Forced Assassin Read online

  He made straight for the freezer, shifting packets and boxes around, looking for the tell-tale open food containers where a package could be stored. There weren’t any, so he did the same with the fridge, recoiling at the stench of rancid milk. Nothing in there, either. He searched the cupboards and drawers, coming up empty-handed, so took his toolbox into the other room—a lounge—and began poking about in there.

  Nothing.

  Upstairs, he explored the smaller bedroom before going into the bathroom to check in a medicine cabinet, behind the bath panel, inside the electric shower casing, then under the lid of the toilet tank. He sighed in frustration, the beard itching like crazy and sweat dripping from his forehead into those infernal eyebrows. The little black pouch wasn’t there.

  Maybe that’s what I’m doing wrong. Maybe it isn’t in a pouch anymore. Fucking hell!

  He stormed into the double bedroom, a corner of the toolbox once again bashing his leg, and he gritted his teeth to stave off the aching tenderness in his calf. He was shocked out of the pain upon seeing the bedroom tidy, a vast difference from the rest of the place. Perhaps the tenant did care about making the room presentable for the women he brought back here.

  Who knows? Who fucking cares? I need that pouch and I’m gone.

  The sound of the front door opening then closing had him tiptoeing to a built-in wardrobe spanning the entire wall opposite. He opened one of the louvered doors, praying the hinges didn’t squeak, then shifted a small heap of dirty clothing across so he could stand inside. In the wardrobe, he put his toolbox on the washing then took out his gun, pleased he’d thought to attach a silencer. He closed the door. And waited, head hot beneath his hat.

  Footsteps pounded the stairs. Despite having done this kind of job several times before, Bishop swallowed as his stomach rolled. The footsteps clunked on the landing. The sound of someone taking a piss filtered into the bedroom. Whoever had taken a leak didn’t flush the toilet or turn on the tap so they could wash their hands. The person strode into the bedroom, a grey hooded jacket obscuring their features, went straight for the bedside cabinet nearest the door, and picked up the book on top.

  Bishop peered harder through one of the slats, his nose nearly touching the wood. He steadied his breathing, conscious that it might breeze out with sound and alert the man he was there—and it was a man by the look of his size. The tenant stood side-on to Bishop, opened the book and pulled out a black velvet pouch, hidden in the cut-out pages.

  Fuck, one of the oldest tricks and I didn’t think…

  Seemed there was a lot he didn’t think about since he’d met Fallan.

  The man looked inside the pouch and nodded, then slipped it into his hoodie pocket. He made for the wardrobe, and Bishop had a split second to take in who the man was and what he had to do. He readied his gun hand. Pushed open the louvered door. Took aim.

  And shot Frankie fucking Lash in the centre of his forehead.

  * * * *

  Parked on a grass verge, Bishop sat in the van halfway to the second hideout, taking five minutes to himself. He’d tortured. He’d maimed. But he’d never fucking killed anyone before. He hadn’t had much choice, though. Frankie’s and Waterman’s lives or his—that was the deal, that was his job. If he ran, the government would find him, of that he had no doubt. He’d been forced into being an assassin…and he knew in his gut that, after he’d killed Waterman, he’d have to kill more people. Once they knew he had, that he would, they’d ask him to do it again and again.

  He took a deep breath, his mouth dry, and swallowed, grimacing at the aridity in his throat. He was fucked, good and proper, and his life as he’d known it was no more. He only hoped he didn’t have nightmares, that guilt didn’t take hold and cause him to make mistakes. He needed to think about what he’d done, accept it, then move on.

  There wasn’t any other option.

  He thought of Fallan, waiting for him in the hideout, possibly worrying that he’d abandoned her, lied in saying he’d be coming back. He felt the need to go and see her, to take her somewhere else, but it was best they holed up there until he’d offed Waterman.

  He didn’t relish that one bit. Once done, it meant setting Fallan free.

