SAMSON’S BABY: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance Page 8

  Before I even knew what exactly was happening, River and I were fucking. Not even screwing, and definitely not making love. Just fucking. Just gasping and gouging and writhing. Just throwing ourselves into each other and taking what little pleasure we could. After, I learnt that she was in the same business as me, hence why she was allowed to drink at the bar. I saw her around. We began to work jobs together. We talked little; I knew hardly anything about her. But I sensed she cared for me more than I did for her. Once, she said, “We should go on a date one day, you know, to the movies or whatever.”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said, and that was the end of it.

  I didn’t love her, didn’t care for her. Perhaps I was cruel, perhaps it was wrong of me to take pleasure from her without opening up even a little, but I couldn’t help it. Our fucking was always quick and shamed: coming together, never kissing, never touching except where necessary, and doing it as fast as possible, a quick release. A fucking like killing.

  Six months after that first night, River and I stood in the shadow of the warehouse. The sun was setting and the docks grew steadily darker. The workmen milled to and fro, carrying, hurrying, so many of them at first that they appeared like a nest of ants. Quickly, they dwindled until only a dozen were left moving here and there. And then, once the sun was almost set, the docks emptied completely. It was spring and warm, but still we wore black clothes, blending in with the dark. River’s hair, dyed pink, was hidden under a black hat. She had a mask pulled up around her face. She was tall and lithe, like a cat.

  “Samson,” she muttered, the sky dark, the water splashing against the docks even darker. “Stay focused.”

  “I am,” I grunted.

  She tilted her head at me. She’d been looking at me like that more and more lately, as though she was trying to read me. I hated it. I didn’t want her to read me. I didn’t want her to see inside of me. I wanted us to remain as we were. No, not even that. I wanted us to stop being what we were. I wanted to stop the fucking, the shameful and sweaty act which wasn’t even pleasurable anymore. I wanted to stop working with her. I wanted to cut all ties with her. It would be fairer on her, I thought, to end it sooner rather than later. I couldn’t let her think that there was a chance for us: some twisted Bonnie and Clyde couple.

  That’s it, I thought. After tonight, I would end it. I couldn’t do it now, because we were working. But as soon as the mark was dead, I was done. Maybe she’d rage, maybe she’d cry, but that wouldn’t matter. She’d get past it, come to realize what I’d known all along, that there was nothing truly between us that could be called a relationship. Even the label girlfriend was meaningless between us, because she wasn’t really my friend.

  We turned to the docks, waiting. This was going to be the biggest job I’d ever pulled, bigger even that any job Dad or Richard pulled back in their day. Five marks, two of them arriving by boat, three of them walking out onto the dock. A drug deal between two factions our client didn’t particularly like. Irish and Chinese, crime syndicates from both sides, exchanging a massive amount of heroin. As far as I understood, our client, an Italian mob boss from a family which was around in the twenties, was doing a favor for the police. Our job was to kill the marks so the police could move in and claim the heroin. We get paid, the police back off the Italians, and a lump of heroin is taken from the streets.

  Win, win, win. Except for the Irish and the Chinese, of course.

  We waited another an hour, and then the boat glided silently into the dock, its lights turned off. The only thing telling us that something was on the water was the subtle change in the sounds of the waves, and when one of the men coughed. The boat docked quietly, and two Chinese men stepped onto the walkway, both of them wearing tight-fitting suits, the outlines of Uzis clear beneath their jackets.

  The men talked rapidly in Chinese; one of them laughed. Then they stood there, waiting.

  A few minutes later, a car coasted into the parking lot, on the other side of the warehouse from where River and I stood. Both of us took out our pistols and silencers. We twisted the long tubes onto the end of the guns, and waited.

  The Irishmen swaggered out onto the walkway, the one at the rear holding a briefcase. The men looked much the same from this distance, the chief difference being that the Chinese men wore suits, and the Irishmen wore thick military jackets, boots, and jeans. All of them were armed, though none of them were carrying their pieces in their hands. I spotted the guns even in the lowlight: under the jackets, under the coats, stuffed down the back of one man’s jeans. We were about fifty yards away from the walkway. Storage containers sat between us and where the five men were meeting.

  I nodded to River, and she nodded back. “I’ll take the Chinamen,” she whispered.

  We wove through the storage containers, staying in the shadows, our pistols aimed forward. I was calm, as calm as I always was before a job. Even though it’s been months since his death, Richard usually haunts me. Made my heart beat faster than it should. Made me panic when I should’ve been calm. But now, weaving through these boxes with murder on my mind, my heart was steady; the gun didn’t shake at all.

  “You are late!” one of the Chinese men shouted.

  “Traffic. What’re you goin’ to do, eh?”

  “Let’s trade.”

  When we got closer, crouched down behind a container, I saw that the Chinese man who spoke was around a foot shorter than his companion. But he wasn’t short; he was around five foot eight. No, the man at his side was just massive. Tall and thin, around six and a half feet, with eyes that scanned the night. Eyes that reminded me of my own. Eyes that saw everything.

