by M. O. Mack
This might be a good time to come clean. She’d let things go too far, and she was way, way out of her depth. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Sampson hasn’t been checking in.”
“I figured as much.”
Why didn’t he seemed surprised? “Does this happen a lot?”
“No.”
She stared up at his unshaved face, the shadows casting dramatic angles off the hard planes of his high cheekbones and masculine brow.
He added, “People disappear in our line of business. Hazard of the trade.”
“You think he’s dead?”
He shrugged, like it didn’t matter one way or another.
“But doesn’t that make things kind of over?” she asked.
“Over?” He chuckled bitterly.
“Sorry. But I’m new to the, uh, pest-control world. If the boss is gone, how doesn’t that put a wrench in things?”
“I never said it didn’t, but this work never ends.”
She sensed a deeper meaning there; however, none of this was her problem. “Whatever. Fine. It’s over for me,” she said. “I quit.”
“Jane, maybe Sampson left that part of the job description out, but you’ve been misinformed about your options. There is no out. There is no quitting.”
“Sorry?”
“You know too much, and once you’re in, you’re in.”
A suite #45 novel.
M.O.
Mack
Copyright © 2020 by M.O. Mack
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
DEDICATION
To my readers. Crafty. Crazy. Passionate.
Table of Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Want an Alert for Book #2?
About the Author
SHE’S
GOT THE
GUNS
CHAPTER ONE
Emily Rockford sat anxiously behind the beat-up reception desk, with nothing to keep her company aside from the faded yellow wallpaper and the monotonous grinding sound of the AC unit. A unit that was crammed into a partially boarded-up window, had no off switch, and dribbled rust-brown sludge down the wall. She was pretty sure the grungy brown carpet underneath it was rotten, but what did that matter?
This office is a shithole, she thought. And why would anyone hardwire the AC to run nonstop? Granted, they were in Texas and, like today, the weather could get unbearably hot. But no off switch? No way to unplug it?
Very strange, she thought.
Then again, nothing about this situation felt right. Not the terms of her employment, not this abandoned, run-down strip mall, and certainly not the fact there was no business name posted anywhere. The only thing identifying this office was the “Suite #45” painted outside in chunky black letters above the frosted-glass door.
What the hell were they really selling here? Mr. Sampson, the man who’d hired her, said they performed “discreet pest control” for the sort of people who didn’t want their neighbors knowing they had roach issues. “It’s a status thing,” he’d said.
But this was El Paso, Texas, not Beverly Hills. People were more caught up with everyday life than what their neighbors thought. It was why she’d moved here. Lack of noseys.
Emily hugged her pilling white cardigan to her shivering body. Any second now, she would have to bust open the AC’s front panel and shut off that icebox. The only reason she hadn’t yet was out of respect for Mr. Sampson, who didn’t vibe as friendly. At least not over the phone. She hadn’t actually met the guy, despite three days passing since she’d started work. “Work” being a term she used loosely here. All she did was sit and wait for the phone to ring.
It never did.
Then, at the end of each shift, she found one hundred dollars deposited into her Zelle account, just as they’d agreed over the phone.
Well, the man did say he might be late coming in to train me. Only, she’d thought he meant hours, not days.
Emily got up from her creaky chair, one of those antique oak things with metal wheels and ass-shaped grooves carved into the seat. With body heat on her mind, she started walking circles around the small, nearly empty office that contained three beige filing cabinets against the back wall, her prison-gray desk made of sheet metal (nothing in the drawers), and a grimy Mr. Coffee. The thing had at least an inch of scale caked inside the carafe. Nasty.
She glanced at the machine, noting a giant cockroach skittering across the yellow Formica counter off to the side of the room. It stopped, turned in her direction as if warning her off, and then disappeared down the rust-stained sink at the end.
She lifted a brow. Pest control, huh? Well, if that was really Mr. Sampson’s business, he sucked at it. The lack of customers was a huge hint, too.
With the blood now flowing again, Emily walked back to the desk and checked her cell for the fiftieth time. Still no new emails from Sampson.
This is insane. Where was he? Why hire her to just sit around and do nothing? She replayed their one and only phone conversation in her mind: “The key to the front door will be taped under the doormat. Keep it safe with you at all times. You are to answer the phone and take messages. No questions. Ever. No conversations. Ever. Just take the message, hang up. If I’m not in the office, place the message in the top drawer of the desk. That’s it.”
“I think I can handle that,” she’d said, knowing full well the entire situation was shady as fuck. But she had to pay rent. She had to eat. The challenge was, employment options were limited for people like her—no real skills, no references, no college education. Ed had never allowed her to work or take classes. Moving to El Paso was supposed to be the first step to a fresh start. Unfortunately, after two weeks she’d already burned through the small amount of cash she’d managed to scrape together before running.
