Billionaire's Killer

by Brooke Shelby

  “Fuck!” Delilah cursed under her breath as she saw two bodyguards go down. The men moved further into the room, shouting demands and insults as they moved, shooting anyone who got in their way. Knowing she had to duck for cover, she noticed a concrete planter the size of a small car to her left. Without a second thought, Delilah ran and leapt behind it. The fall knocked the wind out of her, but she was securely hidden behind the giant planter that held fake palms to decorate the event. With gunfire blazing through the room, Delilah stayed on her belly for a few moments to get her wind back before glancing out from behind the planter to see Carson rushing straight towards her.

  For a split second, she considered doing it now, pulling out her firearm and putting one in his head, but she decided against it. If she did it now, he wouldn’t know it was her; he wouldn’t even know why. Molly deserved more than that; Molly deserved the revenge Delilah had been planning for ten years.

  No, when she killed Carson Royal, she wanted to look into his eyes and tell him it was for her sister. In the brief second it took her to decide against killing him herself, she watched as rapid fire hit both him and his bodyguard. The bodyguard threw himself in front of Carson, protecting him from further fire, going down in a blaze of glory. Delilah couldn’t be sure, but she thought at least one bullet had hit Carson in the chest.

  She closed her eyes, shaking her head; she should’ve done it herself. The noise of gunshots, people screaming, and the chaos that ensued were drowned out by the sudden grief Delilah experienced.

  Now she would never get her revenge.

  It hurt like a bitch, was the first coherent thought as Carson fell to the ground. Ever since the first threat on his life had reached his ears, he had insisted on wearing a bulletproof vest in public. Not everyone appreciated his inventive mind; not everyone appreciated that he had the wealth to back his ideas.

  No one knew, not even his father, of the bulletproof vest Torvald had procured for him a few years ago. The skin below the vest, where the bullet had landed, stung like a thousand bees were stinging him all at once. His breath came in ragged drags as he let his head fall back and turned to his right.

  Torvald was dead. Carson couldn’t even count the number of shots his bodyguard had taken for him. He heard the shooter’s footsteps approach and closed his eyes while he held his breath. He hoped to hear gunshots ring out from his other bodyguards, but nothing came.

  He felt his heart pound in a rapid beat as the shooter stood over his body. “This one’s dead,” he said gruffly before kicking Carson’s side. It took everything in him not to stand up and beat the man to a fucking pulp. Trained in martial arts, Carson knew he would be more than competent in hand-to-hand combat. But this wasn’t hand to hand.

  The man above him had a gun, and Carson had nothing but his wits. His lungs burned at the exertion of holding his breath as he waited for the shooter to move.

  After a few moments, he finally moved away, satisfied his quarry had been killed. As soon as the footsteps receded, Carson drew a deep breath. Still catching his breath in ragged pulls, he glanced around to see his bodyguards had all been killed. Torvald and the three men he’d enlisted for tonight lay in a bloody mess on the floor.

  Carson closed his eyes and took a slow breath to find the calm that he always kept in reserve. He assessed the situation and quickly summed it up. The gang of men who had taken control of the room were angry and out for blood, but they were disorganized, trying to show each other up. He could hear them call across the room.

  “This one’s fucking rich!”

  “This one probably has a rich-as-fucking-Croesus daddy.”

  He tried to determine the reason for the ambush and knew it had to be money. Some of the richest people in the USA, certainly the who’s who of New Orleans, had RSVP’d to attend this ball. It had to be money.

  Grateful they thought he was dead, he took his time glancing around the room through one eye. There were bodies everywhere, some whimpering, some crying, and others dead. For the moment, Carson was just grateful he wasn’t among the last. He heard a man start to shout and briefly looked in that direction

  “Bones is down. Some fucker got Bones.” The man waved his gun around frantically. “Which of you was it? Who the fuck killed Bones?”

  Carson closed his eyes. Of all the things he’d envisioned tonight—the restitution; the amends he was about to make; the ball that would not only save his conscience, but hopefully lighten his blackened heart, had just turned into a fucking bloodbath.

