Chapter Two
Three weeks before.
“I’ve one for you.”
Davis MacDonagh took a moment to inhale the salty morning breeze before he moved his mobile phone to his other ear. “Price?” he asked.
“Easy, well worth the fee,” the familiar voice said in a thick Irish brogue.
“I’m listening,” Davis said.
He took in the details spoken in rapid Gaelic, committing them to memory, before the call ended and he stuffed his mobile back in his pocket. Rain clouds clung to the morning horizon, but another peaceful day loomed before him. Tortola was a beautiful island nestled amongst the British Virgin Islands. He’d settled here to find refuge. An elusive peace of mind he had yet to find, because he had little choice but to answer when it came to those fucking phone calls.
It took him a couple of minutes to grab his already-packed duffel bags. Then he was off to the private airport to board the Gulfstream G650ER which would take him to his destination. An obnoxious piece of aircraft always at his beck-and-call. Though he was a wealthy man, the jet wasn’t his, and it only served as a reminder of who owned him. The Mob na hÉireann called him many things—cold-blooded, ruthless, reliable—and he made sure they had reason to fear him. But in the end he owed them a debt of lifelong service as their most valuable hitman.
Once settled on the flight to the colonies, he opened his laptop then pulled up the encoded email he’d been sent. He scanned the information: twenty-six-year-old female, Tulsa County sheriff’s deputy. Her photograph showed a very American face—rounded with a high forehead, freckles, and fringed by blonde-streaked light brown hair. She was cute, very feminine, and appeared completely guileless as she stared toward her unseen photographer.
Davis frowned, studying the woman. When he’d taken on the job as gun for hire, he’d done it as an equal opportunity killer. In the power play between mob gangs, women proved to be just as dangerous as men. Though they were often overlooked in worlds run by ruthless men, Davis considered them equals. A skilled woman with a weapon and agenda was just as capable at ending his life as a skilled man.
He wondered over this woman, his target, a deputy named Hannah Stephens in Oklahoma. The Irish Mob had reached into all areas of the world. Even small cities like Tulsa, Oklahoma, that many in Ireland had never heard of, but served as a central spoke in their drug trafficking. She didn’t look like a threat, after all. How could a simple young deputy possibly threaten such a strong organization?
He had a no-questions-asked agreement, but he’d made his two rules very clear to those who owned him—no kids, no innocents. Two rules that were absolute. He may not have a soul, but he did have a moral code he had to answer to when it came to whom he killed. His conscience didn’t haunt him, he slept well at night, and he intended to keep it that way. His handlers knew the consequences should they dare to make him cross.
He opened another file and found more pictures of the target. Above average in height, in uniform she looked unremarkable, but in jeans and a t-shirt her lean build was accentuated by the gentle curve of hips and breasts. He bit his bottom lip as male appreciation distracted him. Davis had played in the realm of seduction when it came to taking down targets—both female and male. When sex was on the table it became easy to take out a hit when one kept their wits about them. Even while taking his pleasure he never lost control, and he always made sure the target shared equally in orgasmic delight before he ended their life.
Davis was a fair man, after all.
He rubbed his jaw, and returned to the portrait. The guileless face, those big brown eyes. It’d be easy to charm his way into her good graces as long as she didn’t play for the women-only team. Yet, the idea left a sour taste, which he as quickly discarded. The notion of guilt had left him long ago, and this momentary lapse was nonetheless disturbing. Something about this didn’t set well in his gut. An instinct that had kept him alive more times than he could count.
He leaned back against the leather upholstery of his seat and closed his eyes. The hum of the jet engines lulled him into a peaceful state as he worked out his plan. The simplest avenue would be to work his way into her bed. A thorough shagging would do him good. He grinned, building on the fantasy, his cock responding.
“Hannah, love, I can’t wait to meet you.”
****
It was another beautiful night in rural Tulsa County. The full moon cast a shimmering glow on the early summer leaves. But the peaceful scene barely registered with Hannah as she stared through the windshield. She pressed the gas pedal, speeding down the county backroad, kicking up a cloud of dust behind the SUV.
