Sold To The Hitman (Men of Ruthless Corp)

One

Titan

* * *

“Look, Titan, you can garden your ass off after this job. Make your little spice blend and let out your demons. Hell, you can rub spices on my ass for all I care… as long as you say yes.”

I chuckle a little, spraying pods of glossy red pepper plants with a stream of water. “I’m not sure your ass could handle my Killer Spice Blend.”

“My ass can handle anything.” True enough. Rogue is one tough bastard. He’s a surly old man who has seen his fair share of crime, but he’s also one of my best friends, so it’s hard to say no to him.

He leans against the trunk of an oak with inked arms crossed, dark eyes narrowed on me. “One last job, one last hit, that’s all I’m asking.”

“I’m retiring from Ruthless Corp. at the end of this month, remember?”

“You’re only thirty-five.”

“And?” His gaze sears my skin as I mosey down the neat garden rows in my backyard, checking the onions and saffron, basil and mustard, giving anything that looks thirsty a drink of water.

“Listen… I can’t ask just anyone to do this, Titan.” He follows hot on my heels as I cross the yard to the patio and coil the hose around its metal holder. “It’s hush-hush, and I need the best man on this one.”

I snag my still chilly beer off the patio table and knock it back, eyeing him over the bottle. “Well, I am the best,” I say, tossing the empty in the recycle can, making Rogue grin. “I don’t think anyone would dispute that.”

Our casual conversation about murder might seem shocking to ordinary people who work mundane day jobs and then drive home to a loving family where they cook and eat a meal together around a dining room table.

I’m not ordinary. I wasn’t brought up that way.

Killing is in my blood.

I detest bragging, but I’m damn good at being a hitman. In and out. Job completed before the mark blinks. I’ve made more money than I can spend, but I want out. In the beginning, it was thrilling. There was so much action-packed adventure, I couldn’t stop even if I tried. Yet, that adrenaline rush finally crashed and burned. After working for Rogue for many years, I realized there had to be more to life than ending someone else’s. Even if they were evil fucks and the world is safer without them in it. I prefer to stop and smell the roses, as they say. Or lavender. It smells fucking amazing.

“Don’t go getting a massive head on me or anything.” The corners of Rogue’s eyes crinkle as he grins. “You said if I ever had a job I needed dealt with, I could call on you. I’m calling on you, bud.”

Rogue doesn’t appreciate hearing the word no, something I learned working for him for many years. “Fine, what do I need to do?”

“It’s easy.” He plucks a piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans. “Just go to this address tonight and check the place out. You’ll see a man named Steele. Big motherfucker with a tattoo of a rose on his neck. Steele is a buyer. The man he’s buying from is coming into town to meet with him. The hit is the man running the whole show.”

“What’s the mark’s name?” I ask as I accept the piece of paper from his hand.

“Don’t know.” Rogue shrugs. “It’s why you need to find Steele and let him lead you to the man calling all the shots.”

I nod, understanding completely. “I’ll call you once I’ve got something.”

He clasps my shoulder. “Be careful.”

I smirk. “Always.”

It’s late, and the moon is high in the sky when I hop in my truck. The streets are deserted as I head across town, but this is the time of night when evil lurks, so I don’t let my guard down. I locate the nondescript building Rogue sent me to and pull my truck around to the rear and park amidst the rows of fancy cars. I’m not sure what to expect when I walk inside this abandoned warehouse-looking place, but I’m always ready to attack when the need arises.

The military ingrained that into me. Ex-military, ex-hitman, it’s been an adventure, but I crave the simple life.

I stride up to a red door and knock twice. A short window slides open and a man sticks half his face out. One blue eye peers at me.

“Name?”

I swear if he asks for a password, I may just kick his ass. “Rogue sent me.”

No one wants to cross Rogue in this town, so the door opens without further questions and I’m ushered inside a dimly-lit entryway.

“In the back,” the bald man says. “Through there.” He points toward a black curtain and as I walk past, the man looks at my boots. Not your typical cowboy boots; steel-toed shit kickers, so if I get into a jam, I can kick my way out of it. They’re also a terrific place to tuck away a piece, and my Glock-43 fits perfectly there. But my Colt-45 is nestled securely by my side in its holster. It’s always good to be prepared.