’m about to find out one way or another. “Bishop?”

  He doesn’t answer me, just takes my hand and pull
s me towards the entrance as quickly as my feet can move. He uses his foot to push the large metal door open, careful not to touch anything with his hands.

  “Get in,” he commands. “Don’t say a word. Don’t be seen. Stay in the back, and wait until it’s done.”

  “It’s done? What the hell does that mean?”

  “What did I say, Rivet?” He brushes his scruffy face with the inside of his hand. “Don’t say a fucking word.”

  His warm hands wrap around my bare shoulders as he places me near the door in a corner just out of sight of the main work area. It’s not exactly hidden, but it’s about as inconspicuous as you can get. A small window with crisscrossed thin lines is the only way I can watch Bishop charge towards a crowd gathered in the center. They call his name, beckoning him over. The small circle parts slightly, enough for me to see what it is they are looking at on the ground.

  There, on the wooden plank floor, are the boots of a man I know as Old Joe. I recognize them by the bright blue shoelaces he wears—used to wear. He’s not moving, nor should he with the amount of blood pooling around him. A hand appears, uncurled and lying motionless in another similar red circle.

  Bishop stands back, keeping his distance, when another group calls him over. There’s another body—an unknown man I should recognize. Each of them were customers, brothers really. But I can’t put names to faces when they are battered like this.

  I watch as Bishop whispers something in the ear of one of his board members.

  The guy responds, “Dig,” and then the words, “Set up.”

  Before I can put the words together, I am flung to the side by the door launching open. It slams into my head, sending me back hard against the wall. I ricochet against the side with my ears ringing and the world going hazy around me.

  A man I can’t see calls out, “Police Department! Everybody down! On your hands and knees! Now!”

  I try to curl myself back into position, between the gap, but I can’t seem to make my body move further in. All I can do is watch as Bishop spins in his place, a black gun pointed directly at the space between his eyes...

  Chapter Ten Bishop

  I remember my first run-in with the police. I was thirteen, and I knew better than to shoplift some dumb shit out of the drug store, but I did it anyways. My gang was there, egging me on. One of the guys, a neighborhood kid who later died in prison, whispered in my ear to take the damn thing off the shelf and stop being a pussy. I wasn’t one—but I was a dumbass for listening to him.

  As soon as we walked within five feet of the doors, alarm bells chimed, and someone called for us to stop. An old woman behind the counter tried to urge us to stay put, but we were already gone, running as fast as our beat-up sneakers could take us. This was training for all of us. Kids like us didn’t have dads to buy us what we wanted or moms to cook us the warm meals we needed. We had to take what was ours—old ladies behind a counter be damned.

  We ran about a block, splitting up when we heard the first wailing sounds of a police car. Being the youngest and fastest, I took the route no one else wanted to. I made it past the chain link fence and over a small dividing wall between houses, but when I stepped foot into the yard of some rich yuppie, I knew it was over. The cops had managed to cut off my access to the street, and they had seen glimpses of me as I ran circles around the block.

  An older cop, had to be nearing retirement age, spoke calmly to me. “Son, drop the bag and sit down where you are. You run, and you’ll make things worse for yourself. You do what I say, and we’ll be done in minutes.”

  Of course, I didn’t listen. I shot up off my feet before I could think of the consequences or the people in my life that did stupid shit like this and got caught. I dropped the bag and jolted out of the backyard without looking back. It was only when the old man tackled me straight to the ground, me landing directly on some jagged rocks, that I had a chance to consider what this day would do to me.

  I’ve been on the run ever since. The sound of sirens is like a junkie’s high to me. I get off at the thought of me outsmarting, outgunning, them. And I love when I can get to them—to make them my minions with the flash of some cash or a bag full of white powder. Keep your enemies close, they say.

