Boss

  Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2020 Sam Crescent and Stacey Espino

  ISBN: 978-0-3695-0214-8

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Audrey Bobak

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BOSS

  Killer of Kings, 7

  Sam Crescent and Stacey Espino

  Copyright © 2020

  Chapter One

  “I’ve been hit! Officer down. I repeat, officer down!”

  “SWAT … we need SWAT!”

  Boss set his coffee down on the corner of his desk and rolled out his shoulders. He flicked on another monitor. He’d been following the drama for almost an hour. Normally, he wouldn’t pay attention to the police scanners or live stream if it didn’t involve one of his contracts, but the shootout was only two blocks away. It was past sunset and, with the streetlights out, the cops were night blind.

  Although the police still had no clue what they were dealing with, he knew there were five shooters in different garages and backyards. Boss always had his finger on the pulse of the city. All five had serious firepower and were hell-bent on taking out as many cops as they could. Boss wasn’t sure what was up their asses, and he couldn’t care less. He stood up and strapped on a bulletproof vest and shoulder holster. He didn’t plan on using a gun tonight, but he always carried.

  Everyone called Boss a monster, and they were right.

  Tonight, he was feeling generous.

  As he readied himself in his rear gunroom, he opened the door and mobilized one of his drones, complete with heat and motion sensors. Its gentle buzzing faded into nothing once he released it into the night sky. He’d keep control with his night-vision headset. Everything he owned was state-of-the-art technology. He used his hackers to do his dirty work, but Boss was a god behind the keyboard. He never ordered a man to do anything he wasn’t capable of doing himself—and that was part of Killer of Kings’ success.

  Lately, he’d been slacking, rarely getting his hands dirty for any of his contracts. He missed the blood, the adrenaline, the thrill of the hunt. His hitmen were the best in the world—well-trained and extremely capable—but he wanted to handle a couple of hits himself this month. Hacking, research, and surveillance didn’t satisfy him on the same level as killing.

  He was probably pushing fifty, but who the fuck knew. Becoming feeble and dependent on others was a deep-seated fear he rarely entertained. He’d rather eat a bullet than give up his power. So, he killed it in the gym five days a week and practiced technique and accuracy in his custom shooting range on a daily basis. No way was he going to let himself go or lose his skillset. But even the killer of kings couldn’t live forever.

  He took a deep breath of the cool night air once outside. Boss made his way to the shootout, keeping to the shadows. He wore all black and had a lifetime of elite training behind him. Countless lights from the police flashers colored the sky as he neared the hot zone, and intermittent rounds of gunfire cut the eerie silence. SWAT couldn’t contain the scene. Numerous cops were already down, and it wasn’t safe for paramedics to move in for transport.

  Minutes after reaching the site, he had all his targets accounted for. It was time to pick them off, one by one. It wouldn’t even be worth a phone call to get one of his hitmen to end this bullshit. Better for him to handle it himself before his coffee got cold.

  He came up behind his first victim, wrapping a thick arm around the asshole’s neck. Within seconds, he secured his wrist, turning his own gun on himself. Boss leaned back just enough. One head shot, and it was a suicide. With the amount of media this shitfest would inevitably get this week, he didn’t want his stamp on any of it.

  Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to use his own weapons tonight.

  The pungent scent of sulfur in the air irritated his senses. A negotiator’s static voice sounded on the megaphone, asking the shooters to stand down. It only served to piss them off more. There were two in the next garage. Boss borrowed the gun he’d just used and struck the first guy right in the jugular. The second went in a frenzy, spraying the garage with lead, shrapnel pinging in every direction. He’d get him last because he pissed him off. After returning the gun to his first victim, he ducked down and crossed the street.

  “They’re firing from everywhere. Does anyone have a visible?”

  Boss continued to listen in on the police communication as he handled their shit.

  The next two were shooting from behind some hedges. Anything that moved was a target. They had enough ammo to keep the party going on all night long.

  What was the point of this bloodbath?

  Boss’s curiosity was piqued when he saw the state of his next target. He looked like shit, his heat signature off the charts. He grabbed a metal rake leaning against the side of the house, breaking off the end of the handle with his boot. As soon as the shooter stopped to reload, he moved in and punched him straight in the neck. He immediately dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. Boss dragged him by the collar and rammed his head down over the sharp end of the rake, impaling him in the neck with the jagged wood. Blood gurgled from the wound and he collapsed to the side. Another unfortunate accident. Nice and simple for the police reports.

  He picked up the automatic rifle from the grass, giving it a once over before stalking the second man on this side of the street. As soon as he found him taking aim at the SWAT members running between patrol cars, Boss cleared his throat to get his attention.

  “Don’t shoot,” he said when he saw Boss standing over him.

  Boss shook his head. “I don’t take orders.” He pulled the trigger, spraying the man with a quick barrage of bullets. He tossed the gun and went back to handle the last punk.