  Restarting the engine, he drove to the cottage and let himself in. Images of Frankie’s eyes going wide and him falling back onto the bed, his brains splattering the quilt, would stay with Bishop forever, as would Bishop taking the pouch from Frankie’s pocket and sliding it into his own. Fuck, Frankie had been a bastard, had killed people without a second thought, but he’d never done anything to Bishop. They’d got along when Bishop had been undercover, a part of Waterman’s outfit.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Stop tormenting yourself. It’s done. Better it was him and not me.

  But was it? What did he have to look forward to now? What woman in their right mind would want to settle down with a killer? What woman would want to spend time with him, accepting that he did a job he couldn’t tell her much about, letting him go out there to earn a crust and not really knowing exactly what he was doing?

  Fallan knows. It doesn’t seem to bother her…

  Don’t even go there, pal. Do not even fucking go there.

  Chapter Nine

  Fallan had watched Bishop leave the basement apartment with bitter feelings. She understood this wasn’t one of the usual occasions between a man and a woman, but, hey, a girl would like to hear some words of appreciation. No, it wasn’t a hardship fucking him. The least he could do was pretend to feel something about what they’d shared together, though.

  She’d mooched around, opening drawers and peering in cupboards. There were men’s clothes in the wardrobe, all different sizes, as though several people used this place. She’d walked over to the lift door at one point, tempted to reach out and touch to see if he’d been telling the truth. Shaking her head from her stupidity, she’d stormed to the kitchen.

  Now, with a coffee canister found, she began making herself a really strong brew. Even though she was ‘only a job’ she’d still continue to sleep with him. She liked spending time with him. For some strange reason she was comforted by his presence and enjoyed the way he made her feel. The sex was fantastic—there was no other word for it.

  Once her drink was made, she turned round to view the rest of the room.

  She dropped her coffee onto the floor as she stared at a man walking out of the lift. He wore a black suit, had salt-and-pepper hair, and stared at her with unnaturally piercing, bright blue eyes through nasty-arsed spectacles. He was overweight, his paunch telling her he ate well and possibly drank a lot of beer. Whoever it was must have been allowed in, given what Bishop had told her about the electric current having to be switched off…unless he’d been lying so she didn’t try to escape.

  “Who the fuck are you?” she said, stepping back from the mess on the floor.

  “So your everyday language is just as bad as when you’re in the throes of fucking,” the man said, swiping a hand along the back of the chair where Bishop had been sitting earlier.

  Had this man seen the action?

  “If you’re wanting to sell it as a porno, I want some of the cash,” she told him, irate that the man clearly knew who she was, but she had no clue to his identity.

  “It would certainly sell by the thousands. Pornos these days are all about the cum-shot. The women look half bored and are dry as bloody nuns. Maybe you and Bishop can charge your way into the industry. Call it ‘Kidnapper Gets Fucked’?”

  She had no idea who this fucker was but already knew she didn’t like him. He should have I’m a prick written across his forehead.

  “So pleased it was worth the watch.” Cursing the mess on the floor, she bent down and began to pick up the shards.

  “Are you stupid enough to turn your back on a man you know nothing about?” he asked, moving closer.

  “For fuck’s sake, what is it with you men? I wouldn’t know the first thing to do to protect myself. Besides, Bishop said anyone coming thro
ugh that door would be a good guy. At least I think he did. Shit!” she yelped. A piece of porcelain had cut into the base of her palm. “Fucking cock balls.”

  “You really do have a naughty mouth.” He came over and took hold of her hand. “A small cut and there doesn’t appear to be any china in there.”

  “Thank you for the diagnosis.” She snatched her hand away.

  “You really trust Bishop?”

  “I’ve got no choice. He’s taken me and now I can’t leave until he decides I’m not some secret agent spy person.” Walking to the kitchen area, she washed her hand under the cold tap, pressing a towel to the small cut. The bleeding stopped after a few seconds.

