The Mercenary: Skewed Part 3

From behind the door, I heard the creak of Nickie's bed springs, signaling her lying down and getting comfortable.

Was the guy right? Would other people be sent after us? How long had he been given to do the job of killing us? Was it hours or days? I was painfully aware of the window in Nickie's bedroom and how defenseless she was. What if someone crept in while I was down in the cellar and slaughtered her in her bed? How would I ever forgive myself?

I wouldn't, I decided. I'd kill myself, too, before I considered living with that.

I waited for a few minutes to make sure everything was quiet, and then turned and went back to the cellar door. I grabbed one of the guns I'd hidden on the shelves nearby. Taking a couple of breaths, I paused outside to prepare myself, and then pulled open the door again. I stepped inside, flicked on the light, and closed the door behind me so I was caught inside the s.p.a.ce with two bodies and another man who wanted me dead.

Below me, the man let out a groan.

The contents of the cellar didn't belong to us. They were a mix-match of old furniture, boxes, and a few garden tools. My eyes alit on one of the old dining room chairs stacked in the corner.

That would have to do.

I trotted down the steps and went to the stack of furniture. I fought to pull one apart from the others, and then when I managed it, placed it upright in the middle of the floor.

The man moaned and tried to buck beneath the bodies, serving to make them jiggle grotesquely, as though they were trying to come back to life. Even though I hadn't been the one to kill them, the thought sent a shudder down my spine. From this angle, I could see the face of one of the dead men, and his eyes were open, staring up sightlessly at the ceiling. I wasn't a squeamish person, and I'd seen enough dead bodies, but that didn't mean I particularly liked being stuck in a cellar with a couple of them. I would have to figure out what I would do with them soon enough. I couldn't risk them being found. What would happen to us if the U.S. Marshals discovered that people knew our location? And not only that, that I had stabbed and then later killed a man-which I had no doubt was what I would end up doing.

The man's m.u.f.fled shouts came again, and though I couldn't understand him, I knew exactly what he was saying.

Get me out of here.

With an exasperated sigh, I stalked over to the tangle of limbs. I caught sight of the man's upper arm and bent to grab it with both hands. His bicep felt solid beneath my fingers, and I tried not to experience the little rush of excitement at having hold of a real life male. With everything that happened, it had been a while since I'd had so much as a date, and currently my only recent propositions had been from guys like the one back at Johnny's bar.

Planting my feet, slightly spread, onto the concrete floor, I bent at the waist and heaved. The man gave a m.u.f.fled yell of pain, I guessed, but he didn't move far. The weight of the bodies pressing on top of him made him too heavy. I didn't like the idea of having to touch the dead men again, but it didn't look like I had too much choice. I'd have to move them again at some point soon anyway, so I might as well get over it.

Starting with the guy on top, I grabbed his arm and pulled. He slid off the pile of limbs and torsos and tumbled to the floor. From there, I dragged him away to one side, where a pile of old dust sheets had been stacked. Hauling him as best I could, I deposited him against the wall and went back to get his friend. I was thankful I was strong-partly the result of lifting crates of beer every night at the bar-but even so, I thought I'd be feeling the result of all the heavy lifting in the next day or two.

I repeated the process with the other guy, dumping him on top of the first, and I covered them both with a couple of the dust sheets. I was thankful to not have to look at them anymore.

The other man had started making more noise-grunts of anger against the tape across his mouth. He rolled back and forth, trying to flip himself up onto his knees. I bent to help him up, the muscles in my back clenching in protest, but I managed to get him to his feet. With my hand still around his bicep, he half hopped, half fell, into the chair I'd positioned in the room.

I picked up the gun from where I'd left it on the stairs in order to have my hands free to move the men, and then approached him again. I took in the sight of him. I hated to admit it, but he was dangerously good looking. Cheekbones you could grate cheese on, short, light brown hair, and strikingly blue eyes fringed with lashes. I guessed him to be in his late twenties.

"So, a.s.shole," I said, reaching out and snagging a corner of the tape covering his mouth. "How about you start talking?"