  The shooter was still in the same garage. The heavy darkness shrouded Boss as he moved closer. He crouched down and picked up a rock, tossing it to the opposite end of the garage. Gunfire followed the path as the guy began to panic again. Boss rushed over and knocked his feet out from under him, snatching away his weapon. With a boot on the fucker’s chest, his own weapon pointing at his face, Boss chuckled.

  “Last man standing. Not so cocky now, are you?” asked Boss.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’ll ask the questions. What I want to know is why the showdown with the cops?”

  The man coughed. “They’re trying to kill us. All of us.”

  “Who?”

  “The cops. The government. I don’t fucking know.”

  Boss jabbed him in the ribs to keep him in line. “The guy across the street was sick. You know anything about that?”

  “We’re all dying off. That’s their plan…” He motioned to his backpack a few feet away. “It’s the drugs. That’s the answer.” The man cleared his throat after another coughing fit. “But they’re in for a surprise. They’re not just going to clean up the ghetto. Everyone fucking uses.”

  SWAT was moving in close. Boss ordered the drone to return to home base, then put two quick bullets in the shooter’s head, dropping the gun beside the body.

  Before he left, he grabbed the backpack, slinging it over one shoulder.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was in the shower back home, washing away the blood and dust. It was late. His coffee was cold. He’d get some sleep and choose a challenging contract in
the morning. Along with looking into what he’d discovered today. He’d never been able to let things go, not once his interest was piqued.

  He washed his body, his soapy hands trailing over scar after scar. Some told stories, others were mysteries. His tattoos hid a lot of the past, but he could feel every single imperfection, his body the battlefield of a fucked-up life. Most of his history was blacked out, including his name and date of birth. According to every database, he shouldn’t exist. Even he couldn’t find his roots, no matter how much digging he did. The things he could remember were enough to give any man nightmares. Things were different now. He was on top and didn’t make mistakes.

  Boss pulled his damp hair into a low ponytail and headed to his gun room where he’d left the backpack.

  His cell phone rang. “Yeah.”

  “Widow Maker strikes again,” said Maurice.

  Boss had one of his hackers track El Diablo’s little sister since she’d shown up in their city. She’d proven to be a royal pain in the ass. Instead of working for him, she kept sabotaging or stealing his contracts. He should have killed her a long time ago. Her days were numbered.

  “Details.”

  “She took Bain’s latest mark, Robert Hayleigh, to a hotel. They just went in.”

  His jaw tightened. That asshole was as good as dead. He’d have to have a chat with Bain tomorrow. It was embarrassing having a freelancer outwit one of his hitmen. Killer of Kings had a reputation to uphold.

  “I want to know exactly where she goes once she leaves the hotel.”

  “Will do,” said Maurice.

  Boss tucked his phone away.

  Tomorrow was Friday.

  He’d made a habit of taking a new bitch to bed most weeks. He didn’t do relationships and usually tired of the same girl once she started getting fantasies of taming him. This weekend he was going to focus on a contract, so he wouldn’t have time to entertain.

  Unlike his men, he had better control of his cock. Boss had been dealing with romance drama for fucking years thanks to Killer of Kings. He swore he must be cursed as one after another, his hitmen fell hard for a woman. Even the most hardcore bastards … pussy-whipped and off the market. He couldn’t understand the appeal of settling down with one woman. He liked things his way, and it was a fact that emotions and loved ones were weaknesses in the underworld of contract killing.

  Boss preferred everything in his life to be clean, accurate, and well-coordinated. He couldn’t control what happened in his past, but Killer of Kings was a well-oiled machine with an impeccable reputation for getting the job done. He’d become the perfect assassin because he lacked empathy for his victims. Pity and second-guessing only got men killed.

  He lugged the backpack onto the butcherblock counter and zipped it open. There was a large baggy of white powder among the ammunition. The shooter had ranted about drugs and being killed by a higher power. One of the men had a high fever. In addition to tailing El Diablo’s sister so she didn’t fuck up any more of his plans and starting a new contract tomorrow, he needed to know everything about what went down tonight.

  Boss called up one of his inside men. “I need you to bring your lab and test something for me. It looks like coke, but I have a feeling there’s more to it.”

  “I’ll bring the van by. How urgent?”

  “Be here within the hour. I need some fucking sleep.”

  ****

  “Please, baby, don’t do it. Put it down. Let’s talk about this, okay?”

  Graciella set her 9mm on the glass side table with a soft clink and poured herself a glass of wine. She swirled the liquid in lazy circles, watching it cling to the sides of the crystal glass. “You like expensive things,” she said, taking a sip.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Robert Hayleigh’s hands were handcuffed above him on the elaborate headboard. He was naked and pathetic, begging for his life. Fortunately, he was an easy mark so she wouldn’t have to fuck him. Men made her sick.

  She leaned back in the leather chair and continued to enjoy the wine.

  He kept pleading, his fear slowing, morphing to bursts of anger. “What do you want from me, you stupid bitch? Just take my cash and fuck off.”