“I think he ducked down the side road up ahead,” her partner Mike said.
“You think? We have to be sure,” Hannah snapped.
Mike held up his hands. “I’m as pissed as you are he gave us the slip, so don’t take it out on me.”
Hannah blew out a hard breath, and slowed, angling the rig down the road Mike had pointed to. Gravel pinged against the SUV’s frame as she floored the accelerator, and the engine roared to life. Thank God for the long dry spell Oklahoma had suffered through, because dust kicked up by recent car travel still hugged the road in a ghostly veil.
“You were right,” Hannah said to Mike in apology.
Her partner clung to the handle above the passenger door as the SUV bounced and jolted along. The vehicle was built for this abuse, but the perp’s car wasn’t. They had the advantage as the road worsened.
And then she saw it, the Nissan sitting on the side of the road. Acres of wooded land surrounded them. He could be anywhere within the dark stand of pines, and suddenly he had the advantage.
“Shit,” Mike hissed, reading her mind.
Hannah rolled down her window while Mike grabbed the high-powered flashlight from the glove box. He shined it through the trees while she worked the spotlight mounted just outside her window. The tree shadows danced this way and that, and she squinted, hoping to make out a figure among them.
“We need K-9 out here,” Mike said.
“Wait.” Hannah pointed to her left. “I thought I saw something.”
She eased her door opened, stepped out, then dropped low, her flashlight positioned beneath her sidearm. Red darted between two trees, and she kept the flashlight focused on the spot.
“Sheriff’s Department,” she called out. “Come out with your hands up!”
Mike came around, shining his flashlight to the same spot.
“He’s there, behind that tree,” she said.
“Sheriff’s Department, come out now!” Mike’s booming voice echoed in the night.
She glimpsed red again, the perp’s t-shirt, and then he bolted, dashing deeper into the trees.
“Damn it! Stop!” Hannah darted forward, hot on his trail, Mike at her heels. “Stop! Sheriff’s Department! Goddamn you, stop!”
She’d run track in high school, had gone to college on a track and field scholarship, but she was weighted down with her duty belt and bulletproof vest. Though a chilly night, sweat beaded on her face as she pushed her legs faster. Chances were the young perp was high on meth giving him a physical edge, but she was determined to catch him. He was a suspected drug runner for the local Irish Mob, and hell if she’d let him get away.
She heard Mike give a loud oomph. She whirled to find him sprawled on the ground.
“I tripped. I’m tangled in these damn blackberry vines,” he said. “Go!”
She spun and charged on, following the perp’s crunching footfalls on the pine needles. And like some miracle he, too, tripped and went down. Hannah holstered her gun and dove on top of him, but his wiry frame was shockingly strong. She struggled to pin him to the ground, but he managed to turn onto his back. He swung out, his fist connecting with her jaw. A loud pop preceded the flood of blood in her mouth.
Hannah snarled. “Stop resisting! Stop resisting or I’ll use pepper spray!”
“Get off me you bitch!” the perp shouted back. His face contorted in rage. He reached for her waist and suddenly the struggle became life or death as he fought to get to her sidearm. She drew her fist back and brought it down into his face, once, twice, three times.
“Jesus,” she heard Mike cry as he dropped down behind her, throwing himself across the perp’s legs.
“Stop resisting!” she said again, finally getting hold of the perp’s wrists.
Even with Mike’s help, the perp had a meth high on his side giving him superhuman strength. The three of them wrestled, but she and Mike finally subdued him. She snapped handcuffs on his wrists. Mike called in the arrest and the two of them dragged him back to the SUV. Once they had the perp secured in the backseat, Hannah took a moment to catch her breath, spitting the taste of blood from her mouth.
“You okay?” Mike asked patting her on the shoulder.
“Yeah. Bastard clocked me a good one. I bit my tongue.”
Her muscles shook from exertion, and soreness had already set in. But it was just another night on the job for Hannah. Taking down bad guys was the thing she did best.