Deadly Match Read online

  Deadly Match

  A Bad Boy Inc. Story

  Eve Langlais

  Copyright © June 2017, Eve Langlais

  Cover Art Razz Dazz Design © July 2017

  Produced in Canada

  Published by Eve Langlais ~ www.EveLanglais.com

  E-ISBN: 978 1988 328 843

  Ingram Print: 978 1988 328 850

  Createspace: 9781549854200

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Deadly Match is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email, photocopying, and printing without permission in writing from the author.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Introduction

  A retired assassin can’t find love, until he meets his match.

  Almost dying puts some things in perspective for Reaper. For one, he is getting too old to be dodging bullets. And secondly, who will mourn him when he is gone?

  Maybe it’s time to think about settling down. Problem is, exactly where does a retired assassin meet the right kind of lady?

  Charming Reaper Montgomery—the first—turns to a dating service to solve his problem and finds himself intrigued by the owner, especially when his first date with her ends with bullets flying.

  Between her secret past and his killer resume, they’ll make a deadly match.

  Chapter One

  Oh, the weather outside is frightful… But the wine for dinner was delightful—and probably very expensive. It was also not his, which made it even more delicious.

  The wine slid smoothly down his throat, a hint of something flowery with a dash of dark cherry. He pulled out his phone and took a quick picture of the label, making a note to grab a case later.

  “Nice vintage,” he remarked after he’d refilled his glass. He tipped the crystal goblet at his host. “I have to say, the choice of a red with chicken for dinner surprised me. Most people prefer a white, but it was a good risk. Much appreciated because this”—Reaper waved his hand over the table—“was just what I needed.” A Christmas Eve dinner that wasn’t deep-fried or store-bought.

  A feast no one had invited him to.

  Reaper—thus named by a mother too heavily into the Goth scene—pushed his empty plate aside and whipped the cloth napkin from his lap before addressing his still silent host. “But good food and drink aren’t what I’m here for.” He leaned forward, eyes intent on his target, the gun a stark centerpiece on the table. “The time has come for you to pay your debt to society.”

  Reaper—whose friends knew better than to mock his name or risk suffering the consequences—rose from the chair and left the gun on the table as he walked over to his host. He should note that, despite the decadent spread, the guy didn’t seem keen on entertaining. Then again, when answering a knock at his door, the man had expected to see his girlfriend, not Reaper.

  No one ever liked to come face-to-face with death. Some even pissed themselves.

  It might have given Reaper a complex if he cared.

  “Happy holidays,” Reaper had said, shoving his way in. “Or should I go old school and say Merry fucking Christmas?” Reaper kicked the door shut, his gaze trained on his target.

  “Get out.” The words were faintly spoken through lips that trembled.

  Reaper smiled. “Make me.”

  A real man would have taken that as a challenge. This little fucker bolted. They were on the fifteenth floor of a condo building. Where did he think he was going to run?

  It hadn’t taken much for Reaper to subdue his target. Blubbering idiot. A moron who passed out. Possibly on account of the fact that Reaper whacked his head off the hardwood floor a few times.

  It was only as he rose from his knees that he’d smelled it.

  Something delicious.

  With his target unconscious, and nowhere pressing to be, Reaper had sat down to enjoy the home-cooked meal as the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree blinked at him.

  Waiting for his host to awaken, he looked at the presents under the tree. Must be nice. If it weren’t for the office gift exchange their receptionist, Sherry, insisted on, he’d never have anything to open.

  “What did you get her?” Reaper asked, leaning over his mark. “Diamonds? Lingerie? You’re probably wondering where she is. Don’t worry. I took care of her.” He gave the statement an ominous lilt, yet he needn’t have bothered; his host got the innuendo.

  Now conscious, Wendell stared with his eyes wide, moaning behind the strip of soft fabric covering his mouth and nose. His hands were tied together.

  Wendell would never get to enjoy his last meal.

  “Time for you to think your final words. Because no one wants to hear them.” Only in the movies did a person slated for death manage emotionally wrenching speeches. In real life, it consisted more of “Don’t kill me.” And “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  But they did. Assholes like Wendell fucked up over and over. Reaper had learned that lesson as a kid.

  A man should keep his word. His stepdaddy hadn’t. His mother was better once Reaper took care of that problem. Not that she recognized the favor he’d done her. Drugs had a way of making people oblivious to the shit happening around them—and ignoring their responsibilities.

  Reaper reached around Wendell and lifted him. The man, obviously, struggled. As if that would get him anywhere.

  A pinch of a certain nerve with gloved fingers and Wendell went limp. It took only a moment to divest the man of the plastic ties and the gag Reaper had used. Suicidal people didn’t usually jump bound and gagged.

