She's Got the Guns (The Suite #45 Series Book 1)

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She's Got the Guns (The Suite #45 Series Book 1) Page 12

by M. O. Mack


  He wants me to trust him. He was pulling back the curtain just enough for her to see the human side of Charge.

  Charge walked in with a bag of groceries in one arm. He immediately spotted her on the sofa in her pink outfit.

  “I brought some supplies. You ready for that walk?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He set the groceries on the breakfast bar. “Not feeling up for it after all?”

  “I meant, no, I’m not taking the job.”

  He turned slowly, his face giving nothing away.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m not the right person for this.”

  He folded those thick arms over his chest. The authority pose. “Why do you think that?”

  Because she never wanted to look in the mirror again and not recognize herself. “I’ve had enough of being beaten to last a lifetime, and I don’t want to go to work every day seeing people shot, dying, or bleeding. It’s not the sort of thing I want to build my life around.” She thought of her father and his saying about the beekeeper. Eventually, they get stung no matter how careful.

  Charge rested one hand on his waist and blew out a breath toward his heavy black boots. “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay. I respect your decision.” He walked around the counter and started putting the groceries away in the fridge.

  Was he trying to play some sort of mind game? Why would he give up so easily? “You’re not going to threaten me or talk me into it?”

  “I don’t agree with your choice, but I respect it.”

  “So then what happens to you? Will you stay?” she asked, not at all convinced he was going to let her off the hook so easily.

  “I have to. At least until I find someone else.”

  “Good. Because I’m hoping your offer to deal with Ed still stands.” She had no money, and she knew they didn’t work for free, but Charge had once offered her a freebie. She just didn’t know if he’d been joking. “Actually, to be clear, I want Ed’s entire crew taken out, too. Every one of them.”

  Leaving the fridge door open, Charge faced her, frowned, and then chuckled, like she had some nerve even bringing it up. “Do you have a million dollars? Because that’s how much money you’d need to hire us for a job that complex.”

  “After everything you put me through, including nearly having my ear sliced off by one of your cartel friends and getting injected with heroin—all because you decided to mess with my life for a secret job interview—I think you owe me. And what about all that talk about helping people who’ve been let down by the system and—”

  “My guys still gotta eat. They still have bills to pay. Some even have families to think about. And even if they were willing to do it for free, which I guarantee you they’re not, there are equipment costs, guns, ammo, rental cars, hotel rooms, and travel expenses. A job like that would take three or four months to set up right—the goal, of course, being to eliminate the targets, leave no trace, and get everyone home safely.”

  “But didn’t you say if I took the role, I could have Ed taken care of? Free?”

  “There’s a difference with you being the boss and needing to eliminate someone actively hunting you, who also happens to be a very dangerous person, and you just asking for a freebie as a civilian.”

  It dawned on her that he was dangling a carrot. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew exactly how this conversation would play out and that you might be able to entice me to take the job if there was something big in it for me.”

  He flashed a sly grin and shrugged his broad shoulders. “The thought occurred to me.” He returned to putting away the groceries.

  She narrowed her eyes at the back of his head. She hated to be played, but she had to admit, Charge was good at it. Still, “Never trust a hit man.”

  He closed the fridge door and faced her. “Look, Justine—”

  “Emily. Please just keep calling me Emily.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend that. Your cover is blown.”

  “Justine is just as unsafe to use, and I like it way less.” She never wanted to go back to using that name.

  “Whatever you want, but do me a favor and at least pick a different last name—something extremely common—Jones, Brown, Smith, Willis. Makes it harder to track you.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration when I go on the run and stop by the false identity store again.”

  “Don’t do that, either. Those guys sell the same identity to a hundred different people. Next time, search for people no one will miss. Then you file for a social security card and start building your own identity.” He explained quickly about how she could hire a crooked lawyer to make record corrections with the Social Security Office to reinstate a person’s identity after they’d been erroneously declared dead. Apparently, that stuff went through a smaller department that tended to rubberstamp anything that came from a lawyer.

  Interesting. “Thanks for the tip.”

  He dipped his head.

  “But I still can’t take the position. Not even to take down Ed.”

  “What’s your plan, then?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure, actually.” She had the video evidence safely hidden, but her plan to get the women out first and hide them was idiotic. Honestly, she hadn’t thought the plan through at all. She saw that now. There was no way one person—her—could pull up and grab them all, then run. Also, as she’d recently discovered, this slow boat to deal with the whole thing had really just been her way of avoiding confrontation altogether. “The problem is if Ed gets wind of anything, they’ll take those women, shoot them, and throw them in the ocean.”

  Charge stared with his trademark Mr. Cold Eyes look, like he couldn’t give a shit.

  “Really? You really don’t care?” she scoffed.

  “Never said that. But if I tried to fight every war, right every wrong, I wouldn’t accomplish much.”

  She stared back. She understood, but she didn’t agree.

  “Look, Emily, if you want our help, you know the price. Otherwise, I’ll make lunch. Afterwards, you can tell me where to drop you off.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Just like that? I don’t want your job, so you’re just going to dump me at the nearest bus stop?”

