Ultimate Kill (Book 1 Ultimate CORE Trilogy) (CORE Series)

by Kristine Mason

  “I told you I met Christian when I was working as a cocktail waitress. I was nineteen, going to school, working my butt off. He was, believe it or not, very charming and I was very attracted to him. Before Christian, the guys I dated were from high school. They were young and immature. Christian was older and sophisticated. He’d take me to nice restaurants, buy me flowers…he made me feel special. I was really into him, but kept telling myself this wouldn’t last. Between his wealth and family connections, I couldn’t imagine our relationship going anywhere. I also told myself to enjoy the moment and made the mistake of having sex with him. Only once, because that was enough. I’m not going to get into the details. Let’s just say I didn’t enjoy it and never wanted him touching me again.”

  Which was an understatement. She loved it when Jake was a little rough and domineering during sex. She also trusted him and knew he’d never hurt her. The night she’d had sex with Christian, he’d taken dominance to a violent level. She might have gone to him as a willing partner, but when he’d begun to hurt her, she’d begged him to stop. He wouldn’t. Instead, he’d become even more sadistic. As if her cries and pleas only fueled his desire to control her.

  Jake gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to tell me this.”

  “Actually, I do. You know everything else, and this is something that affects both of us.” She drew in a fortifying breath. “After that horrible night with Christian, I refused to see him again. He didn’t like it. He called constantly, would show up at my apartment, at the club where I worked or catch me on campus when I was rushing to get to class. I saw the callous man lurking beneath the good looks, charm and money and didn’t believe his apologies or his excuses. Then a couple of months later I found out I was pregnant.”

  She searched Jake’s eyes looking for disappointment or disgust. Instead she found a combination of sympathy and anger. “At the time, I didn’t realize he had the Columbian following me. Christian found out I was pregnant, and without asking me what I planned to do, he took it upon himself to decide for me.”

  Jake’s jaw tightened and his body tensed. Beneath her palms, his heart rate accelerated.

  “I came home from school in the afternoon and the next thing I remember was waking up in a cold cellar, strapped to a table.”

  Leaning his head against the pillow, Jake ran a hand over his face. After a moment, he looked at her, the rage and horror in his eyes contradicting the way he continued to gently massage her shoulder. “He’s the reason you can’t have children,” he said, his voice low and filled with loathing.

  She nodded. “Christian brought in a man he claimed was a retired doctor, then stood and watched as the doctor and Ric gave me an abortion. Afterward, Christian took me back to my apartment. He told me to not bother going to the police, because it would be my word against his. And he was right. I had no proof that I was carrying his baby.”

  “You were obviously drugged. The police—”

  “I know where you’re going with this. The night it happened…I was bleeding badly. My main concern was to get to the hospital. I explained to the ER doctor what had happened. After he stopped the bleeding and made sure I’d be okay, he ran a tox screen and later found chloroform in my system. The doctor and nurses encouraged me to call the police. Once I was moved to a hospital room and had time to think, I decided they were right. When I was about to call for a nurse to help me contact the police, a man wearing scrubs and pushing a cart filled with flowers, came in the room. When he stepped from behind the flowers and I saw Ric’s face, I knew going to the police wasn’t an option.”

  “What did Ric do to you?” he asked, his tone deadly.

  “Threatened and taunted me. He made it clear that Christian’s team of attorneys would destroy me and my family. They’d make me out to be a money grubbing slut, say that the baby could have been any man’s and that I was crazy enough to do this to myself. After all, I was going to nursing school and knew my way around the human body.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Of course it was, but I was scared and knew Ric was right. Rather than drag my family into my problems with Christian, and drag my name through the press by making accusations, I let it go. I had my regular doctor check me and while she said I had scar tissue, she thought I’d be okay. Unfortunately, she was wrong.”

  When Jake didn’t say anything, she blew out a stream of breath. “Now you know everything. I’d rather you find out now, from me, than during the trial.”

  “You told the Feds?”

  “I told them everything.”