I yanked the tape off, the gumminess making a satisfying sound as it tore from skin and about twenty-four hours' worth of stubble growth. He sucked air in over his teeth at the pain I a.s.sumed had ripped across his lower face. I took distinct satisfaction from that, and tried not to let the piercing blue eyes or sharp cheekbones distract me.

Those blue eyes rolled in his head.

"Hey," I snapped, grabbing his jaw and yanking his face to look into mine. "You're not pa.s.sing out. I need answers."

But his eyes rolled again and the lids fluttered shut.

"c.r.a.p."

I looked down at his injuries-the ones I'd given him.

Blood was soaked through both the arm of his s.h.i.+rt and his pant leg. It was hard to see the color against the black of the material, but I could tell from the way the material was wet and clung against the thick muscle of his thigh.

Something stirred through me.

Nope, I was not that f.u.c.ked up. I did not get off on a guy I'd just stabbed and who'd been out to kill me, no matter how muscular his thigh appeared. I was clearly desperate.

Using my knife, I cut away the material of the pants to reveal the cut below. It was clean, just as I'd meant it to be, but deep. Blood still ebbed from the hole, but it didn't spurt, so I hadn't hit a major artery. Tough, if he was going to live, I needed to close it up.

I didn't have anything more than some antiseptic ointment and a handful of Band-Aids in the house. I didn't think they'd cut it, somehow. Would it matter if he got an infection? It wasn't as though I actually cared if he lived or died, but then I reasoned that I needed him to at least get well enough to be able to answer my questions.

Leaving him unconscious on the chair, I ran back up the stairs and into the bathroom where I kept the tiny first aid kit. I grabbed the whole thing and took it back down to the cellar where he still hadn't regained consciousness.

I applied some of the cream to his wounds, wincing at the depth of them, and then pressed a folded bandage firmly to the cut. With nothing else available, I used my teeth to pull another length of the tape out, and used that to strap the bandage to his thigh.

That would have to do.

I moved onto his arm, repeating the process.

"Hey," I told him again. "You're all fixed up, so it's time to wake up and speak to me."

I didn't get so much as an eyelid flutter as a response.

It would only be a few more hours until morning.

Remembering the amount of blood left in the hallway, I made my way back upstairs to clean up. I worked as quietly as possible, using a damp sponge to blot away the worst of the blood, and then scrubbing the rest with some soap and water. For once, I was thankful for the threadbare carpet, with it hideous dark pattern. It would make the remaining stain less noticeable.

With the job done, I went back down to the cellar to find the man still unconscious. I pulled up one of the old dining room chairs to sit in front of my captive and waited for him to wake.

Chapter Eight.

X.

I knew she was speaking to me, peppering me with questions, but it felt as though I was dreaming her, or as though we existed in two parallel universes and we'd somehow broken through to each other.

She was a devil and an angel all mixed into one.

She had the ability to hurt, but at the same time I wanted to experience her hands on my skin. Through my haze, I looked forward to her pressing a cool compress against my forehead, and even though she'd caused my wounds, and they hurt when she touched them, I knew she was helping me heal with the ointment she applied. She asked me questions, but my head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool, and even if I'd been able to think of an answer, I couldn't get my tongue to work.

I didn't know how much time had pa.s.sed. Had I been here for hours, or had it been days?

My whole body throbbed, though the pain seemed to center in my arm and leg. Everything hurt, though, and I had the vague memory of falling, but I couldn't remember why. I searched my mind, trying to recall what had happened. I remembered the two men I had killed, but what had happened after that? She'd come at me with a knife, but then ...

It came back to me in a flash. The woman with the tattoos and the cool hands had thrown me down the stairs, I remembered now, the inelegant tumbling and b.u.mping, and hitting the bottom, only for the two bodies to end up piled on top of me.

It hadn't been the highlight of my career so far.

My pride had been injured as much as my body, but I knew an injured pride wouldn't kill me.

There was something else important I needed to remember. It hovered at the back of my brain like a hummingbird, flitting away every time I reached for it. But a certainty filled me.