  “If that’s where you want to go, then yes.” He pulled out the bread from the cupboard and started making sandwiches.

  Meanwhile, she sat stewing. There had to be a solution to all this. She could feel the pieces wanting to fit together. These people could help her get the women out safely and take down Ed and his crew. After that, she’d be free. She would never have to be afraid of her husband getting released from prison. She wouldn’t have to look over her shoulder and live on the run.

  All I need is money.

  A thought hit her like a lightning bolt. “Ed has over a million dollars cash,” she blurted out. “I don’t know where it’s hidden, but if your team caught him, wouldn’t we able to persuade him to tell us?” She had to admit the idea of watching him get tortured wasn’t entirely unappealing. The peanut-butter-wild-pig thing sounded good. Very Hannibal.

  Charge looked up from the counter. “That’s not how this works. Clients pay up front. Too many things could go wrong.”

  “But I know the money’s there, Charge. I’ve seen the cash come and go. One of his guys showed up weekly with a big bag. Ed would always take it with him and say he was going to the gym, then work. It can’t be far.”

  Charge shook his head.

  “Why is it up to you?” she asked. “Shouldn’t your team have a say in this? I mean, it’s their risk. Their time. How many people would we need to get the job done, anyway? Four? Five?”

  “Ten if we had our normal time to prepare. Which we don’t; the team is booked up for the next six months.”

  “Wow. They’re in high demand.” She would never admit it, but she was curious who was on the list of upcoming jobs. Who’d slipped through the cracks of justice?

  “Yes. They are. T
here’s only a small window next week—the target decided to take himself out, drinking and driving.”

  “Then give me the slot. Let me ask the team if they want to take the risk.”

  “You’d need twenty people to get the job done that quickly, and even so, I’m not sure it’ll be enough. There’s surveillance to set up, which means equipment has to be put in place, and that’s not the sort of thing where we can call up and say, ‘Hi. We’d like to bug your car, office, and home. Mind if we stop by around two?’ Then there’s the observation period where we track people’s schedules, the sorts of weapons they carry—if any—and decide on the optimal strike situation. Then there’s waiting for the optimal situation to present itself, the execution, and the cleanup—removing all signs we were there. It sounds easy, but the work requires meticulous planning, and your job has the added complexity of the women you’re trying to extract and relocate.”

  Did he just say that sounded easy? It sounded fairly complicated compared to her understanding of how hit men worked. Get in. Shoot. Get out. But that was what she’d seen in the movies.

  “All right,” she said. “I get what you’re saying, but you have a shortcut: me. I can tell you who the players are, where they live and work, what their routines are, and when they all meet. That’ll cut down on prep time, right?”

  The only thing she didn’t know was what to do with those women. She’d originally thought—stupidly—to put them up at her place while the situation played out in the media. Then she’d hoped the women would be put under witness protection or something. With this new plan, there’d be none of that. The women would need medical support and therapy. They’d need immigration status and jobs if they wanted to stay. Some would likely just want to go home and see the families they were stolen away from. How did you get someone home who was brought to the US against their will?

  “Please. Let me talk to your team. If they say no, then you’ll never hear from me again.” Either way, she wasn’t going to end up friends with these people. If they said yes, she still didn’t want to be a permanent fixture of his world. Simply put, she wanted Ed and his men gone. Then she wanted to find a quiet place to start over. She wanted to heal and rest and try to get back everything that had been stolen from her. No more violence. No more criminals. And more importantly, no more fucking guns.

  Charge groaned with annoyance. “Fine. If you want to pitch, then go ahead, but I reserve the right to pull the plug for any reason I see fit. It’s my job to keep them as safe as I can.”

  “Thank you!” She hopped up, wanting to run over and hug him, but stopped herself. He’d probably stab her with a kitchen knife out of instinct.

  “I’ll set up the call tonight.”

  “Thank you, Charge. I mean it.”

  He shrugged and got on with making lunch.

  Meanwhile, it dawned on her that she would have to get on a call tonight with a group of hired guns—people who killed for a living—and try to convince them to do a job on credit.

  A cold sweat erupted down her back. You can do this. You can…

  But what if they said no?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sitting at the breakfast counter, Emily observed Charge setting up his laptop on the butcherblock surface, connecting it to an expensive-looking sat phone. She watched with curiosity as he punched in a bunch of codes on both devices, which brought up a screen with little squares.

  “Zoom? Are you joking?” She flashed a look at Charge.

  “No. This isn’t amateur hour,” he grumbled. “Note the silhouettes.”

  Emily leaned toward the screen, squinting at the blurred-out images. “Oh. I thought you just had bad reception.”

  Charge looked like he was about to roll those cool gray eyes, but he didn’t. “Everyone’s here.”

  They were very punctual. It was eight o’clock on the dot.

  He hit a button on the laptop. “Good evening. Sampson here.”

  Sampson. He called himself Sampson when he addressed the team. Did they know he was Charge and the boss?