  “Bright girl.”

  “No. I’m stupid. I shouldn’t have thought for a second a ten-grand holiday was real. I’m in this mess because of greed…or need. Nothing more, nothing less.” Fallan started the kettle back up. She grabbed a cloth and wiped up the last of the spillage from the floor. “Are you staying for coffee?”

  “You don’t even know my name yet.”

  She didn’t want to know it. “And don’t expect a fuck, either. I figure you’ll tell me your name when you’re comfortable doing so. Well, do you want one?”

  “What? A fuck or a coffee?”

  “A coffee, arsehole.”

  “Yes.”

  In no time at all she had made him a drink. Then she went and sat on the chair in the living area. She wouldn’t have felt comfortable with him sitting there. She’d been intimate on it with another man only an hour or so ago.

  He sat on the sofa. Not caring about his attention on her, she turned the television on and tried to blank him out. If he wasn’t going to talk, she wouldn’t try to initiate conversation. Some show about DNA testing came on. The drama would be more welcome than the tense silence.

  Despite trying to switch her mind off her situation, Fallan thought about the man. Could he be a vicious killer? He looked harmless…but, then, so did Bishop.

  “Are you really into television shows?” he asked.

  “Not usually. I’m normally at work listening to the beep-beep-beep of a supermarket till.”

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  “I’m sure Bishop has told you everything about me.” She turned the volume up, hoping he’d get the message and be quiet.

  About half an hour had gone by before he spoke again. “My name’s Huntington.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said as a greeting.

  “I can see why he likes you.”

  “Who?”

  “You know who,” he answered.

  “Bishop? No, I imagine he likes the regular sex but he doesn’t like me.”

  “From the clips last night I’d say he’s got a thing for you.” Huntington eased back into his seat, staring across at her.

  “Okay, you want to talk?” Fallan turned the sound to mute and placed the remote on the arm of the chair.

  “Not particularly.”

  “I can see you’re itching to interrogate me. We’ve got coffee and time, might as well use the opportunity.” She picked up her cup and waited, shocked by the fact she wasn’t afraid.

  “What was in the bag?” Tough guy, went straight for the kill.

  “I don’t know. As I told your man, I accepted a holiday as I was strapped for cash. A treasure hunt game, several other women were in on it.”

  He kept firing the questions at her. Sometimes the same questions but in a different way. Almost like he was trying to trick her into admitting something.

  An hour went by and she made more coffee, enjoying his company even if the conversation was all to find out more about her past.

  “Have I passed the test yet?” she asked after she’d replied to his latest question. Since when was having a happy childhood important?

  “Fuck me. Bishop sure knows where to find them. You must be the single most innocent woman I’ve met. And you’ve got a great arse.” Huntington rose from the sofa and stood behind her chair.

  So intent on how to answer his question, she hadn’t heard the lift door go. Bishop stood in the lift doorway, wearing a blue boiler suit, a fuck-off bushy beard and eyebrows, and a pair of spectacles similar to Huntington’s. What the hell? Did he think he wouldn’t be recognised like that? She’d know him anywhere. Fallan wanted to run into his arms and hug him. He looked pale and drawn as if years had been added on to his age.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Bishop nodded but didn’t look at her. His gaze was firmly planted on Huntington.

  Seeing the undercurrent of tension, she excused herself and went through to the bedroom to give the men their privacy.

  * * * *

  Fallan didn’t know how long the men had been sitting in the other room, but she’d changed into a dressing gown in the meantime. Bishop came into the bedroom a while later looking worse than when he’d entered the basement.

  “Are you all right?” she asked again, wondering where he’d been with that facial hair.

  He hesitated, taking off the spectacles and putting them on a chest of drawers. He fiddled with his eyes, popping out contacts and placing them beside the specs. Moving from her position on the bed, she stood in front of him. Bishop didn’t appear to be the confident man she’d grown accustomed to.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” He stalked to the shower.

