The Hitman’s Angel

I should have listened. As soon as the Starbucks is within sight, a van pulls up to my left along the curb and the back window rolls down. There’s my mother, gaunter than usual, but smiling. Beckoning. My heart leaps despite the oddness of the situation and I gravitate toward the familiarity of her. “Mom.”

It’s only when I get closer do I see the gun pressed to the back of her head.

Hank is holding it.

“I had no choice,” she says, a tear rolling down her cheek.

“Get in,” Hank grates. “Or I pull the trigger.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lenin

Something is amiss.

I do not like it.

Sweat rolls down my spine as the elevator climbs toward the correct floor. In seconds, I will have Margaret in my arms and all will be well. I just need to see my angel.

There should have been someone staking out my apartment, but I surveyed the area from a nearby rooftop and saw no one. It is unheard of for a hitman to disregard a task so delicate. Once I shirked my responsibility, my employer should have put a price on my head. I know too much and have no skin in the game. I’m a liability to the man who hired me. Yet there was no one waiting in the shadows of my closet. No one lurking in the parking garage.

I was fully prepared to make short work of whoever they sent to kill me.

Yet I wasn’t even challenged.

Something is definitely amiss.

As soon as the elevator doors open, I lunge through the opening, key already in hand. She’s on the other side of the door. I’m going to kiss her and take her on a date. Maybe I’ll find a Russian restaurant in town and show her some of my culture.

No, I will let her pick.

After asking her to stay trapped inside all day, she will make all the choices tonight. If she wants to go to the fucking moon, I will find a way to bring her there.

As soon as I open the door, I know she’s gone.

My roar makes the window panes rattle across the room.

“Margaret!”

I’m dizzy and lacking in oxygen as I stumble into the room, turning in a circle. Looking for clues. There are no signs of a struggle and it’s the only reason I maintain my sanity. Her bag of clothing has been moved, some of the garments are missing. She left of her own accord?

Did she decide to leave me after what little I told her of my life?

“Angel,” I shout hoarsely, noting her toothbrush is still in the bathroom. Did she plan on coming back? What if she went out on an errand and I’m overreacting?

No.

No, something is wrong.

My gut is on fire and I want my Margaret.

I sit down on the edge of the bed where I can still smell our lovemaking and it turns me into a fearsome animal. If someone has my mate, they are on borrowed time. Before this day is over, I will grind their fucking bones to dust. To Margaret, I am a lover. To them, I am Satan.

Though it is almost impossible, I force myself to fight the fear and nausea and rage. To focus on what I know. Her stepfather is the only one who harbors ill will toward Margaret.

I will start there.

On autopilot, I check my weapon and return it to my shoulder holster.

I’m coming, angel.

Margaret

It’s a sad day in a woman’s life when she realizes her mother is flawed.

I mean, I always knew she was imperfect. Everyone has their faults. But I thought she had honor. More than that, I thought she would do anything to protect me. Even after she left me with Hank, I carried that belief. For the last six months, I had this fabulous fantasy that she’d had no choice but to leave Baltimore and she was building the perfect home for us in Mexico She would bring me there one day and we’d lie on the beach laughing.

Instead, I’m in the cold basement of Hank’s All Nude Review, my knees on the filthy concrete floor. My mother kneels beside me crying, but I’m too numb to comfort her. Or myself. She hasn’t even apologized to me. All I can do is stare into space and pretend the gun pointed at my head isn’t going to fire any second.

Lenin’s voice whispers in my ear. My Margaret. I love you so much.

Salty moisture stings the backs of my eyes.

Why didn’t I just stay in the stupid hotel?

Two men are with us in the basement. Hank and the unfamiliar man who drove us here in the van. My stepfather is pacing back and forth in the near darkness, sucking down a Camel cigarette. He keeps checking his cell phone as if he’s waiting for something. Anger at myself roars up inside me and I can’t keep quiet any longer. I don’t want to wait to know my fate.