  He tried to hear if anyone else was putting up resistance, but no one was; as one, the rich had fallen and were meekly obeying the commands of the men who were holding the guns. In that moment, Carson realized money was only powerful if you were dealing with the poor.

  6

  “They’re down and ready for picking, Razorback,” the commander of the Rabble announced into Razorback’s earpiece. An evil grin spread across his face. The distraction had been successful. With the gala and its guests taken hostage, their way was clear to the vault. He turned to Devilbunny, who was walking beside him chewing on her bubblegum as if they were taking a walk on the beach. “We’re set to go.”

  “Fucking Ace!” Ace said the phrase that had probably earned him his nickname. Razorback didn’t know and frankly didn’t care. He only knew the skinhead as Ace.

  Clown tugged on the bellhop who had been taken hostage. “Show us the way, little prince,” he said in a voice that made Razorback glad they were on the same side.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know. I’ve never seen it,” the bellhop stammered, fearing for his life.

  “Then point us in the direction of someone who does,” Razorback demanded gruffly.

  “Control room!” the bellhop all but shouted. “They’ll know.”

  “Take us there,” Ace said with a menacing smile.

  They headed left before turning right into a service corridor. After a few paces they turned right and went up a hidden flight of stairs before they reached a door that announced it was the control room.

  “Great, thanks,” Ace said before putting lead in the man’s skull.

  “Fuck, Ace, we said no more casualties than are necessary,” Devilbunny said in a bored tone.

  “It was necessary. He knew my voice.” Ace shrugged and shot at the lock in the door before kicking it in. A middle-aged man swiveled around in his chair, away from the cameras behind him. Luckily, he hadn’t seen anything; Devilbunny had made sure to cut his feed as soon as they arrived. A doughnut dropped into the man’s lap as his hands flew into the air.

  “Come with us,” Razorback said, grabbing him by the front of his shirt.

  “I’ll do anything! Just don’t kill me. Please, my wife’s about to have a baby.”

  “Bullshit. Unless she’s young, and I doubt she’s young,” Clown seethed. “Is she young? Maybe I should pay her a little visit.”

  “No, I’m sorry, I lied,” the man winced, closing his eyes as Clown’s gun was aimed at his head. “I’ll do anything, please.”

  “Fucking asshole.” Clown shook his head. “The vault, now!”

  The man didn’t even hesitate, simply started walking.

  Concentrating on where they were headed and how to head back to the lobby, Razorback turned the sound off on his earpiece as they moved through the maze of corridors. When they finally reached the gigantic safe with a wheel the size of a truck tire, the man stopped. “Here it is. But I can’t help you open it. Only the manager can open it.”

  “No worries,” Clown said, pulling off his backpack. “The manager is otherwise engaged.”

  Razorback suppressed the grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth. He had thought the manager would have a panic button with him, and he’d been right. He’d made certain he was the first one on the floor when they had stepped into the lobby. The stupid fuck hadn’t even had a chance to put his hands in the air first.

  Razorback and Devilbunny watched as Clown rigged the vault. Ace took c
ontrol of the hostage they had with them. After a few minutes, the charges were set, and everything was ready to go. Clown stood up, dusting his hands on his thighs. “She’ll open her legs for me, just you wait and see.”

  They all took shelter in a narrow passageway as Clown hit the button to arm his charges. “Ready to get rich, Razorback?” he asked with a glint in his eye.

  Razorback simply nodded, and Clown hit the button to set them off. The explosion was louder than Razorback had expected; beside him, Devilbunny, who rarely moved at anything faster than a snail’s pace, jumped. Smoke and dust filled the air, causing them cover their faces as they moved towards the vault.

  “I told you, a vault is nothing but a bitch. You just need a little strong-arming to get her to open her legs,” Clown said proudly, stepping into the vault.

  Razorback had never asked, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Clown had raped women before.