I couldn't stay here. It was dangerous to remain in the same place for too long. People would catch up with me, though at that moment, I couldn't piece my thoughts together for long enough to remember who.

Chapter Nine.

V.

I sat with the guy until morning arrived. I'd pulled up a chair opposite him and kept the muzzle of the gun trained on him just in case he tried anything. Intermittently, I tried to rouse him, but never got more than a mumble or a jerk of his body.

I couldn't bring myself to think any further than him waking up and me questioning him. There were two dead bodies to my right, piled up against the wall and covered in dust sheets, and I would need to get rid of them somehow. This wasn't like back home-I couldn't just call the cleaner, the man known for disposal of bodies, and have him take care of it. I would have to deal with the dead bodies at some point. Maybe part of me was hoping the currently unconscious. .h.i.t man would take care of his own mess. After all, he'd been the one who killed them. But that would mean me having to rely on him caring about clearing them up, and also being able to trust him enough not to come after me. Considering I'd found him in my house, armed with a weapon in the early hours of the morning, and I'd then stabbed him twice and thrown him down a flight of stairs, I figured that might be unlikely.

I checked my watch.

It was seven thirty and I needed to make sure Nickie got off to school. It wasn't that I was worried about her tardiness. I just wanted her out of the house for the day. If this guy didn't die, he was going to start making some noise, and I didn't need her around asking questions. The less she knew, the better.

Though I didn't think he'd be going anywhere, I made sure the man's ankles were securely strapped to the chair legs using the tape, and then taped his wrists to his thighs. I left him to hurry back up the stairs and into the main part of the house. Nickie still wasn't up-the disturbed night had caused her to sleep in-so I used the extra time to strip myself from my bloodied clothes and take a quick shower. I would need to burn the tank top and shorts I'd been wearing, but I couldn't do that right now.

Dressed in jeans and a clean t-s.h.i.+rt, I went into the kitchen to make coffee and fry some bacon. The scent of the food cooking must have lured my sister from her bed, and she shuffled into the kitchen with a suspicious expression creasing her face.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Nothing. I was making breakfast before you went to school. Is that so bad?"

"Who do you think you are? Mom?"

Ouch. I could see her usual loving nature was back again.

"No. I just couldn't sleep, and I was hungry. Is that okay with you?"

"Hmm," she said, but picked up the cup of coffee I set in front of her and took a sip. "What about... last night? Is everything sorted?"

I flipped the bacon out of the pan and onto a plate, just as the toast popped. "There was nothing to sort. Like I said, a bird got into the house."

She gave me a sideways glance as I slid the plate containing bacon and toast onto the table in front of her. She didn't believe me, but I doubted even her suspicious mind would jump to me having two dead bodies and an abducted hit man shut in the cellar.

Nickie chomped on her toast while I sipped my coffee and tried not to look as though I'd already drunk five cups that morning. I couldn't help being jittery, considering the events of last night.

What would happen if the U.S. Marshals found out someone had discovered where we were? They'd move us again, that was what would happen. I only had a matter of weeks, and then I would testify and the son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h would be behind bars and we would be safe again. Just a couple more weeks. I couldn't stand the idea of having to start over once more. We'd have to take new names again, and the lies surrounding us would only deepen. It was hard enough trying to have a conversation with people as it was-you didn't realize how often you talked about your past until you were suddenly unable to do so. I was less worried about myself than for Nickie. She'd finally settled in at high school and started to make friends. This time was important for her, and it would kill her to move again. I knew her hatred for me would only deepen if we did. She'd blame me for being found, claim I'd said or done something. It didn't matter to her whether I had or not. I was the focus for her to be able to deal with what had happened, and if hating me made her feel better, and allowed her to live a relatively normal life, then so be it.

But I couldn't get away from the fact people knew where we were now. Wouldn't she be better hating me, if it meant she'd still be alive?

No, I wouldn't let anyone hurt her. I could handle this. I just needed to find out who'd sent the men into our home last night, and why the one guy had killed the other two.

