The boy nodded, pushing his hair from his eyes. “Yeah.” He looked to Thomas. “What’s our last name?”
“Mulvaney.”
“Mulvaney,” the boy parroted. “Cool. I’ve never had one of those before.”
Thomas put a hand on the boy’s head briefly before removing it. He’d promised the boy no touching without his permission. He didn’t want to damage his trust in him before they left the building. “Well, it’s yours now. From now on, you’re Atticus Mulvaney, eldest son of Thomas Mulvaney, and that’s all anybody ever needs to know.”
Atticus looked him in the eye. “Okay.”
Atticus cursed as his three hundred dollar hiking boots sank into a muddy rut in the ground. It was the closest thing to a path in the heavy underbrush. It had rained hours ago, making the trek through the woods far more treacherous than he’d imagined. He’d dressed for the occasion in a black long-sleeved shirt and waterproof tactical pants. Even the small bag slung over his shoulder was made for hiking. He just hadn’t expected it to be this hot…and dirty. He hated getting dirty.
His boot made an obscene sucking sound as he pulled it free of the muck with a disgusted grunt. He was going to have to find a way to clean that off before he left. He’d never get the filth out of his car if he didn’t. The smell of rain and rotting vegetation was permanently imprinted in his nostrils.
His target, Trevor Maynard, was a sniveling little wannabe gangbanger who got off taking advantage of the immigrant women his parents employed at their dry cleaners. He wore his shirts too tight and his pants too low and thought tying a bandana around his forehead made him some kind of thug.
Trevor liked to abuse his power, threatening the jobs of his victims to lure them out into the woods where nobody would hear them scream. While Atticus’s father’s insistence on taking the man out in the middle of nowhere to kill him was karmically just, it was also unnecessarily dramatic in Atticus’s opinion.
Guys like Trevor rarely put up a fight in the face of danger. If anything, he would beg and plead, attempt to use his perceived status—of which he had none—and offer money as a last resort. It would all end the same, with Atticus Jackson Pollacking his brains against the back wall of his shitty cabin. This could have all been done closer to the city.
Still, he didn’t argue with his father—just followed orders like the dutiful eldest son he was. The faster he finished the job, the faster he could go home and shower. He had an early day at the office tomorrow. Luckily, the full moon overhead cut a wide beam, allowing him to see without much trouble, even if the clear path was hardly a path at all. He stepped free of the grove of trees, finally finding himself outside the small cabin. Why did these creeps always go for cabins in the woods? Atticus found torturing people in the city was just as effective. People had very little problem ignoring the distress of strangers. Sad but helpful in his particular line of work.
An ear-shattering scream pierced the silence, sending a shock of adrenaline through Atticus and spurring him into motion without thought. He pulled his gun, making sure he was locked and loaded, silencer in place, advancing on the flimsy cabin door. Why hadn’t it occurred to him the man wouldn’t be alone?
It took two hard kicks before the door flew in on its hinges, startling the two occupants. His victim was tied to a sturdy wooden chair in the center of the room, bleeding from several oozing wounds and missing no less than three fingers and an earlobe. There was no woman in the room so the scream must have come from Trevor.
Beside him, a man in his late twenties stood holding a wicked-looking serrated blade. He wore faded blue jeans and a black v-neck t-shirt that revealed an intricate tattoo down his entire left arm. Atticus found himself riveted in place as he took in thick black hair, dark brown eyes, and vaguely Asian features. The stranger looked equal parts irritated and surprised, but it was clear he was weighing his options.
“I heard screaming,” Atticus heard himself say lamely.
The man blinked in confusion, holding up his knife. “They do that when you poke them with this.”
Atticus gave him a pissy look. “Yes, I’ve connected the dots, thank you.”
Realizing that he’d brought a knife to a gun fight, the stranger dropped his hand to his side. “Listen, man. This is a really bad guy. I know he looks like a harmless nerd—”
“Wow,” Trevor muttered.
“But he’s really a huge piece of shit. Why don’t you just turn around and walk away? No harm, no foul, you know?”
“How do you know I’m not a cop?” Atticus asked.
The stranger scoffed. “Yeah, you’re not a cop. That gun isn’t police issue. Hell, no cop could afford that gun.”
Atticus wasn’t sure why the man’s smug assessment annoyed him, but it did, just like the man’s sweeping gaze made him feel like he stood there naked. What the fuck was happening right now?
It didn’t matter. If he fucked this up, he’d never hear the end of it. Adam still hadn’t let go of the meat cleaver incident and that was a year ago.
Atticus pinched the bridge of his nose with his gloved fingers. “Unfortunately, I can’t do that. He’s on my list. I have to kill him. I have…people to answer to.”
Once more, that gaze raked over him, this time with a lot more heat. “Yeah, you don’t look like a pro either.”
Atticus bristled. “Well I assure you, I’m no amateur.”
Trevor snickered, then yelped when the man jabbed him with the knife, the blade barely sinking in half an inch just above his nipple. “What the fuck, man!”
““Pro or not, this kill is mine. I promise you, he’ll never see the light of day. So, you can just go.”
“Yeah, I can’t do that. I need to see him dead. And I don’t know you, so your promises don’t mean a whole helluva lot. No offense,” Atticus said, making sure his tone implied full offense.