  “Virginia gives Death Row inmates the option of lethal injection or the electric chair,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked away from her. “Either one would be too easy for the bastard.” Barely glancing at her, he kissed the top of her head. “Thanks for telling me. I know that had to have been hard for you.”

  After giving her shoulder a soft pat, he separated their bodies and swung his legs over the side of the bed. As he stretched, she stared at his back, at the scars from where the shrapnel had been removed after he’d been caught in an explosion while in Iraq. “Why don’t you take a nap?” He turned and rested a hand on her hip. “I’ll see if I can find something to make for lunch.”

  She pulled the comforter to her chin. “Sure, sounds good,” she said, hurt, confused and disappointed. “Give me an hour.”

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Love you,” he whispered against her ear, then he pushed off the bed. Once he’d gathered his clothes and left the room, she flipped onto her back and wiped the tears from her face.

  Thanks for telling me. I know that had to have been hard for you.

  Hell, yeah, it had been hard. She hadn’t expected him to spout out a bunch of philosophical or emotional crap to try and make her feel better, but she sure as hell had expected more than a thanks for telling me. That’s something she’d say to a server after they told her about the soup of the day.

  Thanks for telling me.

  How about a couple words of comfort? How about letting her know this didn’t change anything between them? With the way he’d acted, she had the impression that knowing she’d not only willingly had sex with Christian, but that he’d forced her to have an abortion obviously didn’t settle well with Jake. Although she understood, he didn’t have to be so damned blasé about it. Upset or not, he could have given her an encouraging word or two.

  Unable to close her eyes without reliving their conversation, she slid off the bed and headed into the bathroom to shower. She loved Jake, and once she spoke with her principal about her job, she still planned to go to Chicago. She’d keep her house in Woodbine, though. At least for a little while. If thanks for telling me was Jake’s idea of being supportive, especially during the trial when all of her secrets were aired, she might have to take a break from him.

  Jake might love her and want them to have each other’s back, but she needed him to show it. After so many years of running and worrying, of dealing with her past on her own, she needed to be sure she could rely on him in every sense.

  Otherwise there would be no future for them.

  Chapter 17

  CHRISTIAN EXITED OFF Georgia’s US 17 and pulled into a one pump gas station. He looked at the paint peeling off the small storefront, the weathered billboard advertising bait and Coca-Cola, then to the gas pump. What a shithole. He slid out of the Ford Focus and stretched. Because he wasn’t supposed to leave Norfolk, he hadn’t been able to rent a car. And because all of his vehicles were extremely expensive and noteworthy, he hadn’t wanted to take one of them, either. Fortunately, Vlad had left his car behind when he’d gone with Santiago and the twins last week. Unfortunately, the car was small and compact. How the hell Vlad had fit inside, he didn’t know.

  “Afternoon,” a man called.

  Christian glanced over and refrained from rolling his eyes. Typical redneck. Wearing faded, stained coveralls, and a cheap mesh ball cap that made his head look at least four inches t
aller, the old man approached, a slight limp in his step.

  “Does this thing work?” Christian asked, pointing to the rusty gas pump that looked as if it had been there since the 1970s.

  “Sure does,” the old man said, then spit onto the cracked asphalt. Using the back of his hand, he wiped at his long, white beard. “Cash only.”

  He pulled out his wallet and handed the man a fifty dollar bill. “Obviously.”

  After shoving the fifty into his pocket, the man limped to the pump. “Want me to wash your windows?” he asked and unscrewed the Ford’s gas cap.

  “No.”

  “Only take a minute or two. Your windshield’s a daggone bug cemetery.”

  “How far to Woodbine?” Christian asked, not interested in being at this filthy excuse for a gas station one minute longer than necessary.

  “About forty-five minutes,” the old man replied, removing the nozzle from the pump. “Heading there to do some fishing?”

  Christian watched the numbers on the pump slowly turn. One number at a fucking time. “Hunting. I also heard Woodbine has a beautiful garden and offers tours.”

  “Don’t know.” The man turned his head and spat. “Not much into flowers.”