  It took only a slight flex of his arms for Reaper to lift the man and carry him, princess-style, so as not to drag him across the floor. Even the laziest of cops would notice if it appeared that Wendell hadn’t helped himself out the window.

  The stone parapet railing of the balcony proved easy to prop Wendell up on. To appear as a proper suicide, Reaper couldn’t just pitch him off headfirst. After all, he wanted authorities to easily identify the body and not have to wait for DNA results. Verification would delay payment.

  And the only reason Reaper killed was for money. Anything else was emotionally motivated and uncivilized.

  With Wendell seated and ready to fly—without wings or a net—Reaper had no final words or thoughts other than, Wonder if I should get a steak sandwich or a chicken one? He was still hungry, and the deli around the corner from his place was open late.

  With the Christmas lights on the tree in the living room blinking behind him, illuminating the softly drifting snow, Reaper let go and didn’t stay to watch the body land.

  Seen one, seen them all.

  He re-entered th
e apartment, slid shut the door, his gloves not leaving any traces, and was headed for the table and his gun when the front door opened.

  Impossible. He’d locked it.

  Someone with a key? The girlfriend was supposed to be detained for hours still—a lockdown in the downtown office where she worked. She shouldn’t be here. Yet there stood a woman, her silhouette definitely feminine in her belted coat, the fur trim around the hood hiding most of her features.

  I fucked up. He’d lingered instead of getting the job done.

  As he dove for the table, his fingers reached for the gun even as he heard the distinctive pop of a weapon firing, the sound muffled by a silencer.

  A bullet seared across his shoulder.

  Missed me.

  Reaper fisted the grip and began to lift the revolver. His gaze found the shooter, a woman not at all panicked, standing with her hands braced around her weapon. Saying not a word, she fired again.

  Numbness, not pain, punched him in the chest, spinning him back.

  But Reaper held on to the gun. He stumbled hard against the arm of the couch, knew another bullet was coming, and yet blindly fired off a few shots.

  A high-pitched gasp from the woman, and another point of impact on his body.

  He slumped to the floor.

  Bleeding.

  Badly.

  Yet not dead, and despite his gasping breath and the fact that he wavered on his knees, he held the gun and aimed at an uninhabited doorway.

  Empty. She was gone. But the apartment wouldn’t remain vacant for long. Someone was sure to report the gunshots.

  Get out of here.

  He managed to stagger to his feet and, as he stumbled to the door, intentionally knocked over both candles on the table and watched the flame start licking at the cloth. A fire would take care of his blood.

  Breathing hard, his vision wavering, he hit the hall and saw the door to the stairwell slamming shut.

  While usually a man who liked to get exercise any way he could, Reaper eschewed using the stairs. He’d never make it. He aimed himself at the elevator, jabbing at the button. The doors slid open immediately, and he staggered in, the tinny sound of holiday music grating on his ears.

  Fucking Christmas. Stupid holiday. All those happy people with their obsession for gifts and turkey. Who the hell wanted to eat turkey?

  He grimaced and punched the button for the parking level before tucking his gun away and grabbing his phone. He thumbed it while leaning against the wall, fighting against the dancing black spots in his vision.

  A familiar voice answered. “Dude, what’s shakin’?”

  “Had a few too many at the bar. Need a ride.”

  “Sure thing. Where you at?”

  “Our usual joint.” He didn’t give a location. He knew Mason would already have it. The joys of having a techie friend who knew how to trace a phone’s location.

  “Be there in a few.”

  Reaper didn’t say anything in reply, just hung up and tucked the phone into his pocket. He reached into the breast of his coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Nasty habit. Good thing he didn’t smoke.

  The dry tobacco instantly lit. He puffed but didn’t inhale as he shrugged off his blood-soaked jacket and dropped it to the floor. The smoking tube landed atop his coat. Reaper then twisted open the lighter he’d used and dumped the fuel on the discarded fabric.

  It ignited, and a tiny flame danced as the elevator door opened to the parking level. Before stepping out, Reaper hit the top-floor button. Off the elevator went. He watched the numbers on the digital display climb, feeling the strength in his limbs ebb.

  My own fault, because I was stupid.

  He’d gotten lazy. Lingering to drink wine and eat dinner so he wouldn’t have to go home alone on Christmas Eve. He’d erred in thinking the girlfriend was out of the picture.

  And now, he paid the price.

  He wouldn’t let his mistake kill innocents, though. He reached for the red lever of the fire alarm and yanked.

  Immediately, sirens began to blare. The sprinkler system came on in the garage, ruining any trace evidence. The fire crews, with their massive hoses and chemicals, would take care of the rest.