  No. Of course not. The whole Sampson persona was dependent on him being a ghost.

  “Like Charlie from Charlie’s Angels. Can they see us?” she whispered to Charge.

  He shot her a look with his hard eyes, telling her to be quiet. “Roll call,” he said.

  The blurry people in the squares began sounding off:

  “Operator four. Kite. Alpha. Two. Butter.”

  “Operator five. Whiskey. Marmalade. Chipmunk. Five.”

  She laughed and covered her mouth. What the hell was this? Sounds like they’re reciting very avant-garde haiku.

  But as everyone sounded off, she realized that Charge had a little device in his hand, flashing random images and numbers. He entered each abbreviation—“KA2B” for example—then the device lit up green. It was some sort of verification system with revolving codes.

  Some high-tech gear there.

  When they got to operator twenty, Charge paused, bowed his head for thirty seconds, and then went on.

  A moment of silence for one of the operators they’d lost. She surmised they only did it once because he hadn’t paused for operators one, two, or three, and when they got to thirty, they just skipped over it. It was strange to think that a fallen team member was only given thirty seconds of silence, but on the other hand, it was more than she’d expected from hit men—hit people. Whatever. Roll call had nearly ended. Charge hit a button, and he read off his own call sign. Operator forty-five.

  The button is to modify his voice! She got it now. Also interesting: Charge was the newest member, not the oldest.

  He hit the button again and got to business—as Sampson. He was really good at playing the two different parts, a necessity to keep anyone from knowing he was Sampson.

  “All right, team. We’ve had a few tough days here, but keep your eyes on each other’s backs. Things are picking up with our friends south of the border, but it’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before, and we have some big jobs coming up.”

  Everyone gave a “huzzah!”

  “Also,” he added, “I am sorry to inform you that while Emily passed our tests with flying colors, and many of you stepped up—putting your lives on the line to get her back—she has refused the role of operator.”

  No one said a word, but a flitter of guilt danced in her stomach. No doubt it was the effect Charge was going for. Did he think he could guilt her into changing her mind? Also noteworthy was the little lie. She had refused to be the new Sampson, not an operator. But of course, Charge would never reveal the real Sampson. Also interesting was that it appeared everyone had to pass a similar test to be part of the group. How oddly egalitarian for a bunch of hired killers.

  He went on, “Thank you to everyone who assisted in her tests, especially Charge for leading this round. I am continuing to actively seek out new operators, so expect more tests in the upcoming months.”

  Did he just thank himself? She supposed Charge did need to treat himself like any other team member.

  Charge continued, “And now onto the other purpose for this meeting. Emily has asked to call in and pitch a job. Hold one moment.” He pressed another button on his laptop that brought up the mute sign. He looked at her. “Wait until I tell you to talk. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.” He pulled out his cell, punched in a very long stream of numbers, and then handed the phone to her. “Talk. You have thirty seconds. Not because I’m a dick but because that’s the length of time it takes for a cell tower to pinpoint your location and register it is an actual call versus a dropped signal. Got it?”

  “Thanks for the prewarning about the time limit,” she snarled. Had she known, she would have rehearsed.

  He ignored her, pressed the call button on his cell, and handed it over. She watched as a new blurry square popped up on the laptop screen. She was dialed in.

  Charge gave her a nod.

  “Hi, everyone. I know I don’t have
a lot of time, but before I say anything about this potential job, I want to thank you for coming to help me. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t. No. Wait. Stupid thing to say. I’m sure I would have died. Likely by my own hand because I’d prefer that over being trafficked. But the point is you came, and now I’m asking you to come again.” She winced. “I’m sorry. That sounded really bad, but you showed up, and I’m asking you to show up again. There are twenty women being held in a house near Atlantic City. They were stolen from their parents, brothers, sisters, and children.”

  Charge yanked the phone from her hand and gave her the cut-throat sign.

  I’m not done! She puckered her lips and yanked it back. She hopped up and scurried down the hall. He followed, trying to force the device from her hand as she ran toward the bathroom.

  Her voice frantic, she continued, “The women are forced to take drugs and are abused for money so that men like my husband can buy a new pair of golf clubs. I just want them to be stopped! I want them to suffer and pay for the pain they’ve caused us. He has one million dollars hidden, and it’s yours if you he—”

  Charge caught up with her, grabbed her wrist with two hands, and gave it a squeeze. The phone dropped, and he caught it. He pressed the end button.

  “Why did you do that?” he growled.

  “I’m sorry.” She hung her head. “I just wanted to convince—”

  “I know what you wanted!” he yelled. “But you put us all at risk for it!” He started walking away, visibly pissed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, following behind him. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” Actually, she did know. For that one brief moment, she was thinking about Ed dying. She could see it unfolding in her mind—the look on his face, knowing his pathetic life was over, that he would never raise a hand to her again. He would never tie her up in the closet like an animal and make her piss her pants. And she saw herself holding the gun, smiling, feeling the sweet release of her pain as the bullet flew and shattered his skull. In the blink of an eye, she’d lost herself in the need for revenge.

 

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