I should disappear for a few months. Keep my distance from everything. Jackie has her life back on track, finding her balance again after the scare she had with her friend’s kidnapping. She doesn’t work at that damn bar anymore like she did two years ago. Now she does volunteer work and moved into a new apartment.
When I bought her old place and made her think it was Martin who did it, I paid the condo fees and everything else upfront until she turned twenty-five. Not because the date means anything to me, but because I like round numbers.
I planned to extend the condo payments for another five years, but then she started looking for new places and I figured maybe that apartment was too big for one person.
She was probably planning to use the leftover money from selling the old place and buying a cheaper one to start some kind of savings.
I could’ve handled it all. Kept her in the old place and given her enough cash to build a good nest egg and invest in a few stocks, but she’s too proud. She never would’ve accepted my help.
So, I made sure she got a great deal. I bought the place Jackie wanted, without her knowing, and resold it to her for forty percent less than it was worth.
Now she can afford to go back to school if she wants to, and spend some time doing what she loves: helping those in need, without risking herself in that hellhole she used to work in at night.
The sale happened during the first year Taylor was missing.
I know everything about Jackie’s life, but not much about the people around her. I’m not that interested in humans in general—unless they have a connection to me.
And then, about twelve months ago, one of my men told me—while I was out of the country—that Jackie had been going to hospitals and morgues once a week, and joining support groups for missing persons in Manhattan. That sparked my curiosity, and I did something I hadn’t done since Martin died: I called her.
At first, she didn’t want to talk. She kept her distance, stayed cold. But soon, she confessed about her friend. It didn’t take me long to track down the redhead on some island in Asia, but unlike Jackie, I wasn’t so sure she’d actually been kidnapped.
What can I say? I’m a skeptic when it comes to human nature. In the end, Jackie was right and I was wrong. The girlhad been taken against her will, and I’m still following the trail of what really happened.
They reunited over eight months ago, though for a while, Taylor was kept away, trying to get her life—and especially her mind—back in order, since she lost her memory. They’re finally in the same city again. Jackie has someone real close by. Someone besides a vigilante hitman with obsessive tendencies to look out for her.
I close my eyes for a second and remember the look on her face when she came in my arms. I’ve never felt connected to a woman when it comes to sex. I see sex as a physical need, like eating or sleeping. There’s no affection, no feelings, no emotions involved beyond the pleasure of orgasm.
When I went after her at the club, I wasn’t prepared to come face-to-face with the grown-up version of Jackie. In my arrogance, I thought I was just going to look out for her again on a special night when she needed company.
No, that’s not true. Ever since I talked to her on the phone over a year ago, when I went looking for her redheaded friend, this need for contact started brewing inside me.
I fought the urge for months, and then, on the anniversary of Martin’s death, I had the perfect excuse and went to see her.
I push away the memory of the taste of her tongue. Of how passionate and willing she is. And most of all, what I read in her journal.
Jackie is my weakness—she always has been—because I care about her. And right before a mission, that’s the worst kind of thought I could be having.
Chapter 11
I check the time and see that it’s time.
I go over my weapons and ammo, like I always do, even though I’ve already gone through this same routine three times during the night.
Exactly forty-five minutes from now, the drug dealer I’m supposed to kill will leave the house of one of his mistresses. He spends his nights at their places, which makes me wonder why the hell someone gets married just to jump from one bed to another.
I believe managing a relationship with one steady woman is already a nightmare, imagine juggling a dozen flings, all in the same city where your wife and kids live.
I go over the plan once more. This kill doesn’t need to send a message, it just needs to be discreet. The Bolivian police, along with the FBI and DEA, who’ve been keeping an eye on South American activity, are on high alert. Even though I highly doubt the death of a low-level dealer would interest them, Idon’t want my name ending up on that damn “Most Wanted” FBI list.
My hand reaches for the doorknob when suddenly, the sound of an explosion from the upper floors makes me recoil.
For a moment, I freeze, my mind processing what just happened. But when I hear a second explosion, I know it wasn’t an accident. I’ve become a target.
As I rush down the stairs, gun in hand, I hear the screams of other guests yelling that the hotel is on fire.
The sound of multiple explosions grows closer. I know I need to get out, and I sprint toward the hotel lobby. I make it there in time, but instead of heading for the main entrance, I move toward the back. There’s a good chance someone’s out front waiting to kill me.
The lights go out, and in the windowless darkness, people trample over one another, desperate to escape.
