Murder Girl (Lilah Love 2)

the snug bucket seats and buckle in. “Where?” I mouth.

Kane grabs me and presses his lips to my ear. “Forty-five minutes is all he would say.” He pulls back, and we’re already lifting off. I glance at my watch. It’s ten thirty. I start my timer. We’re officially headed into the dark unknown to meet a man who kills for money. My arm flexes over my weapon at my rib cage: technically, I kill for money, too. When I’m given cause. And if Ghost gives me cause, I will kill him tonight. And I might even enjoy it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

As soon as the chopper is in the air, the pilot begins a weave and circle that ensures Kane and I have no opportunity to gauge our travel direction, be it north, south, east, or west. The darkness and absence of city lights that soon follow don’t help matters. Fifteen minutes into the flight, I accept the inevitability of being blind and dumb until our arrival. Leaning into the seat, my leg and hip align with Kane’s and not because either of us is suddenly trying to play the lovey-dovey couple that we’ve never been nor will ever become. Kane and I do this hate/love, throw-a-fist, fuck-to-make-up thing too damn well to screw it up with fluffy bullshit.

No. Right now, our legs are melded together because we’re crammed inside this hellhole of a chopper that is loud, rough, and sporting only one tiny-ass double seat. I suspect the uncomfortable ride is meant to keep us on edge, anticipating the meeting with Ghost, maybe even fearing him. Or maybe he’s just a cheap-ass bitch. That’s probably it, since Kane’s known to Ghost, and fear for Kane is like fear for me. It works about as well as Eddie and I did at my father’s house for dinner.

At forty minutes into the expected forty-five-minute ride, the chopper begins a descent. Kane doesn’t visibly react to our arrival, nor do I, but I can feel the slight tensing of his body, the readiness that wasn’t there moments before. Once again, I attempt a look out the window, but still, I find nothing but darkness. No city lights. Confirmation that we’re headed to a secluded location.

Five minutes later, the chopper officially touches down in what appears to be a field, and the pilot stays in his seat, a silent message for us to get the fuck out of his chopper. Kane unbuckles his belt and moves to the door, opening it and scanning outside. I am behind him by the time he leaps to the ground, and I don’t look for his hand, nor does he offer it. He’s focused on the horizon that includes a farmhouse of some sort. I, too, jump to the ground. Already, my eyes are adjusting to the darkness, the clear night, the full moon and heavy star-speckled sky, the rows of trees circling the large grassy field where we stand.

The chopper’s engine roars, and it lifts off behind us. Kane and I back up and turn to watch it depart. “It’s going to be one hell of a walk back to your place.” I glance left to what looks like crops and another silhouetted structure. “Hurd Family Farm,” I say. “The trees are apple trees. I remember being here years ago.”

“And known to accept chopper landings,” he says. “Which places us in Modena, New York, on the edge of the small town Plattekill.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and makes a call. “Chopper. Hurd’s Farm. North side of the farmhouse. Now.” That’s it. He ends the call and looks at me. “‘Now’ translates to an hour to get us out of here.”

“Or for me to get standby agents here to arrest him if that had been my plan.” The lights in the farmhouse flicker and go dark.

“He obviously wants us to come to him.”

“Wonderful,” I murmur. “A bossy assassin with a flair for horror-movie dramatics.”

We start the short walk, and as our feet hit the dirt leading to the open farmhouse door, the lights inside the structure turn on. Kane catches my arm. “If we play this right, he’ll help us fuck the Society and their assassin. But if he crosses us, shoot to kill. There won’t be a do-over.”

“That doesn’t sound like you’re confident in that mutual respect,” I comment.

“I’m cautious and realistic. When a man feels trapped, he will always lean on instincts and what he does best. In his case, that means kill and move on.”

“And what’s your instinct, Kane?”

“Kill or be killed.”

I have a momentary flashback to me driving a knife through my attacker’s chest, a man who Kane restrained with the intent of talking to him. Because apparently, my motto is “Kill because they deserve it.” I can’t blame the Society for making me who I am, but they damn sure woke that part of me up, apparently after they’d already pulled my family into hell. I want them to pay. I’m going to make them pay. And if Ghost can help me do that, I’ll shake the monster’s hand if I have to tonight and come back for him later.