  He smiled. “And I’m rather partial to roses.”

  “Mmm, thorny suckers.” He kicked the pump and the numbers flipped a bit faster. “If you stick around, you can catch the crawfish festival later this month. Good eatin’, good music, but I recommend taking a flask. Beer ain’t cheap.”

  Christ, why the hell hadn’t he stopped for gas earlier? He stared at the numbers on the pump, wishing they’d roll by faster. It had taken him seven hours to reach this point. Add on another forty-five minutes, plus the time it would take to kill Rose, he figured he could be back on the road by late afternoon. Since he shouldn’t have left Norfolk, he would need to drive the almost eight hours back to his estate tonight.

  During the early hours of Tuesday morning, after he’d finally finished speaking with those idiot FBI agents, and Martin had subsequently released him due to lack of evidence, Agent Suts had dropped him off at his plantation estate. Christian had then spent the remainder of the day locked in his bedroom suite. Other than having the small kitchenette fully stocked, he’d ordered his servants not to disturb him. As he’d sat in his room, a room he’d planned to share with Rose while his bitch wife and kids were in New York, he planned his next move.

  Martin had assured him his name would not be leaked to the press. Years of friendship, told him he could trust the Director of the FBI. As added insurance, he’d still made a few calls. The Vice President had plans to run for president in the next election, and was rather fond of Christian’s campaign donations. Christian had also been in contact with his secretary and PR people. They were to handle BH-Xpress’s stance on the bombings, and were to make sure that the financial aid he’d promised to the bombing victims started immediately.

  He continued to watch the slow rolling numbers on the rusty gas pump. Rose had cost him a lot of money. When he considered how much he’d spent on investigators over the years, the C-4 Ric had purchased for the bombings, his eighty-six million dollar plane and now the fucking financial aid—she owed him. Plus, he’d lost a COO and his two best bodyguards.

  He leaned against the silver Focus and considered Vlad and Harrison. As much as he’d love to find and kill them, they would have to wait. Martin might not leak his name to the press, but that didn’t mean the director wouldn’t have his people watching him. Thanks to his state of the art security system, he knew they weren’t—yet. Still, it would behoove him to maintain caution. In time though, Vlad and Harrison would pay.

  The pump finally dinged. “That’ll do it.” The man moved the nozzle away from the car. “You sure you don’t want me to—whoa,” he shouted, and pulled a small hatchet from his back pocket.

  Christian stepped back and raised his hands.

  “Don’t move unless you want to get hurt.”

  What the hell? If he was going to die, his executioner wouldn’t be a hatchet wielding redneck. Lowering his hands, he prepared to use the gun he kept clipped to the back of his belt.

  “She’s a beaut,” the man said, scratching his beard and staring at the ground.

  Christian followed the man’s gaze, then jumped to the side when he saw the snake. “Is that thing poisonous?”

  “Yep,” he said, holding the hatchet steady. “Won’t kill ya or anything, but it’ll hurt like a son of a bitch. Been finding a bunch of them lately. I gotta get into those woods next to the station and find their nests. One of these little bastards killed my cat and that pisses me—” He whacked the blade against the asphalt. “Gotcha.”

  Christian watched in fascination as the decapitated snake’s body squirmed and its mouth still moved.

  The man wiped the blade along his coveralls, then spat. “When I was in Nam, I had a platoon leader, Cap’n Dumbass we called him.” Still watching the snake, the old man chuckled. “Cap’n Dumbass used to tell us how we gotta cut off the head of the snake. Once done, the bodies, meaning Viet Cong, would flounder around and eventually die. That dipshit never cut off a snake’s head. See how its mouth is still snappin’?”

  “How long before it stops?” Christian asked, thinking how ironic this conversation truly was. He’d anticipated killing Rose, cutting off the snake’s head, so to speak. Once she was gone, there wouldn’t be anyone left to accuse him of anything.

  “I’ve seen some take a few hours.”

