El Diablo (Killer of Kings 6)

Chapter One

Xavier slid the patio door closed behind him, careful not to make a sound. The rich scent of coffee wafted in the air. Most people loved the smell. He fucking hated it. He pushed away childhood memories of picking coffee beans in his bare feet for twelve grueling hours a day. Right now, he needed to stay focused.

He was there to kill a man.

The oceanfront paradise belonged to a dirty trader. He’d pissed off the wrong people, spreading rumors and creating false market values. The men who’d lost millions because of him had hired Killer of Kings for some swift justice.

Xavier had been working for the notorious group of hitmen for over ten months now. He’d done his training with Chains and Killian, and he’d been fulfilling contracts for a few months. The work paid well, so he couldn’t complain.

Lazy footsteps shuffled down the hallway. He twisted a silencer onto the end of his Glock, not liking the leather gloves Boss insisted he wear. Mr. Strogonov wasn’t expecting him this morning. Nobody wanted a visit from El Diablo.

He watched as the man lifted the carafe from the coffeemaker and poured himself a drink. He wore a plush navy bathrobe and matching slippers, humming a carefree tune as he puttered around the kitchen. Strogonov was forty-three, only a few years older than Xavier himself. The bastard had some city miles, probably from the stress of ripping off his associates. When he turned around and noticed Xavier sitting at his dining table, he dropped the mug, the ceramic pieces scattering on the marble floor.

“Who are you?” His voice trembled, his lower lip quivering.

“Who do you think I am?”

The man looked from side to side, then reached for his neck.

“Your personal alert won’t work. I’ve already deactivated it. You didn’t think they’d hire an amateur, did you?”

“W-who hired you?”

Xavier smirked. “You have more than one enemy? You’ve been busy.” He waved an arm in the air. “Stealing certainly pays well, doesn’t it?”

“I never stole anything.”

He set his gun on the glass tabletop with care, then stood up, slowly pushing the chair back into place. He rolled out his shoulders. “You’re far from innocent, Mr. Strogonov.”

“I can pay you. Whatever they’re giving you, I’ll do better. Name your price.”

There was no reason for him to talk to this guy. Strogonov could beg and cry and offer him the world. It wouldn’t do any good once Killer of Kings was contracted. This was more than money; it was about reputation, respect, and getting the job done. He’d spent a lot of time with Boss and his men over the past year, and for the first time in his life, he felt connected. Being on top, ruling with an iron fist in some of the most ruthless gangs and cartels never fulfilled him. It only added to the loneliness, the disconnect he’d always felt. Chains and the other players at Killer of Kings were his equals, and the level playing field was surprisingly satisfying.

“I need you to write a confession letter. Go on, grab a paper and pen. I’ll wait.”

“What for?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Don’t make me ask you twice.”

The man scrambled around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers. Sweat beaded on his forehead, highlighting his receding hairline.

“The top drawer beside the sink,” he said. “And bring a glass of water back with you.” Xavier had already scoped out this place, and taken all the steps to ensure the contract went smooth and clean. He had something to prove to Boss. Once the man had the pad, pen, and water, he continued, “Now, you’re going to apologize and spell out exactly what you did to alter the market.”

Once he had the suicide note, he could finish this hit. His gun was only a precaution.

“I can’t do that. They’ll lock me away for the rest of my life.”

He shook his head. Jail was the last thing this bastard should be worried about. “Do you know what they called me back in Colombia?” Xavier massaged one of the man’s shoulders, making him flinch. “El Diablo. If you don’t know, that means The Devil. Some said I was a sociopath, that I lacked empathy. Others were more blunt, calling me a monster. Maybe they were right. But monsters aren’t born—they’re made.” He could have gone on, talking about his bullshit childhood, being sold to the barrio gang to pay a debt his mother owed. About the little sister torn from his arms. Sometimes he unloaded it all, knowing whoever he told was about to meet their maker. It was his therapy, a confession of his sins. He shoved Strogonov down into a chair. The man whimpered. “You don’t want to piss me off.” The trip down memory lane plus a wicked case of blue balls had put him in a less than stellar mood.

Once everything had been written out, Xavier neatly folded the paper and tucked it into the breast pocket of Mr. Strogonov’s robe. “Very good,” he said. “Now take these with the water.” He set two pills on the table beside the glass.

“What are they?”

“Don’t worry about it. Take the damn pills.” He picked up his gun to punctuate this sentence.

Within minutes of swallowing the lethal drugs, Strogonov slumped over the glass table, the water spilling.

Drip, drip, drip off the edge onto the marble floors.

This job was too easy. Xavier liked to use his gun or knives, something challenging where he could let off steam. But Boss wanted a textbook suicide, so he delivered.

He walked to the kitchen window. The view above the sink was breathtaking, clouds tinted with pink and orange reflected on the ocean’s surface. It was way too fucking early to be awake.

Xavier tucked his Glock into his shoulder harness and left the way he came. Strogonov had an ex-wife and no children. Even if he’d had a family, it wouldn’t have changed the outcome. Xavier was fucked up in the head, always had been. He never felt guilt or regret when killing. Maybe he was numb to the bloodshed … or he really was a monster.

Once he got to his car, settling back against the soft leather, he called Boss.

“Job’s done.”

“You’re on a roll,” said Boss. “I have another contract for tomorrow. You’ll love this one.”

He scrubbed his hand over the stubble on his jaw. “Oh?”

“You’ll have to get your hands dirty. I’ll email you the details.” The line went dead.

Boss never was one for small talk. If you did your job well, you got more work, and he left you alone. If you fucked up, he’d ride your ass. He demanded perfection and rarely gave second chances. The man had a reputation for a reason.

The only reason Xavier started this job was in exchange for information about his sister. Boss had given him a few leads, but nothing that panned out. He kept promising more, but after a year of waiting, Xavier was starting to wonder.

The highway drive was usually a bumper to bumper nightmare, but this early in the morning, it was relatively clear. He hit the gas and headed home. Over the past few mon

ths, he’d made more money than most men earned in a lifetime. Hitmen with good track records made a very lucrative living. But chasing the almighty dollar was a road leading to nowhere. He knew that well, but it didn’t stop him either. He had nothing to lose.

Forty minutes later, he drove along his winding driveway. His home was a modern marvel, set on a vast acreage. He valued his privacy and security. By now he knew money couldn’t buy happiness, but he always had something to prove. As if owning the best was the measure of a man, or could erase the memories of living in the slums of District 4 of Soacha.

The only thing that marred the perfect landscape was the little yellow Kia with rust around the fenders. It belonged to the live-in housekeeper he’d hired a few months ago. Once his training was over, he had no time for anything on the home front. She had her own living area on the far east wing of the mansion. Ms. Alesha Sanders knew not to enter his office, the basement, or to leave her live-in suite after hours. Keeping a civilian on his payroll wasn’t recommended, but sometimes it was nice to play normal and get away from all the bullshit.

He’d interviewed over a dozen potential housekeepers. Xavier had no time for anything but his contracts. He needed a woman to cook, clean, and keep his domestic affairs in order. The interviews were on a downward spiral until Alesha sat across from his desk.

She was young and curvy with freckles across her nose. Her lips were full and pouty, and he doubted she knew how tempting she was. She wore a plain cotton dress with a white cardigan. He wasn’t sure what it was about her, but he knew she was the one for the job.

Of course, he had Maurice do a full work up on her. She’d been living on her own since she was eighteen. No criminal record. No dependents. Ms. Alesha was a twenty-seven-year-old waitress turned housekeeper. Her references were impeccable, but he’d already decided to hire her before doing the background check.