New identities cost a lot.
The red push-button phone on her desk began blaring with a high-pitched ring, making her jump in her black flats.
“Sonofa…” She pressed her palm over her heart. She’d never actually heard the damned thing make a noise until now. Not a soul had passed through the door either.
She reached for the handpiece, not knowing what to expect. “He-hello?”
“Tell Sampson,” said a cold, gravelly voice, “customer ninety-two’s rat has been taken care of.”
> His voice sent a chill down her spine. I bet he killed the poor critter just by talking to it. She grabbed the pad of legal paper on her desk and wrote down the message. Should she tell the caller that Mr. Sampson was MIA?
No. She shouldn’t get involved. She was there to take messages from ten a.m. to four p.m. Monday through Friday. That was it. The less she knew about whatever this place really was, the better.
“Got it,” she said, “and may I say who’s calling?”
There was a long, static-filled pause. “Who the fuck is this?”
Shit. She wasn’t supposed to ask questions. “My name is…Jane. I just started working here.” She wasn’t about to give him her name, even if Emily Rockford was an alias. She didn’t have another two grand to buy another identity that came with a social security card and an Illinois driver’s license of a twenty-six-year-old woman who vaguely resembled her: five-five height, Caucasian, green eyes, brown hair, and one hundred and thirty pounds.
“Well, Jane,” the man said in a bone-chilling voice, “I suggest you shut your fucking mouth and pass along the message.” The line went dead.
Emily hung up and released a slow breath. She had a very bad feeling about this job. Very bad. But until she found something else, this was better than sleeping in the gutter. Or worse, next to Ed.
CHAPTER TWO
Wearing her only set of PJs—a lame yellow duckie T-shirt combo with matching shorts that she’d found in the 99-cent bin at Goodwill—Emily spent the long muggy night tossing and turning with wave after wave of internal debate.
That voice in her sour stomach screamed not to go back to that office in the morning. Unfortunately, her stomach kept being overruled by necessity, including the need to find a less dumpy apartment. It was bad enough that used needles littered the walkway just outside her door each morning, but she couldn’t even get a decent night’s sleep. The couple next door spent most nights drinking and fighting. Their cruel words—“You’re nothing. You’re a stupid whore. I should kill you!”—reminded her of the existence she’d left behind. Except, in the here and now, the yelling made her anxious. Back home, the yelling had given her a sick kind of relief.
Emily rolled to her side. It was painful to look back and know it had taken almost three years to grow a pair and leave Ed, but there hadn’t been a day when she didn’t think about running. Some days were better than others, like the days when Ed came home from work and spewed the most vile, hateful things. Those were the good days. Yelling didn’t leave bruises. It was when Ed turned silent that she had to worry. Those were the bad days.
Never again. She rolled to her other side, the phantom ache of a once cracked rib throbbing against the mattress. Put it out of your mind. You’re free now. She stared at the orange-and-black striped pattern on her window, a product of blinds that didn’t close properly and the streetlamps just outside.
I really have to find a better place. But that wasn’t a priority. She needed to save every dime she could. It was June, and the fall semester at the junior college would be starting in September. She planned to get her certificate in one impossible backbreaking semester and then get a job as a bookkeeper. A safe home with respectable employment was all she needed.
Patience and hard work. I can get there. Besides, no turning back now. Ed would kill her if he tracked her down. This path, as difficult as it might be, was the only way.
By nine a.m. the next morning, she’d gone for a three-mile run, showered, and dressed in one of the three outfits she’d purchased from the thrift store. Solid-color blouses and black skirts. Modest, unnoticeable. She’d even dyed her red hair to a chestnut brown. Emily Rockford was someone you’d look at and not really see. Utterly forgettable.
The old, pathetic her had worn flowery dresses and strappy leather sandals. The old her was expected to look cute to please Ed, especially when his friends came over to play poker. Total assholes. They would wait until Ed was too drunk to notice anything but the cards in his hands, and corner her in the kitchen. They’d grab her ass and breasts. The one time she’d tried to tell Ed about how they treated her, she got blamed and ended up with a black eye.
“Stop acting like a slut, and they’ll stop treating you like one,” he’d said.
Never again. Never again would she dress up if she didn’t want to. Never again would she allow a person’s hands on her like that.
Now wearing a navy blue blouse and a black skirt, with her unremarkable brown hair in a ponytail, Emily caught the bus for work and ended up arriving a few minutes early, so she ran across the street to the gas station. There was no bathroom in the office that she saw, and if there was one somewhere in the vacant strip mall, she doubted she’d want to use it.
