Finally, he stops, and his shoulders heave up and down, his heavy, labored breaths the only sound in the room. When he whips around, pinning me with his arctic glare, I don’t move, somehow suspecting that one unwise motion would set him off, and neither one of us would survive it.
“You’re a fucking lie,” he repeats on a growl so low, so guttural, it’s nearly indecipherable.
Instead of contradicting him, I tilt my head.
“The Ghoul, also known as Mordechai Bowden, born March24, 1970, to Denis and Maria Bowden, first-generation Russian immigrants who changed their name from Lebedev to escape persecution. Mordechai married Sharon Bowden, formerly Williams, an Afro-Latina woman from Rosedale, New York. They moved to Boston in the late nineties. Had two children, a son, Malachi, and a daughter, Miriam, born five years apart.”
Nothing in his face softens, but… something glints in his eyes. Something that seems almost vulnerable.
Damaged.
“He became known as Ghoul in 1990 and joined Creed in 1995, but by then he’d racked up forty-six kills to his name.” I cock my head. “Look at you. Following in your father’s footsteps. You don’t kill children either, do you, Huntsman?”
“But you’re not a kid.”
That almost makes me smile. Almost.
“You didn’t know your father was a killer like you.” It’s not a question but a statement. I suspected it, but his reaction affirms that for me. “And like you, Abena had a bounty put on your father’s head when he refused to carry out a hit.”
He shakes his head. “That wouldn’t’ve been her. Creed handles any failure on behalf of their assassins in only one way—death.Ifmy father was this Ghoul, Creed would’ve killed him, Abena wouldn’t have.”
“True.” I pause. “If only your father died when they first came for him,” I say, ignoring his stubbornness in refusing to accept that Ghoul and Mordechai Bowden were one and the same. I don’t know why it’s so difficult for him to believe. Hell, look how he turned out. “But Abena doubled the price, requesting a hit not just on him but on his family—his wife, his son, and his daughter.”
It’s faint, but I catch the snag in his breath. The stiffening of his already-stone-hard body.
“From the story, he didn’t make it home in time to hide his wife. Creed took him with a bomb to his car, but your mother had already left your home by the time they came for her, you, andyour sister. She drove to Connecticut, hid you in plain sight in the foster care system under assumed names, then disappeared. But they eventually caught up with her, too. She was killed as she tried to cross over into New York a week later. And the rest you know. Miriam died—”
“Stop. Shut the fuck up. Shut the. Fuck. Up.”
I do as he says. His baby sister is as sore of a subject for him as my mother is for me. Maybe more. Because Ma lived—she left behind a legacy. His sister died a baby without a chance to do, to fuckingbe. And, like me, he witnessed her death.
His chest rises and falls on silent but heavy breaths, and my fingers tingle and itch with the need to touch his chin, lift his head, and stare into those mercury-colored eyes. To bathe in that pain, that rage, that confusion. Where the Huntsman is known for betraying absolutely nothing, I want to gorge on his emotion. Consume it until I’m fat and sick on it.
“Do you believe me now?” I finally ask into the silence after several moments.
He raises his head, and a lesser person would recoil under that flinty stare. But that ain’t me, and never has been. I was forged in the same fire as him.
“How do you know all this? Where did you get all this info about my family?” he asks.
I shrug, not about to admit that he became my obsession long ago. It was my mission to learn everything about him—from his favorite meal to his favorite way to kill to how he became the Huntsman. Who created him. Little did I know the seeds of this obsession had been created long ago, when my mother relayed that cautionary story about the Ghoul. She’d told me it so I would heed the unstable bomb that was my aunt.
No way she could predict she’d germinate a fixation on the son of that tragic figure.
“I have my ways and sources. Does it matter, though? I’m a thief, murderer, criminal, and a whole list of other things, but I’m not a liar.” I snicker, waving a hand. “Nah, I’m lying. I’m aliar, too. But this time, I happen to be telling the truth. And you have reasons to hate Abena—more than you thought. She stole everything from you. Just like she did me.”
I move forward, taking a calculated risk and closing the distance between us, even though his expression warns me off. Advises me against it. Still, I keep going until the tips of my boots nearly bump up against his.
“I get you want to kill me, but shit, Huntsman, you came for me, so what did you expect me to do? And honestly? I spared your gotdamn life, so actually, you owe me. I’m the one who should be offended in this situation, not you.” I mug him, and the more I talk, the hotter I get. The mu’fucka got some damn nerve. “But I’m willing to let bygones be bygones and work together to get what we both want. Which is Abena dead. If we do this, though, it’s my way. I know her better than you. Know her routines, the way she thinks, her habits. So you follow my lead.”
His mouth twists in a snarl before I even finish talking, and I sigh and mentally roll my eyes.
“The fuck you think this is? A partnership?” He chuckles, and it sounds like a rusty nail driven into dented metal. “Just because you relayed a bedtime story about some assassin that’s supposed to be my father? In order for me to work with you, Eshe Diallo of the Mwuaji, I’d have to trust you, and I don’t trust your li’l ass as far as that third fucking blind mouse could see you.” He leans down so his nose pushes against mine and his breath pulses against my lips. “Fuck a bygone. And fuck you. We gon’ have beef forever, mu’fucka. You chained me to a bed. You pulled a gun on me. You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, because the next time you’re in my sight, I’m damn sure not gon’ miss. You and your bitch-ass aunt. I haven’t failed a mission yet, and I don’t intend on breaking that record.”
He straightens, then pinches my chin in a painful grip where his thumb presses my bottom lip against the ridge of my teeth. The faint tinge of blood taints my tongue.
“My jobs are never personal. But for you and your aunt? I’m making an exception.”
Releasing me, he stalks past, ripping his Glock 26 from my hand. He collects all his weapons from the desk where he placed them before our fight and heads for the door that opens to the garage.
