The bounty was on Ash Doss’ head only.
“There’s nothing I can do now,” the man huffed, ready for a decent meal and a few hours of sleep.
“And the woman still doesn’t suspect anything?”
“No.”
“Good.” His client paused, humming for a second. “You know, taking out that chef wasn’t part of your job description.”
Kolby’s face, split open and covered in blood, flashed in his mind. “That was personal.”
“Personal? Based on your reputation, you don’t get personal.”
The man clicked his tongue before moving back into the trees. His car was parked just down the hill, and he hoped like hell he wouldn’t bust his ass in the mud. “He pissed me off, that's all.”
“I see, and the old woman you suffocated?”
“Also personal.” He turned once he was covered by the trees, knowing the job wouldn’t be finished today.
“You’re getting sloppy.”
The man sighed, tired, hungry, and irritated. “If there’s nothing else, I have a shift in a few hours.”
Laughter, broken up by wheezes, filled his ear, and his upper lip curled. “That’s right, of course. How could I forget that you’ve taken two jobs in that godforsaken town?” his client chuckled.
“I do what I must to get the job done,” he clipped, his Chicago accent slipping out. “Don’t piss me off. I’ll fucking leave this town and this job.” His threat went unanswered as he stomped down the hill to his car. He only managed to slip once, catching himself on a small tree branch as his ankle rolled. “Fuck!” he pushed out through clenched teeth as pain radiated through his leg. “Let me call you back.”
His client ended the call before he could, which, in hindsight, should’ve worried him. After ripping the earpiece out andstuffing it into his pack, he hobbled to his car, cursing the world and his life under his breath. He’d been a hit man for seven years, doing quick jobs all over the country. This job was the first one he’d taken that required a hefty amount of spying and sleuthing. So much so that his client had given him a new identity, a false background, and access to whatever weapons he needed to get the job done. When the job was presented to him three years ago, he’d nearly blown it off based on the expected timeline alone, but the money was too good to pass up.
Forty million to take out one Navy SEAL.
That was enough money to set him up for life, so the man didn’t mind wasting a few years to do it. In two months’ time, he’d be on a beach, naked and drunk. He just had to get through some bullshit first. On the way back to his apartment, he grabbed some take-out and ate half the burger in the car before tossing the rest out the window.
Just when he pushed open his front door and started kicking off his muddy shoes, he was ambushed from behind. A strong arm locked around his throat, and he felt the cool, familiar metal of a gun being pressed hard into his temple. He tried to fight back, but it was no use.
“Boss would like to remind you of how much money he is paying you,” his assailant spat into his ear.
The man wheezed, his arms slapping the one pinning his neck down. Black dots took over his vision and dreams of the beach started to fade.
“Drop the fucking attitude or lose your hand. Pick one.”
The man tried to scream but was shoved forward. His shoulder hit the floor with a low crack, and he rolled to his back, his mouth wide open, silently screaming. “You dislocated my shoulder, you bastard,” he said as the intruder shut the door and flicked on the lights.
The man’s stomach curled at the sight of Rom’s face, scarred and hideous.
“The hospital is just down the road,” Rom drawled, lighting a cigarette.
“H-how did you get here so fast? I just got off the phone—”
“Did you really think we were just going to let you carry out this operation freely?”
The man swallowed. “I just thought—”
Rom lowered to his haunches. “Do I have to remind you who you’re working for?”
“N-no.”
“No, what?” he clipped, pulling out a pistol and checking the chamber.