She purchased a bottle of water and a small bag of pretzels, the cheapest things she could find, and hugged them to her chest as she jogged back, weaving through the logjam of cars stopped at the light.
Panting, she stepped up on the sidewalk and noticed a man—tall, lanky, dark hair—standing just outside the suite. He wore brown pants, a white shirt, and black dress shoes. The outfit of a person who doesn’t want to draw attention. Just like her.
Could that be Mr. Sampson? But he looked too young, maybe thirtyish. Mr. Sampson had the gruff voice of a much older man.
Emily cautiously approached, noting the guy’s sweaty face and shifty dark eyes. “Hi. Are you waiting for…” No questions. No questions. “I’m Jane, the receptionist.” She held out her free hand.
He nodded but didn’t take it. “I was told to come here and leave my message.” He gave her his back, waiting for her to unlock the door.
Okay… Who showed up at an office to “leave a message”? Why not call? Why not text or email Mr. Sampson?
“Mind hurrying? I got things to do,” the man urged.
Now it was her turn to have shifty eyes. Was anyone else around to hear her scream if this guy pulled something?
There wasn’t.
All she had was the passing cars behind her, made up of people on their way south of the border to work at one of the factories, most of them distracted by their phones and traffic. Besides, who could hear anything over the constant roar of semis going north, carrying goods out of Mexico?
“One sec. Let me get the key.” She slid her hand into her oversized black purse, making sure she’d brought her pepper spray. It was right where she wanted it, in that little pocket meant for her cell. “Here it is.” She produced the key and opened the front door. The man followed her in.
“Why’s it so cold?” he asked.
She headed straight to her desk, avoiding eye contact. Whoever this man was, whatever business he had with Mr. Sampson, it felt safer not to remember his face.
“Um, yeah. I think the AC’s busted. Won’t shut off.” She set down her items from the gas station but kept her purse slung on her shoulder for easy reaching.
“Guess it’s better than the alternative: no AC at all. Looks like it’s going to be a scorcher today.”
They were getting perilously close to having a conversation—against Mr. Sampson’s rules.
She nodded and grabbed her pencil, making sure to put the desk between her and the man. “Ready.”
He slid an envelope from his back pocket and set it on the desk.
This was his message?
Now she had to look at him. He seemed to expect her to say or do something with it. But what? “Um. Thank you. I’ll put this here.” I don’t see you. I will not remember the scar on your upper lip or the color of your dark eyes. She opened the top drawer and deposited the envelope. “I’ll be sure your message is given to Mr. Sampson.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s it? I hand you fifty thousand to take care of my pest problem, and we’re done?”
Fifty thousand? That was a lot of money just to kill a rat or take care of some roaches. Now she had zero doubt that Mr. Sampson was in the extermination business—the human kind.
Hell, maybe she’d known it the moment she walke
d in here, but before this, there was a plausible deniability angle. And she’d been hungry. After today, she couldn’t look the other way, and she wasn’t about to get caught up with someone even shadier than Ed. I need to get the hell out of here.
“I’m sorry. I’m just the receptionist. I take messages. Nothing more.” Emily forced a polite smile to her lips, wanting the man to leave so she could quickly do the same.
“So when’s Sampson coming, then?”
A very good question. “I just take messages,” she repeated. No conversations. No questions. Please go.
“Fine. Tell him to call Rick ASAP.” He pressed the tip of his index finger to the top of the desk. “And this job had better be done by Saturday like he promised.”
It was Thursday. She had no clue if the job would get done or if she could deliver the message. Basically, she couldn’t promise him anything.
Her stomach knotted into a nauseating lump. There was a part of her—a big, sick, damaged part—that didn’t want to displease this guy. Ed had beaten the fear of men into her. It ran cold through her veins like a nightmare spiked with broken glass. It smelled of stale urine, from when she’d pissed herself after being tied up in a closet for two days.
She blinked up at Rick, willing the pleasant smile to stay put. “Of course. I’ll give him the message.”
Rick stared for a long moment, his right eye twitching, before he finally turned and left.
“Jesus.” She tilted her head back toward the water-stained ceiling. Yesterday, this place felt like rock bottom, but little had she known there was a trapdoor beneath her feet, waiting to take her lower. It was time to go.
She eyed the drawer. Fifty thousand. Fifty thousand dollars. If she worked five days a week for the next year, the most she could pull in was twenty-six thousand. She knew because she’d been obsessing over money. How much could she make? Was it enough to pay rent and tuition? Screw grocery shopping. She could go to the food bank or hit the dollar store once a day. A person could live off of peanut butter crackers, baked beans, Vienna sausages, ramen, and that fake orange drink crap with vitamin C. Sure, she’d die of a heart attack at forty years old, but forty was better than twenty-five—her current age.