  That got her attention. Graciella stood up, her heels clicking on the marble floors of the hotel room. “Is that what you think, Mr. Hayleigh? I’m a call girl trying to rip you off?”

  “You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” he said.

  She ignored his now constant ranting. Graciella walked around the spacious luxury suite, admiring the custom woodwork. There were still fifteen minutes until her take-out order was ready at La Cocina, so she took her time. She parted the curtains and looked down at the street below, an array of lights from traffic and animated billboards illuminating the darkness. This city was her home for now. She had no intention of returning to Colombia. When she was ready, she returned to the glass table, picked her gun up, and began to twist on a silencer.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m fulfilling a contract, Mr. Hayleigh.” She sat on the edge of the bed, trailing the tip of her silencer down the length of his naked body. “You’ll be a good payday.”

  “Are you kidding me? I can’t believe this shit. I’ll pay you double. Triple.”

  “It’s a tempting offer, but you’ve already insulted me.” She put a pillow over his head and pressed the gun to his temple, pulling the trigger.

  She stared at the lifeless body for a minute, noting how numb she felt right down to her marrow. There was no sense of guilt, pity, regret, sadness. Nothing. She supposed being brutalized daily as a child had changed her into an empty shell of a woman—a walking, existing, cold-hearted bitch.

  Graciella began to clean up her scene as she checked her watch. Ten more minutes until her food was ready. As she finished up, the thought of Boss’s pissed-off expression made it all worthwhile. This was one of his contracts, but it was open so she’d still get paid. His men should have been faster.

  She found being a female assassin to be an advantage, plus she didn’t have the same strict code of ethics like Killer of Kings. Graciella would have taken Robert Hayleigh’s offer of more money but she had a sore spot for assholes calling her a bitch. She would have pulled the trigger for free.

  Before she stepped out into the hallway, she tugged the wavy blonde wig free and shook out her long black hair. She tucked it into her oversized purse and made her way to the elevators. The mirrored doors reflected the perfect image. That was all she was because beauty was only skin deep. She used her assets to get what she wanted, to make money, and to keep her independence. Sex was a tool in her arsenal. It meant nothing. She’d closed herself off to emotion since she was five years old. It was the last time she’d cried—the end of her innocence. For over three decades, she couldn’t remember having a good night’s sleep. Nightmares, real and remembered, made sure she’d never know peace. One thing she’d never sacrifice again was her freedom—she’d never allow herself to be a slave to any man.

  They called her Widow Maker and she supposed the name fit her well. Killing paid well, and she was very, very good at it.

  She blended into the evening crowd on the sidewalk as soon as she left the hotel. Graciella pulled out her cell phone and messaged her contact that the job was done. The money would be transferred into her account. She enjoyed collecting cash because it equaled security.

  Once as she got her food and returned to her condo, she’d start a new contract. She needed to keep busy to avoid life. To avoid reflection.

  It was only another block to La Cocina. She’d parked her car behind the business. Everything had been planned out in detail beforehand. No mistakes.

  “Hey, gorgeous!” A few guys in their twenties stood in front of a club. She winked at them and kept walking. There was something about the night that made her feel free. The day belonged to the good girls, families, everyone without skeletons in their closets. Graciella existed on the fringe.

&n
bsp; She passed a baby store, so she stopped and looked in the window of the closed store. Xavier, her brother, was going to have a baby in a couple of months. He’d found happiness, and that knowledge brought her a deep-seated sense of peace. She didn’t blame him for what happened when they were kids.

  Graciella should blame her mother. Instead, she focused her anger on all the male scum that had ripped her life to shreds. A family wasn’t in the cards for her. Even a baby of her own would only ever be a fantasy, the result of a child ravaged by grown men in the most brutal way—over and over until she finally escaped as a teenager.

  She pushed away the constant dark thoughts and traced a finger along the glass as she imagined the cute little outfits on her niece or nephew. Graciella had never visited Xavier since they first reconnected months ago and had no plans to. She needed to forget the past. The Graciella Moreno he knew was dead. Now she was a new woman, an assassin for hire.

  By the time she got to La Cocina, her feet ached from the four-inch heels. This area was more remote, off the main street. The little family-operated take-out restaurant had become one of her favorites. Graciella loved tacos.

  She picked up her order, gave a generous tip, and headed around back to her car. There were no lights in the rear, just an old dumpster and a couple of wrecked cars for parts. The food smelled delicious, and all she wanted to do was get home, shower, and eat. She set the bag and her purse in the backseat of her black Mustang Shelby, then closed the door.

  A rustling caught her attention, then a knife was pressed to her throat, a beefy arm secured around her torso. “If you want to live, don’t fucking scream.”

  She nodded and kept quiet.

  He led her away from her car, shuffling her across the parking lot toward the dumpster. The man twirled her around, pressing her back against the cold metal. He held the knife against her with one hand as he fiddled with his belt with the other.