  Christian shook his head and pulled the keys from his pocket. “So what’s the best way to kill a snake?”

  “You pretty much just saw it,” the man said, tucking his hatchet back in place. Then he laughed. “Unless you got yourself a honey badger. Ever see that YouTube video. Funny stuff, right there. That damned badger took down a cobra and the venom didn’t even stop him.”

  Fucking honey badger.

  Christian let out a bark of laughter. Talk about true irony. Yes, he’d seen the stupid video. The moment he’d overheard his men calling him Honey Badger, he’d looked up the creature. While he thought the video mildly amusing, what he’d read about the animal had intrigued him. Although he considered himself more of a lion than a small, vicious weasel, even a lion couldn’t necessarily stand up to the honey badger. And right now his lion, or rather his cobra consisted of Rose and some small time, private dick agency.

  “You sure about that windshield?”

  “I’m good,” he said, opening the car door. He glanced down at the still moving decapitated snake. “I need to be back on the road.”

  “Happy hunting.” The old man chuckled. “And flower watchin’.”

  Christian smiled. “I do love roses.”

  *

  Harrison’s eyes burned and watered as he stared at the closed laptop. Thanks to Vlad’s damned chain smoking, a hazy fog hung in the Rainbow Lodge’s small, shitty room, reminding him of the week they’d spent planting the bombs. Only now they were in Woodbine, Georgia, trying to figure out a way to disarm the bombs without being caught. “Why do I feel like we’ve come full circle?”

  “What is this circle Harry says?” Vlad asked and blew smoke rings.

  “We started this in a crappy motel and are now planning to end it in another one.”

  “Harry plan to end it. Vlad is…on rail. We should never have come and go straight to Florida, like Harry say.”

  Four years ago, the Norfolk PD had arrested him and Mickey for robbing a bank, and while they’d recovered most of the stolen money, the police hadn’t realized Harrison had set up an account in Titusville, Florida. Neither had Mickey. If his twin had had a clue, the money would have been carelessly squandered. Prior to their arrest, Harrison had created fake IDs for him and Mickey. They had social security numbers, Florida driver’s licenses, along with a bank account.

  After collecting interest for the past four years, he had over one hundred grand waiting for him, along with his and Mickey’s bogus IDs in
a safe deposit box at the same bank. Vlad could easily assume Mickey’s fake ID. The driver’s license photo would be a problem, but at least Vlad would have a new name and they’d both have an opportunity to hide in plain sight.

  “Rail?” Harrison asked, trying to keep up with the Russian’s use of the English language.

  “Vlad not interested in Harry’s plan with woman. Big mistake. But,” he said with a sigh and snuffed the cigarette in an ashtray. “Three last bombs must be found.” He shrugged. “So, Vlad on rail.”

  Vlad needed to learn his idioms. “You mean on the fence.”

  “Fence, rail, no point in making mincemeat out of Vlad’s words. I grow tired of being corrected. Beside, Harry understood.”

  Mincemeat? Man, did Vlad need some serious schooling. Based on how the Russian kept teetering on him, he’d let this one slide. He didn’t necessarily need Vlad on his side, but at this point, Vlad was all he had. He’d lost his brother, his twin, his best and only true friend. He couldn’t count on his mom. Hell, anymore, he didn’t even know where she lived. He’d never met his dad and had no clue if the man was dead or alive. With no family to speak of, no friends to count on, he was left with the one person who actually acted as if he gave a shit about him.

  A six foot six, two hundred and forty pound, former heavy weight boxer who referred to himself in third person, smoked like a frickin’ chimney and couldn’t quite master the English language. What a pair they made.

  “Look,” Harrison began, “you need to get off your rail and trust me on this. We go to the woman, give her the laptop, tell her what we know and then leave for Florida. Simple and easy.”

  “No.” Vlad took out a fresh pack of cigarettes and smacked it against his palm. “Not easy as fucking pie. What if she calls FBI?”

  “We’ll be long gone.”

  “Bullshit. We might go, but Feds will know the state we are in and put APP on our asses.”