  “Alright, alright,” one of the Irishmen said. “Get the product. We have the cash.”

  I looked at River, and she counted back from three on her fingers. I chose my target, aimed, and stroked the trigger. Three quick shots, before they knew what hit them. Bang, bang, bang. Easy.

  Three . . .

  The man with the case walked forward toward the Chinese men, and I followed him with the barrel of my gun, aiming at his head. ‘If you can’t be sure they’re not wearing a vest, always aim at their head. You do a hell of a lot of damage shooting someone in the center mass, plus it’s easier to hit, but if they’re wearing a vest, then what? No, headshots unless you can be sure.’ Uncle Richard’s advice, and it hadn’t led me astray yet.

  Two . . .

  The man with the case tapped his foot as the shorter Chinese man hopped into boat and moved into the back, rummaging around. He returned a moment later, holding two large suitcases. Then he went back onto the boat, and returned to the walkway. He did this five times until ten cases were resting on the ground.

  One . . .

  An Irishman at the rear moved past the one holding the money, meaning to inspect the goods.

  River dropped her finger. We fired.

  Chaos gripped us for a few moments. I didn’t think. I didn’t aim, not consciously. I had no need to aim. My body knew what to do and I let it. My first two shots hit cleanly and two of the Irishmen fell with soft grunts, blood spilling from their skulls. The third darted into the darkness, toward the parking lot. I cursed and sprinted after him. Out of the periphery of my vision, I saw that the shorter Chinese man was dead, but the large one, the one with the predator’s eyes, was crouched down behind the boat, holding a gun. He fired at me. I ducked around the corner of a container, out of sight.

  River will handle him, I thought to myself. Regardless of how I felt about her – or didn’t feel, as the case was - but she was good at the business, that’s for sure. I sprinted after the remaining man safe in the knowledge that when I returned, River would have ended him.

  I sprinted, listening to the gasps of the man. He was only a few yards ahead of me, trying and failing to lose me amidst the containers. But I heard his breathing, his heavy footsteps. I emerged into a clearing, a gathering area just beside the car park. The man stopped at the edge of the parking lot when I grunted out, “
Hands.”

  He stopped, and then lifted his hands above his head and turned to face me slowly. He was old, around fifty, maybe older, with bushy gray eyebrows and shocks of gray hair.

  “We lost, did we?” he sighed, lips trembling, but otherwise showing no sign of his fear.

  “I’m afraid so,” I said.

  He nodded. “Go on then, lad.”

  I put a bullet in his head, he slumped forward, and I turned away and headed back toward the docks. Still, I didn’t feel anything, not scared or angry or sorry or regretful. Just focused.

  I jogged back to the docks, expecting to find the Chinese man dead, expecting to see River walking toward me with that annoying-as-hell grin which is always plastered to her face after we’d done a job together. I was already composing my speech in my head. I’d end it with her tonight. I couldn’t leave it any later. The thought of fucking again, desperate and pointless, made my skin crawl. I just wanted to have a shower and sleep.

  I emerged onto the dock, gun aimed, ready to fire.

  But he fired at me first. The bullet buried deep into my thigh. I swore and threw myself behind a container. Blood poured from my leg and soaked into my pants. The pain was intense, but I ignored it. I tore my sleeve free and began wrapping it to stop the flow of the blood. As I did that, I shuffled on my ass so that I could peek around the edge of the container. A loud bang—a revolver without a silencer—and River fell backward into the boat. The Chinese man jumped into the boat after her, started the engine, and sped off.

  “Fuck,” I muttered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  The bullet took her in the chest, what must’ve been her heart, and I knew for a fact that River wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest.

  So she’s dead, I thought, and perhaps I’m not human because I didn’t feel a thing.

  There was no question of chasing him. The cases—the money and the drugs—were still on the docks, and the bodies of most of them were lying here. That would have to be enough for my client. Maybe they’d pay me less, but that was life.

  With an effort, I climbed to my feet.

  She’s dead, I thought again, comparing what I felt when Richard died to what I felt now. A tsunami versus a trickle—not even a trickle.

  I limped into the night, teeth gritted against the pain in my leg.

  ###

  I didn’t see the body, I think now, pacing up and down in front of the apartment building. I saw her fall into the boat and I saw the boat drift into the night, but I didn’t see up close, didn’t see that she was really dead. Maybe the bullet missed her heart, miraculously missed her lungs and came out clean without hitting her spine. But if she lived, how did she live? Did she kill the Chinese man and escape? But if that’s the case, why is she only returning now, after all these years?

  I have no answers to these questions, but I know for sure now who dragged Eric’s body into Anna’s car. It was River. And last night, the chase and the Taser, that was River, too. I thought it was a man in black. I was wrong. It was a woman in black.