I give Kane a nod, and we move together, closing the short space to the farmhouse that is actually a barn. We step into the doorway to discover two horses, one left and one right, each enclosed by wooden fences, a narrow walkway beyond leading to more gated stalls. A man—Ghost, I assume—is sitting on the fenced area to our left, his hands balancing his position. His dark brown hair is short but not short enough to read as military, as Murphy seems to believe is his background. His temples are streaked gray, but I don’t believe him to be more than a few years older than Kane, perhaps thirty-six or -seven.

It feels like an easy trap, and Kane’s flat-footed stance says he’s of the same mindset. We don’t move. We make Ghost come to us. His lips curve as if he’s amused by our hesitation, which he sees as intimidation. Or that’s what he wants us to think to lure us to him. We stand our ground, and he jumps down from the fence, his clothing like mine—all black. No logos that might tell a story about his character. But as he moves toward us, he is tall, muscular, and confident, his grace that of a practiced soldier.

Kane and I meet him halfway in the center of the barn, a decision we make in unison, the way Greg and I had once played off each other. We halt, as he does, with two feet between us. He gives Kane a nod. “The notorious Kane Mendez.”

“Ghost,” Kane greets. “You’re looking like the killer that you are.”

“If only more people knew how to give a compliment,” he says, glancing at me, his pale-green eyes strikingly cold. “Do you like horses, Lilah Love?”

“They’re a hell of a lot better than most humans,” I say dryly. “Especially those who make their living as assassins.”

His lips quirk with amusement, his gaze boring into me.

“If staring at me is supposed to fluster me,” I say, “it won’t work.”

“You sure about that?” he challenges.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

He arches a thick dark brow. “Unfortunately?”

“There is something wrong with a person who can look into the eyes of a killer and feel no fear. Don’t you think?”

“If you don’t feel fear, what do you feel?”

“Irritated that I can’t kill you today.”

“You can’t kill me period, little girl.”

“You sure about that?”

He gives me a flat two-second stare, his cheekbones high, nose straight, expression carved into stone before he says, “I’m going to help you get your assassin,” he says.

“Why help me?” I ask.

“I’m not helping you,” he says. “You’re helping me.”

“How are we helping you?” Kane interjects.

He shifts his attention to Kane. “I turned down this job, and in the wake of my withdrawal, they chose to copycat me. I want this little prick taken down.”

“Why’d you turn down the job?” Kane asks.

“I didn’t at first,” he says. “The payout made it worth considering.”

“But you got spooked,” Kane assumes.

“I don’t get spooked,” Ghost says. “I stay smart. They presented me the job, which was cut-and-dry. A list of Society members who were planning a coup of their leadership. And don’t ask for details. I didn’t care to ask myself and don’t have them to give.”

“If it was cut-and-dry,” I say, “why did you pull out?”

“They wanted me to sig

n on as their exclusive agent, with a price tag of fifty million a year. I refused the broader offer but accepted the contract job. I’d taken a down payment, agreed to terms, even started planning, and then they fucked me.”

“That doesn’t seem smart on their behalf,” Kane comments, echoing my own thoughts.

“Smarter than you might think,” he says. “At least in the short term. Word got back to me that I was being buzzed about as the new assassin for the Society, as if I’d taken the job.”

“And with a coup,” I say, “that buzz intimidated Society members.”

“Exactly,” he says. “An especially effective strategy on their behalf, considering I killed a key Society leader years ago, and when they then sent a half dozen Blood Assassins after me, I lived. They died.”

Confirmation, I think, that the Blood Assassins exist and that they work for the Society. Additional confirmation, as well, that the Society was behind my attack.

“It made the Society look bad,” he says. “But hiring me makes it look like they ordered the murder of their own people, then and now.”

“Which is why the assassin who took the job is copying you,” Kane says.

“Yes,” he confirms, that one word like a blade cutting through the air. “And that’s where they pushed me too far. I don’t like being copied.”

“Who do you deal with at the Society?” I ask.

“Pocher,” he says. “It’s always Pocher.”

“Is he the leader?” I ask.

“He’s like the guard dog for the United States division,” he says, “but no. He’s not the leader, and no, before you ask, I don’t know who is. But they know you.”

“What does that mean?” Kane asks.

“It means your woman is a bigger part of this than you know,” he replies, but he’s still looking at me.

“What does that mean?” I ask, brilliantly repeating what Kane just asked.

“There were two hits on the list that were in LA. I was told to kill the assassin outside your territory. Not outside your city, outside your reach, specifically.”

“Obviously those instructions were ignored,” Kane says.