  Frowning, Fallan let him go. Something was up. He didn’t even have any of his usual distrustful questions to throw at her.

  “I can’t do this,” she said to herself.

  He clearly had something on his mind and needed time alone. How could she help him deal with whatever was plaguing him?

  Why would she even want to help him?

  The wires inside her head were starting to cross. He’d kidnapped her, forced her from one house to another, and now here she stood, caring about a man who only viewed her as a fucking job.

  Even knowing all this, you still want to please him, don’t you, Fallan?

  She would very much like to growl at her own mind.

  Weighing up the points pissed her off. Why couldn’t she just accept her situation and think of Bishop as a very grumpy boyfriend who had a large cock and knew how to use it?

  That sorted, she sat on the bed and thought of the best way to ease Bishop’s mind from his troubled thoughts.

  She glanced into a mirror on the wall for a hair and body check. Thoughts of their sexual time together brought enough moisture to her folds she wouldn’t have to worry about faking it. With Bishop she never wanted to fake an orgasm. She wanted to enjoy her time with him. She’d get herself ready so she was waiting for him when he came back into the bedroom.

  Twenty minutes later, he came out of the shower, sans beard and eyebrows, with a towel wrapped around his middle and another he was using to dry his hair. Fallan had decided on a kneeling position beside the bed. She bowed her head, face almost touching the floor. She’d heard some stuff about submission and figured with his high-end, double-secret shitty job he wouldn’t want a tiring woman in his life. Opening her mind, she imagined her husband had come home from work and she was there to do his bidding.

  “What the fuck is this?” he asked.

  Turning her nose up at a small tumbleweed of dust on the floor and going cross-eyed trying to keep with her performance of a submissive, she paced herself for a few seconds then responded to him.

  “I’m a gift from your trying day,” she croaked out, wincing at how bad and corny her words sounded. She should have spent the time while he was in the shower rehearsing lines.

  “I’ve not got time for games,” he growled.

  “Permission to stand, Sir?” she asked, staying in character.

  “Fallan, this is—”

  “Permission to stand, Sir?” I don’t give a fuck if you don’t want to play. I do, and you’ll fucking play. Don’t say that out loud, Fallan. Remember this is for him.

  “Stand.”

  Okay, so she was going t
o have to work to get him in the mood. Not a hardship, but, still, it would have been nicer if he’d wanted to play.

  Maybe she could get him to say a few naughty words to her?

  “You’re so wet. I’m going to get you nice and dry,” she said, still with her gaze fixed on the floor. Careful to not walk into anything, she took the towel from his hand and began to dry his body. “You’re such a brave man going out into the world like that.” Where were these lines coming from?

  “I’m a brave man.”

  What was that? Is he participating?

  “Would my Master like a nice view while I finish drying his body?”

  “He would like that very much.”

  Yes! I got him.

  Untying the sash of her dressing gown, she eased it open and let it fall to the floor for dramatic effect. Her body was on fire from talking the words out.

  He hissed and she smiled.

  She returned to drying his upper body, arms, chest, neck and hair before she dropped the towel. Glancing down at the one around his hips, she contained a giggle when she saw it tented at his groin. Bishop wasn’t immune to a little role-playing, then.

  “Do I own you?” he asked.

  “For now I’m your slave to do with as you wish.”

  He touched her face, tilting her head back, and ran his thumb over her mouth. Leaning in, Fallan puckered her lips but no kiss came.

  “I don’t want to kiss you. Not this time,” he said.

  Disappointed, she masked her emotion quickly, not wanting him to be annoyed with her.

  “In fact, all I want to do is fuck this lovely body.”

  He tore the towel from his hips and walked her back to the edge of the bed. She fell with a laugh then moaned as he tugged a tight nipple into his mouth.

  “Harder,” she gasped.

  “I’m the Master. You’ll do as I say.” He bit down on her nipple a little harder, seeking her moist slit with his hand.