I know a lot about this woman.
That’s why we’re here.
What she knows of us, what she thinks of us, what she feels for us—won’t matter in a few hours.
Because she’ll be dead.
Chapter Three – LOGAN
AJ and I have been stalking Yvette Nightingale for two weeks under the direct supervision of our boss, Damon Dell’Ariccia. And regardless of how good we are at our job, sometimes it sucks.
Not because we’re going to kill her after we’re done fucking tonight, but because I hate the fucking mountains.
I get it. Some people like nature. Some people like mountains, and snow, and the great outdoors. I like that shit too. Sometimes. But not here. It took me three days to get past the altitude sickness. Fucking headaches, fucking heavy breathing, fucking dizziness. And that whole time I had binoculars pressed to my face watching from afar. Or I was hiking up the goddamned hillside out back of this bar. Or AJ was making me ski with him like we were on vacation and not out on a hit.
And now this fucking snow.
I don’t know how people live up here. It’s a goddamned nightmare.
Damon called earlier today and gave us the go—since it’s now abundantly clear that this Yvette chick isn’t hiding the thing we thought she was hiding, so her usefulness in our little operation is over.
I just wanted to sit outside in the truck, wait for the tourists to go home, and then maybe—maybe—have a drink before we pulled the trigger.
And now where am I?
Yvette fucking Nightingale has my cock down her throat.
AJ lets her know that he doesn’t like quitters while I’m musing on how we got here.
“Give it another go,” he says.
And she does.
Maybe willingly. Maybe not. Maybe she sees the trap she fell blindly into. Dancing. I actually roll my eyes. He hasn’t used that one in a long time.
At least I don’t think so. This is the first hit we’ve been on together in almost two years. So who knows, maybe he’s the country boogie king of dive mountain bars. I have no clue.
But even if she doesn’t yet realize our steel trap just clamped down on her ankle, she’s well on her way to scared. I can see it in her eyes as she looks up at him.
Will we rape her?
That’s her question.
The answer is no, of course. She’s going to agree to all of it. AJ will make sure of that.
“Good,” AJ says, when she keeps my cock deep in her throat for the count of fifteen.
Practice makes perfect.
I actually laugh a little at that.
“Bored?” AJ asks.
“No, I’m good,” I say.
He leans in, wraps his hand around the back of my neck, pulls me closer to him, and then puts his mouth right up to mine.
I let him. Not because he’s the one who calls the shots in this little partnership, just because I want to.
Hey, if this Yvette wants to go out sucking cock, who am I to object? I might as well enjoy the part I have to play.
We’re gonna leave here tonight with her body, dump it over the side of a ravine we scouted out last week, and clean up any evidence with the help of my friend Manny—no thanks to Damon. Fucker insisted we didn’t need a clean-up team, this was too simple. But I dot all my i’s and cross all my t’s, so I called up Manny myself and have him on standby anyway.
After that’s all done, I’ll go back to the real world again.
I can’t wait.
But AJ is fun. We’ve been friends for a long time and this is our last job together because he’s next on my hit list.
We’re gonna look over the side of that ravine, watch Yvette’s body tumble down like a sack of flesh, and then I’m gonna back up, pull out my gun, and shoot him in the back.
Hopefully he pops over the side all by himself, but if not. Whatever. I’ll just push him.
It occurs to me that I might be evil.
I kiss AJ harder because I’m gonna miss him. I slip him a little tongue and think about all the good times we’ve had over the years. All the girls we fucked just like this. All the times we got drunk, and danced, and didn’t kill the girl once we were done.
Sometimes we even stayed the night with them. Once we played house for a whole weekend. Woke up and made breakfast, took her shopping, had a nice dinner, and fucked her brains out for another night before we left.
Good times.
But Damon doesn’t have the same fond memories as me.
My eyes open and my gaze wanders around the bar. It’s got a mountain retreat look to it. Exposed beams running the length of the flat, ten-foot ceiling. Unfinished pine tables and chairs. And a few of those seating areas with strategically placed mismatched furniture you see in city coffeeshops.