"I'm getting ready for school," Nickie announced, pus.h.i.+ng back her chair and getting to her feet. She left her plate and empty cup sitting on the table for me to clear away. Part of me wondered if I was pandering to her too much. I let her get away with everything because I knew what a horrendous life she'd had, and I felt bad for her. It wasn't often I allowed my emotions to dictate how I acted, but Nickie was my one soft spot. Perhaps I should tell her to stop being such a b.i.t.c.h and get on with things, but the trouble was I knew everything she'd been through, and I didn't just mean the relocation and what had preceded that. The kid had had a tough life, and I'd wanted to protect her.

I'd failed once, and I didn't intend to fail again.

I busied myself by was.h.i.+ng the dishes, and ten minutes later I heard the front door slam. Nickie had left the house and I sagged in relief. At least she hadn't gone out the back way where she'd have noticed the hole in the gla.s.s and asked questions. With everything going on, I'd completely forgotten to cover it up.

I wondered who had revealed our location. Was the young deputy who dropped in on us on a regular basis to make sure we were okay actually bent? Or had someone bribed a U.S. Marshal? We weren't allowed to make contact with anyone back home. I hadn't wanted to-it wasn't as though I had any friends in my old neighborhood-but Nickie had been distraught about leaving all her friends, and the recent boyfriend, behind. She'd cried the whole time, hysterical, until the Marshal had told her she could write a letter saying goodbye, as long as she didn't disclose any information about what had happened and where we were going. The Marshals would check the letter over and then post it on her behalf. We weren't even allowed to call people back home, and definitely weren't allowed to give them our new phone number. All those things could be traced, but besides, it wasn't just done for our safety. If the wrong people thought someone knew something about where we were, they could be tortured until they gave up whatever information they might have. Keeping everyone in the dark was as much about their safety as ours.

A tw.a.n.g of worry strummed my nerves. What if Nickie wasn't safe at school now? What if someone was watching her? I should have warned her, at least prepared her to be on the lookout.

But no, no one would come after us right after sending the other guys in. They'd a.s.sume they would have done their job right, and whoever was responsible was most likely just waiting for confirmation to come in.

That was why I needed to get the guy in the cellar talking. I needed information, and I needed it soon.

With Nickie gone from the house, I poured a plastic cup full of water, and then headed back into the cellar. As far as I could see, nothing much had changed. The hit man who'd been sent to kill us still sat in the chair, but as one of the stairs creaked as I walked down, he jerked awake.

Some crazy part of me almost opened my mouth to say good morning, but I managed to clamp it shut in time. A darkening bruise ran down one side of his temple, and his lower lip was swollen, making it appear even fuller than it already was-pouty, even. They were injuries he must have sustained when I'd shoved him down the cellar staircase. He appeared confused for a moment, his brow deepening with lines, his eyes fluttering again, but then he straightened and looked fully at me.

My stomach flipped as his gaze landed on me. He definitely had pretty blue eyes, but right now they stared at me with a sharp intelligence and cold calculation. Physically, he must have felt like c.r.a.p, but he didn't look like he planned on letting it show.

"This isn't going to work," he said, his voice rough, as though he'd swallowed gravel.

"What isn't?"

"Keeping me here like this. Someone is going to notice I'm missing and come after me, and what are you going to do then?"

"I'll deal with them the same way I dealt with you."

He cleared his throat-something I found to be annoying in most people, but somehow masculine with him. "Yeah, but you caught me by surprise."

"A surprise I orchestrated." I held back a smile. "I'm not sure you know who I am."

"I know exactly who you are." The hard tone of his voice made me pause. Just what had he heard about me?

"In which case, you shouldn't be surprised I didn't go down without a fight." I grabbed the chair I had been sitting on while I'd been watching over him, spun it around so the rear faced him, and then sat down back-to-front, my thighs straddling the seat. I folded my fingers over the backrest and placed my chin on my hands. "So," I said when I was comfortable. "You're going to answer my questions, or I'm going to make sure you join your friends over there." I jerked my chin toward the pile of dust sheets.