  The acrid scent of metal blowing up hung in the air as they stepped inside. Razorback allowed the grin to break over his face at the sight of the cash. There was at least ten million in this vault, he calculated, looking at the bags of cash. The Pearl Plaza didn’t host the biggest casino in New Orleans, but it was the one that banked the most.

  Ace pulled off his backpack and zipped it open before pulling out about ten more. “Let’s pack, boys.”

  “And girl,” Devilbunny said dryly, still holding her briefcase.

  Satisfied with breaching the vault, Razorback turned his earpiece back on. It sounded like all hell had broken loose in the ballroom. He could hear Rabble shouting and gunfire sounding over the radio. “Fuck!”

  “What the hell is going on up there?” he demanded into the microphone.

  He heard a curse on the other side of the radio before the signal came through loud and clear. “We’ve got it under control. Although some were a little eager not to be controlled.” The raspy laughter over the radio made Razorback’s blood ran hot. Someone hadn’t obeyed his commands. Someone had become trigger-happy and was taking out hostages.

  “How many dead?” he demanded.

  “A few. All right, more than few.” The man laughed before Razorback heard another gunshot go off. How the fuck was he supposed to ransom someone that was dead?

  “Ace, Clown, get up there. The fucking Rabble are screwing things up. Make sure they don’t kill anymore hostages.”

  “They’re killing hostages?” Ace asked, shaking his head. “Maybe I should just fucking kill the Rabble!”

  “You keep your shit together!” Razorback said in barely more than a whisper as he pulled Ace closer by the collar. “You got that, skinhead?”

  “Yeah.” Ace nodded, the fear clear in his eyes. Everyone knew what happened when you fucked Razorback over; you didn’t get a chance to do it again.

  As soon as Ace and Clown left, dragging their hostage with them, Razorback and Devilbunny started stashing the cash into the bags. They had bagged every single dollar bill within five minutes. Razorback found a trolley in the back of the vault and loaded up all the bags before Devilbunny jumped on top. He couldn’t help but smile at her foolishness. Even though he had been screwing her for years, she still had a childish streak sometimes that could warm his cold heart. “Wanna go for a ride?”

  He moved towards her, cupping her face in his hands, before pressing his mouth against hers in a crushing kiss. Devilbunny was his most devoted follower, but she thrived on affection. Whenever they had a take going down, Razorback had a hard-on ready to go, just like now. He plunged his tongue into her mouth, sweeping it against hers until she gasped for her breath. He stood back, thinking how much he’d like to screw her while she still wore the calavera makeup.

  “A ten-million-dollar fucking ride.” She smiled sweetly, placing her laptop case on her lap.

  With a roar of laughter, Razorback pushed her out of the vault and headed towards the exit. Once the cash was secured with the driver, he would go back and fix the fucking mess in the ballroom.

  7

  The clown walked into the ballroom holding up explosives in one hand and an AK-47 in his other hand. Delilah felt a chill run down her spine at the sight of his costume. It was like John Wayne Gacy had just stepped into the room, malice shining in his eyes. From her spot behind the concrete planter, she saw all the men turn and look at him before visibly shrinking in their boots.

  “What the fuck is going on here? You were supposed to take control of the room, not fucking lose control of yourselves,” the clown shouted as a man moved in beside him. This one was skinnier and looked younger as well in the pilot costume he wore.

  “They opened fire first,” one of the men quickly explained, but it only earned him a smack against the head with the pilot’s 9mm pistol.

  “Stop bitchin’.” The man sounded pissed off and on edge, as if he was about to lose control himself.

  For the first time in her life, Delilah actually feared for her life. For so many years, her only goal had been to execute Carson Royal for what he had done to her sister. Now with Carson lying dead a few feet from her, she suddenly realized her own mortality.

  While the pilot and the clown took control of the men, admonishing and threatening them if they opened fire again, Delilah noticed a movement to her left. A frown creased her brow as she narrowed her eyes.

