Relentless (Option Zero 2)

“The venom is taking over now. You’ll be dead soon.”

Lawrence lay on the floor, his mind dulled with pain. His breathing labored, his heart raced faster and faster toward a dark finish line. A line he hadn’t planned on crossing for several more decades.

Who hated him so much to kill him? He thought about what could have been…what could never be.

* * *

Studying Lawrence Medford as he took his last breaths was a unique experience. In his line of work, one needed to absorb the experience to learn the various facets. Who knew when he might need to recall the incident to enhance a scene?

Besides, if he’d learned anything in his career, it was that the job, no matter how distasteful, had to be finished. Using his phone, he clicked a couple of photos. Proof of death was also an important part of his itinerary.

The reason behind Medford’s killing was of no real importance to him. He had a job to do, and as usual he took great pride in his work. Knowing why his client wanted to off the wealthy and famous man mattered nothing to him. It was a job that paid him quite a bit of money. That was his only motivation.

With meticulous care, he gathered his weapons into a box. Nasty creatures, but quite effective. He would leave only the largest snake. To the authorities, it would appear that Medford had died from multiple bites from that one snake. They would never know the man had been attacked by a half dozen of the vipers.

He looked around once more to ensure he’d left no indication that he had been there. Satisfied with what he saw and with his night’s work, he let himself out the way he’d come in, through the back door.

Scaling the brick wall in the backyard, he hopped down and jogged the quarter mile to where he’d left his car. Only slightly winded, he dropped into the driver’s seat, pressed the engine button, and shifted into gear. Five miles down the road, he made the call.

“It’s done.”

“He’s dead?”

“Should be within the next ten minutes. He’ll be long dead before anyone finds him.”

“Excellent. The other half of your payment is on its way.”

“Good.”

“Stay close. It’s possible I’ll have another job for you soon.”

“Sounds good.”

He ended the call and set his eyes on the rising sun ahead of him. If he timed it right, he might be able to get in a quick swim before he was due on the set. Staying in shape was imperative for both his professions. Acting and contract killing had several things in common. One of those things was good physical health. Another was the opportunity to role-play. He had been everything from a waiter in a fancy restaurant to a middle-management pencil pusher at a CPA firm. Killing—at least the way he liked to do it—took talent and time. One couldn’t rush perfection.

Took a lot of work to be at the top of one’s game. He was already at the top of one. Wouldn’t be long before he was on top of the other.

Chapter Eleven

Los Angeles, California

It was the cold that woke her first. Tendrils, like icy fingers, crept through her limbs, spreading desolation, a deep, aching sadness that permeated her whole being. The pressure on her chest increased as if someone were sitting on her. She woke, gasping and wheezing for breath, shivering uncontrollably as if she were encased in ice.

Why was it always the cold and that chest-squeezing pain that came first? Why not the other horror? Not that she wanted those hideous nightmares either. The cold on its own was brutal enough…the way it slowly, insidiously slid through her whole body like a poison worm attacking inch by inch. Sometimes she wondered if perhaps she was supposed to have died, and this was Death’s way of reminding her that he was still around, still hovering.

She should be dead. No real reason she wasn’t, other than the sheer will to live. And that voice…that beautiful, masculine voice that called to her to stay alive. To wait for him because he would come for her.

Aubrey shook her head and snorted her disgust at her thoughts. One would think she would have given up on fairy tales and romantic nonsense. Sure she was a dreamer—that came with the territory of creativity—but that didn’t belong in the real world. The real world had bad people with ulterior motives and knives and fists. The real world was where she lived. Not in some fictional land where princes rescued damsels in distress. She’d learned long ago that if she needed rescuing, she damn well had to do it herself.

But late at night, when she was extremely tired or overwrought, the nightmare would come. The pain, the fear, the absolute agony. There was no hope, no chance of survival. And then she would hear his voice, calling her name, calming her, telling her to hold on.

It was a voice she’d lived with for twelve years. The voice of the man she loved. A man she’d never seen. A man who was long dead. Her heart didn’t care. It knew to whom it belonged.

She rolled over in bed and squinted at the bedside clock. Only five thirty. She’d come back to her hotel room and thrown herself into her work. The interview with Brenda had drained her, but her mind was too wired to rest.

When she’d crawled into bed at two thirty this morning, she had promised herself she would sleep late. Three hours of sleep wouldn’t cut it, but she had no choice. No way would she be able to sleep after a nightmare.

Promising herself a nap after her meeting today, she slipped from the bed. The cold still holding her in its grasp, she pulled on the thick hotel robe. Taking a deep breath to refocus, she padded into the small living room area. Her laptop sat on the table where she’d left it last night, the blinking cursor a welcoming sight. Writing was her number one way of overcoming the nightmares. She could lose herself in the story and for a time completely forget what haunted her.