The Hitman’s Angel

I let out a bored breath and let my elbow graze the Glock holstered at my side. This one isn’t even going to be a challenge. When my employer ordered the hit, I hung up without accepting right away. It only took me a few minutes of internet searching to confirm this man deserves to be put into the ground. Drug charges, soliciting prostitution in this very club. Assault against a woman. That last one sealed the deal.

As soon as we’re alone, I’ll perform my duty and be home in time for Shark Tank.

That Barbara Corcoran is a shrewd one. I find I enjoy her insight very much.

But first, the job. It is just another task in a series of many. It is nearing its end, however. My debt to my employer is almost paid and then I will be free to do my puzzles in peace. I follow the gnat man through a curtain of silver beads into a small lounge that, if possible, is even more disgusting than the main floor. The room glows in a neon blue light, doing nothing to hide the torn leather couches and stained industrial carpet. If the moans coming from the dark corners are any indication, the stains are not from spilled drinks.

I sigh and briefly close my eyes. “Is there somewhere more private?” I ask.

In a place like this, there always is. A backroom where men are allowed to do a lot more than receive a lap dance. For an increased fee, of course.

I merely want a place with no witnesses.

His answering laugh sets my teeth on edge. “Is that an accent? I didn’t notice it before. Where are you from, buddy? Russia or something?”

“Nyet. I’m from hell. Have you been?”

He thinks this is very funny and slaps his knee, giggling like a small child. “Perfect. This is perfect. You’re going to put that spoiled bitch right in her place.”

I assume by “spoiled bitch,” he’s talking about this first-time dancer—and these are words that don’t make sense to me. If she was spoiled, she wouldn’t be working in this godforsaken dump. First-time dancer. Spoiled. Is she here against her will?

I find I do not like this idea very much at all.

Congratulations, gnat. You have earned an extra minute of breathing because I’m now interested in seeing the dancer. If I can help it, I never let women suffer, like so many women in my life did when I was a youth. Powerless. Too young to help them.

I’m not powerless now.

I’m this piece of shit’s worst nightmare.

“As luck would have it,” says the gnat, “there is a backroom. But this here dancer…” Trying to play coy, he scratches the back of his neck, but dollar signs are in his eyes. “When I say she’s never danced. I mean she’s never danced, if you catch my drift. It’d cost you a pretty penny if you want more than a show.”

“You already knew I could afford it, though. That’s why you approached me, da?”

He sputters for a moment, looking over my pressed, gray suit. “You don’t exactly look look like my typical customer.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey,” he says, frowning. “These are decent, hard-working—”

“Enough. Where is this girl? I will decide if she’s worth emptying my wallet over.” I study the cuff of my jacket. “Based on your talent working the main stage, I doubt it.”

Now he’s got something to prove, this child living in a man’s body. “You just wait. There’s a reason I’ve kept her locked upstairs.”

Bastard. I grind my molars as he leaves the room, my hand itching to reach for the gun, twist on my silencer and aim. To end his miserable existence. Wherever the first-time dancer is, she will be freed once he takes his final breath. There’s no need to wait. But just as I’m about to follow him into whatever dark backroom he’s disappeared into, the silver beads swing—and my heart spikes down into my stomach, then rams up into my throat.

Angel.

It does not make sense to my brain that she is standing in this place. She belongs in the clouds. Or sitting on a silk pillow sipping champagne. Dear God, I’ve never seen anyone or anything so beautiful in my thirty-three years. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head, little pieces tickling her graceful neck. Her mouth is plump, brown eyes round and spirited. Scared, but brave. I will slaughter him for making you scared, angel.

How long has she been scared? Locked up?

A roar builds in my throat and my arm muscles seize. Adrenaline turns the slow pulse in my neck into a fast, staccato beat. I’m primed to kill.

I’m primed for more than that, though. My cock is pounding with lust, growing and stretching out in my pants. Hungry. I’m so hungry and my craving is her skin. I want to remove the long, blue, see-through robe she’s wearing and lick every inch of her body. Never before have I wanted a woman with this urgency. My couplings in the past were functions I performed as part of my job. Infiltrating places like this. Getting closer to the target through any means necessary.