  River, a woman who wanted more from me than I could give her, a deadly killer, a woman I left for dead—she’s back. A woman I left for dead is back, and she’s after not just me, but Anna as well. A chill runs down my spine. I’ve seen River work. She’s efficient. If she wants Anna dead, there’s a big chance she’ll be able to do it, with or without my protection. If we stay here, anyway.

  I can’t keep her here. I have to move us. I have to keep her out of danger. I feel more for Anna after being with her for one night than I did for River during the entire time we were together. I feel more attached, more loyal, more dedicated. I wouldn’t even run down a walkway for River; for Anna, I would’ve leapt into the icy water, wounded leg or no, and swum after her.

  I won’t let her take Anna from me, I think, gritting my teeth so hard there’s an ache in my temples.

  I stuff my cell into my pocket and turn to the apartment door. I need to see her. I need to make sure she’s safe.

  Chapter Nine

  Anna

  There’s a knock at the door. I go to it and say, “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” Samson says. His voice is different, somehow, strained. Not panicky—I find it difficult to believe Samson Black could ever be panicky—but I know that something’s happened without having to ask.

  I open the door and he paces into the room. His shoulders shifting from side to side like a man who’s about to be in a fight.

  “Lock the door behind me,” he says. “Bolt it.”

  I turn the lock, latch the chain, and slide the bolt. Then I go to the couch and sit down, watching as Samson paces up and down the room, his hands tight fists by his sides. He looks scary, the kind of man women cross the street to avoid: a pulsing pack of muscle and rage. I should be scared, I should flinch away, but I’m not and I don’t.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Everything,” he sighs. “We need to leave here, right now.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  Last night I was dancing and thinking about my next exam. Last night I was thinking about the turnstile and the dogs and animals and the future. How does life change so drastically so quickly?

  “I don’t have time to explain,” he says. “Quickly, get your things.”

  He gestures at me.

  “No,” I say. I don’t raise my voice, but I speak firmly. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  “Anna . . .”

  “Samson . . .”

  We face each other. His jaw is set, but so is mine. I stare into his sky-blue eyes without flinching. “You want me to run away from my life, Samson,” I say. “You can’t expect me to do that without asking a few questions. Something happened out there. I can tell. You’re skittish.”

  “I know who put the body in your trunk,” he sighs. He massages the side of his head with his hand. It’s odd to see him do this, as though he really is just a man, as though he does feel stress like the rest of us.

  “Who?” I ask.

  He tells me everything. Her name is River, she’s an ex-girlfriend, they worked together, all of it, about the boat and the job and that he thought she was dead.

  “It could be somebody pretending to be her,” I offer.

  He shakes his head and then tells me about the cabin. I blush. I don’t want to think about Samson and another woman.

  “Sorry,” he mutters.

  Absurdly, despite everything, I find myself wishing it was someone else, anybody else. An old client or an escaped target. Anybody but an ex-girlfriend. I tell myself that I’m focusing on the wrong part of it. But I care about it and I can’t deny that. Without thinking about it, I’ve begun to think of Samson as mine. Silly, yes, very silly, and yet it’s the truth. And when I look at him I’m sure he’s begun to think of me as his. An instant connection that is all passion and instinct, with little recourse to logic. I’ve read about connections like this, but I’ve never experienced one until now. What is it, exactly? Infatuation? Attraction? Not love, surely, not so soon.

  “It’s okay,” I mutter. “But I have to admit, it makes it worse.”

  “I know,” he says.

  He walks around the coffee table, reaches down, and takes my hand. “Come on,” he says, pulling me gently to my feet. “You need to pack a bag, Anna. Clothes, anything sentimental you can’t bear to leave behind. Make it light, if you can.”

  “Do you think she’ll try and . . . hurt me?” I pause partly out of fear, and partly because it seems ridiculous. Why would this stranger wish me harm? I’m tempted to think it’s out of jealously, but she moved the body before Samson stayed at my place, so that can’t be it, can it?

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Samson says.

  “But why?”

  Samson shrugs. “I have no idea. Maybe she knew my mark was your ex-husband, and she wanted to make a point?” He shakes his head. “But honestly, I don’t know. I knew her years ago. She’s probably a completely different person no
w.”

  “Well, not so different,” I say. “It seems she still knows the business.”

  “Yeah.”

  A pause, and then Samson nods to the bedroom. “Please, Anna, pack a bag.”

  “Look me in the eye and tell me I’m in real danger. Tell me I have to leave. Promise me. Because I don’t want to run from my life, Samson, not if it can be avoided.”

  He reaches forward, touches my cheek with his hand, warm, callused and yet somehow soft. “I swear to you, Anna, you’re in danger. I only want to protect you.”

  “I believe you,” I murmur.

  I take his hand, kiss it, and then go into the bedroom.

  I pack clothes, three veterinary books, two novels signed by the authors, the collar of my childhood dog, Skippy, and a folded photograph of Mom, holding me in her arms as a baby, and smiling brightly. I shoulder the pack and return to the living room.