  But the guy pointing his gun at me isn’t one of mine. I’m on a first-name basis with most of the local PD, but this one is a mystery along with the rest of his five-person squad standing in a wide V-shape behind him. They take tiny steps forward as they shout nonsensical instructions at my crew. Is it drop our weapons first or get on the ground? Either way, I’m not complying.

  I count to ten in my head, each number ticking down like a bomb about to explode. I’ve got just that amount of time to make a decision before someone starts to fire. I know this from experience; from my first time in a shoot-out.

  I stand perfectly still; gun cocked and loaded, and a barrel staring down at the man across from me. He shakes, but I’m as firm as a tree planted in the ground. I’m not going anywhere, but he’s about to be moved.

  I see the flash of a hand behind his head. It’s just enough time to duck down before a hail of bullets fly. The sound is like a furry of massive hail striking a tin roof. I jump over the body of Pedro and head toward the side of the large, open room. The boxes of drugs there are just enough coverage to protect me and get my bearings. The rest of my men run in the opposite direction, but the cops remain in place. This time, they’ve turned towards my security force who have pinned them from behind. The police must have missed them on their way in, or they were smart enough to lay an ambush in case shit went down.

  I throw myself behind a stack of large wooden crates as another bullet fires in my direction. It manages to hit the wooden frame nearest my right shoulder. I try to stay quiet, but a small yelp escapes my lips as I force myself down onto my stomach. Someone nudges me in the arm—Orlando, the enforcer who originally called me in to check out the dead bodies earlier. He holds his small handgun out towards the room as he whispers urgently, “Who the fuck called the cops on us? Was it the Desert Snakes?”

  “No. No.” I shake my head. “I don’t think those fuckers are crazy enough to get this involved.” Another shot fires and we retreat even further back into the warehouse. “This had to be someone on the inside.”

  “Someone set us up? One of our guys?” He looks at me with his wide deadset eyes glowing. “Who the fuck would do this?”

  “Tell me again how you found them? Quick!” I know it’s not the time for details, but there isn’t going to be an opportunity to get the full story before we have to make a decision.

  “I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize. I thought it was one of our guys using a burner or something. It said something about the warehouse needing help, so I came over like an hour later. Fucking bloody mess when I walked in. The second shifters came in about five minutes later. None of them looked like they knew shit.”

  I scan the room of our men. They’re tired, shook bodies plaster themselves against walls and around corners. They cling on to their guns as they wait for my signal.

  One person is missing from this scene—Rivet. I haven’t heard a sound from behind that door since it swung open.

  I sneak a peek around the side to see the front entrance. Our security detail continues to fire, but they need help, and we need a way out. I look back towards the door again, this time looking for signs of life. A small hand rests motionlessly under the crack between the door and floor. Fucking hell.

  “Cover me,” I call back to Orlando and the few men within earshot.

  “What? Are you fucking insane?”

  I stiffen my jaw as I stare straight at the man. “Did I fucking give an order or not, boy? Don’t let me get fucking shot or taken. When I’m at the door, you all make a run for it through the left exit and through the crawlspace. They won’t know which way to go, and security will have them distracted. Once you’ve got somewhere safe, you text me your location. Got it?”

  A stunned look passes o
ver his face as he nods and gulps down the fear.

  “And whatever you fucking do—if they catch you, you run. You don’t talk, you don’t fire. You run the hell away or put up a damn good fight trying.”

  “Yes, Bishop,” he replies softly, understanding my message.

  Again, I count to ten. Each number feels like years passing by as I stare at the few painted fingernails sticking out from the hiding spot. At one, I force myself up and into a sprint. My gun shakes in my hand as I bound through the chaotic maze of bullets. None of the cops seem to stop or notice me. They’re all pointing towards the door, answering each fire with another one. They call out for each other as they split up, one heading back straight in my direction. I stop where I am as he nears me, unsure of what to do. Taking a life is no easy feat, even for a guy like me who lives in blood and death. If I did this act, if I took the easy way out, I’d be no better than these government scumbags. I’d have red on my hands I couldn’t easily wash clean.