  The elevator shut down between floors. Already on fire, it would be nothing but ash by the time the firemen got to it. As for Wendell’s apartment, the candles would do the work.

  Having lit enough fires, Reaper knew they would burn sufficiently to erase evidence, and everyone would assume a mishap. A fire had started; Wendell panicked and went on the balcony to escape the smoke. Unfortunately, he died.

  A perfectly plausible scenario unless the girlfriend, who’d interrupted Reaper, talked.

  Would a woman who could shoot like a pro speak to the police?

  As he waited for his ride, Reaper thumbed another message on his phone, this one for a cleanup of the security camera footage in the area and requesting a solid alibi.

  It never hurt to cover his ass.

  The mistake shouldn’t have happened in the first place. How had he missed Wendell’s killer girlfriend? The file had indicated she was nothing more than a secretary.

  Wrong! And, apparently, she’d cared more for the asshole than expected.

  Must be nice to have a girlfriend who gave a damn.

  How long since Reaper’s last female friend? A while. They never lasted long. Then again, Reaper had never really tried to settle down with anyone either. His job didn’t exactly encourage it.

  Yet it would be nice to occasionally come home to a romantic dinner. The smell of home-cooked food in the air, candles burning for ambiance, a woman dressed in something sexy saying, “Honey, you’re home.”

  It won’t happen now.

  He’d finally punched his ticket.

  Eyesight failing, and his legs wobbling, he sat hard on the concrete, the sprinklers soaking him and almost muffling the sound of squealing tires.

  The headlights caught him, and he blinked through damp lashes. He knew he should stand up. What if it was the woman back to finish him off?

  I’m going to die alone.

  Nobody outside of a few work friends would know. Who would care? He left no legacy behind. No one to mourn him.

  How fucking depressing.

  If I live, I’m going to find myself a girlfriend. Someone to care whether he came home.

  Someone to call him honey.

  “Fuck me, someone did a number on Reaper.”

  “He’s coding. Tell them to get the doc out of bed. Now,” a voice shouted.

  Hands grabbed and hauled him from the ground where he lay. Reaper couldn’t open his eyes; the lids were too heavy. He faintly felt pressure on his body. Not enough to hold him down. He floated.

  Rose above and looked down on himself. Holy shit, that’s me. His features slack. Blood everywhere.

  Fuck. I’m dead. So where was the fucking tunnel and light? He didn’t see a welcoming party or a shining arch.

  It could only mean one thing.

  I’m going to Hell.

  Chapter Two

  Will this torture and hell ever end?

  Weeks of convalescence had left Reaper feeling a tad ornery.

  Real men didn’t let hospitals tether them to a bed. Real men gave the middle finger to a no-walking rule.

  Most men didn’t have to deal with months of rehab because their body had succumbed to an infection from wounds that had put them into a coma.

  He’d almost died.

  Almost.

  I am not dead yet. Probably because the Devil didn’t want him to stop doing the good work on Earth.

  Reaper would never die if the doctors and nurses kept mollycoddling the fuck out of him.

  “No, I don’t want to shave,” he growled as the nurse offered him a razor. “I’m leaving. Today.” Now. Because he’d had enough of pale green walls, white tile floor, and the smell that every hospital had.

  Despair and death. The first, he ignored. Despair was for cowards. He wasn’t a c
oward.

  But death… Yeah, that one gave him pause. He’d seen what it looked like. Nothingness. A big, blank fucking zero.

  Everything he’d done in his life?

  Didn’t mean squat once he croaked.

  It didn’t make him happy.

  So what? I’m not a happy guy.

  Maybe I should try.

  Try what? Turning into some smiling Pollyanna full of good cheer?

  Fuck that shit. But perhaps a little life change was in order. He’d had time to reflect. Too much fucking time.

  He needed to change a few of his priorities. However, that could only happen once he left this hellish prison.

  The months he’d spent in a coma, then the additional time after in rehab, meant he walked with only a little limp to the door. One of the bullets had shattered part of his thighbone, and while healed, it wasn’t the same. Would never be.

  Bullet wounds always changed something.

  The doctors in this private facility—who didn’t question the story of him being attacked by a gang in the ‘hood—had fixed all his injuries. Left him a few new scars too, along with an inability to go through a metal detector unnoticed. Part man, now part machine.

  Can’t be a good assassin if I can’t get into places.

  What are you saying?

  Nothing. Yet.

  Extending his arm, he opened the door. He no longer felt a twinge when he used his left side.

  The still angry-red marks from that wound had given him a holy-shit moment the first time he saw them. A few millimeters lower and he’d have been buried. Cremated actually because one, he didn’t want worms chewing on his brains, and two, just in case he was wrong, and zombies did exist, he wasn’t letting some strange parasite use his body.