  Carson Royal was on his stomach instead of on his back. He was moving towards the safety of the concrete planter with tiny movements. Delilah blinked twice, stunned by this turn of events. She had seen him go down; she had seen the bullet hit him in the chest. Not wanting to draw the attention of the clown and the pilot, Delilah did the unthinkable; she scooted over to make space for her sister’s killer.

  Voices rose on the other side of the room as the clown demanded no one move, unaware of Carson up on all fours, hurriedly crawling towards her. As soon as he was safely settled behind the planter, Delilah turned to him with a narrowed gaze. “You were dead.”

  “I pretended to be dead in order not to become dead,” he said wryly as he ripped open his shirt. The bullet had hit him solidly on the left side of his chest. Through the haze of violence that had erupted in the room, Delilah had completely forgotten that he wore a bulletproof vest. Not knowing if she should congratulate him or shoot him herself, Delilah kept quiet.

  They sat for a few moments, listening as the clown shouted orders. Footsteps could be heard as he demanded four men be placed at each exit.

  “Ace, you check if all the injured are dead or playing dead.” The clown’s voice was easy to recognize; it was gruff and soulless.

  The pilot, who had a thinner voice, almost like a teenager whose voice hadn’t yet changed, called back, “And if they’re just playing dead, do I get to make them dead?” he taunted.

  “Check them!” the clown demanded.

  “Fuck, I crawled in here just in time.” Carson breathed a sigh of relief beside her. Sitting so close to him, even fearing for her life, Delilah could appreciate the clean citrus scent of his aftershave. His hair touched his collar, a natural shade of blond with certain strands lightened by the sun. She felt a stir of attraction and quickly shoved it aside, digging deep for the hatred she felt for the man beside her.

  It was merely a reaction to the situation, she reasoned. Being faced with death did strange things to people. Some cried, some gave up, and apparently some were turned on, she thought ruefully.

  Beside her, she heard something move, only to realize there had been another man hiding on the other side of the planter the whole time. “We n-n-n-need to get out of here.”

  “Great plan, Einstein. They’ve got all the exits covered,” Delilah whispered back furiously.

  The man shook his head and turned to Carson. “They didn’t cover a-a-a-all of them, Mr. Royal.”

  Before Delilah could question or respond to the stuttering man, she heard the pilot’s voice shouting. “He’s alive, Clown. Bones, he isn’t dead. Just passed out for a few.”

  There was a rush of footsteps as
the other men went over to see if their comrade truly was alive, giving Delilah a brief moment to turn to the man beside you. “Who the hell are you?”

  “He’s …” Carson started, before thinking for a moment. “The maintenance manager on duty. Mac, right?”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Royal. Mac.” The man glowed at Carson’s recollection of his name, without stuttering once.

  “When you’re done with your reunion, can we discuss the exits?” Delilah asked irritably.

  “I’m sorry for my sss-stutter,” he quickly apologized before continuing. “There is an exit a few feet to my side of the room, behind a c-c-curtain. They wouldn’t know about it because it hasn’t been used in years.”

  “Where?” Carson asked, his eyes darting over Delilah towards the row of curtains.

  “Just there,” Mac said, pointing towards the curtain.

  “What if they catch us?” Delilah asked, hating the sound of fear in her voice.

  “We’re dead. If they don’t, we might as well be dead anyway, so I say trying to make it to the exit is safer than staying here.” Carson’s gaze met hers and Delilah was momentarily stunned at the bright blue color of his eyes. It was like there was a Caribbean beach right in his eyes, and for a brief second, she wanted nothing more than to dive right in. She quickly looked away, stunned at the reaction she had for her greatest enemy.

  “Follow me,” Mac said, checking if anyone was on the other side of the planter before moving onto all fours. Delilah waited a moment, bracing herself for the gunfire that was certain to end Mac’s life, but when nothing came, she quickly followed him on all fours. She heard Carson fall in behind her and watched as Mac slipped in behind the curtain. Once they were all safely hidden behind the thick drapes, Delilah breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I was sure they were going to see us,” she said, hearing how shaky her own breath was. She felt Carson take her hand, squeezing it lightly. “They didn’t.”