The Accidental Assassin
Page 30

“Right at the road.”
“’Kay.” I never hit the brake, just jerked the wheel. The tires squealed as we swung onto the pavement. Someone honked at us and I looked up in time to see a little old lady in a big hat giving me the finger. Well, I guessed I deserved it.
“At the stop sign make a left. The road is curvy so hopefully they won’t see us as quickly.”
“Blowing up their cars won’t stop them?” I clutched the steering wheel tightly. “Holy fucking shit. Who was that?”
“Only one other person knows where that house is.” Owen stared ahead with a grim expression.
“Who?” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye as knowledge dawned.
“Marcus.” If I hadn’t been looking I wouldn’t have seen him clench his hand around the gun he was holding. “My handler.”
“Oh. Well.” I turned at the stop sign and gunned it again. I wanted to get around a few curves before anyone had a chance to come looking for us. “That sucks.”
“Yes.”
“Where are we going?”
“To see Marcus.”
“Well, that’ll be fun.” I stared at the road ahead of me, trying to anticipate the curves, but there was no telling which way the road was going to turn.
My eyes dropped down to the gas gauge. Thankfully we had a full tank of gas. I remembered my grandmother always telling me to never leave a car with only half a tank of gas. I guessed Owen had been told the same thing. Or he was just prepared for things like people showing up at your house with the intent to kill you.
It was probably the second thing.
“And what are we going to do with Marcus?”
“Ask him why he’s trying to kill us.”
“Hmm. And when you say ask…”
“I mean beat the shit out of him until he tells me.”
“Look who’s being all proper now.” I reached over and pushed his shoulder.
“Well, when your brother decides to have you killed it doesn’t inspire much brotherly affection.” He looked at me with a twisted smile.
“Your brother?” I gasped. He’d mentioned his handler, but not once given any kind of sign that he was family. “What, did you forget his birthday? Are you serious?” When I thought of siblings I thought of my friends and their family. They fought over leftovers and who had to take the dog for a walk. When they got older they fought over who spent Christmas with the parents, but they always loved each other.
“We have more of a business relationship. He passes the jobs on to me and I get it done. He takes a cut and I get the rest.” He looked out the window for a minute.
“How did you become a hitman?” I rubbed my hands along the steering wheel. “Answer an ad in the paper?”
“The job found me.” He looked back at me. “There is always some garbage that needs to be taken out, and someone willing to pay me to help with the chore.”
I tried to think of how you could just end up a hitman. A favor to someone? Being in a gang or working for a bad guy? Or was it to protect himself or his brother?
“Marcus always knew someone that needed a job done.” Owen moved the bag at his feet out of the way. “It didn’t take long before I made a name for us. I only take certain jobs and Marcus weeds them out. He likes being the face of the organization.”
“What do you mean you only take certain cases?”
“I don’t help people knock off business rivals or family for insurance money. No cheating spouses. No petty revenge jobs.” He pulled out a folder from his bag and flipped through documents. There were passports and other types of identification inside. “The rich pedophile that bought his way out of jail, drug lords, slave traders. There are more than enough douchebags to keep me busy.”
“Like Mr. Song.” I took a deep breath. “But how do you know you’re not doing the dirty work for a competitor?”
“Marcus sends me the files for review. He’s supposed to vet everyone that comes through, but I still do my research.”
I didn’t point out the obvious. That if Marcus was trying to kill Owen, he might not be so trustworthy. Instead I reached over and toggled the heat switch on. It was chilly despite the season.
“Alright. Where does dear brother Marcus live?”
WE STOPPED AT a run-down inn on the outskirts of London. Somewhere I could pay cash and not worry about anything. The owner barely batted an eyelash at us which was exactly what I had been looking for when we chose the place. We’d put the truck in a garage a few blocks away. It wouldn’t be on the street for someone to spot and was far enough away that we’d be safe for the night.
Ava was staring at the little room in concern. Her nose was wrinkled and she hadn’t touched anything. I was trying not to laugh, but it was hard when she leaned over to examine the film of dust growing on the crystals hanging from one of the lamp shades.
She had tucked her pistol in her pants and tore down the rifle so it would fit in my bag, but the old room offended her. Who would have guessed that the sweet woman at the café would know how to handle a gun? She seemed nervous with them and I guessed it had been a while since she had used one, but at least she hadn’t screamed and run away.
“It doesn’t look that bad.” I sat the bag down on the chair.
“What room are you looking at? It smells like someone died in here.”
“It’s possible.” I shrugged and opened the blinds to look out over the street.