KISS OF DEATH

 

Dark Heart

 

Sandra Bunino

 

Copyright © 2017

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

Jace Wyler tugged the rim of his Dodgers cap low on his forehead as he snaked through the wall of costumed tourists on Royal Street. His fingers curled around the handle of his case that, at first glance, appeared to hold a musical instrument, but there was nothing melodic about the sniper rifle tucked inside.

He stepped into the shadowy doorway he’d studied over the past few days. He memorized every aspect of the entrance. Missing a detail, whether a loose brick in the step, a hidden camera, or even an extra lock in the door could send the job spiraling into disaster. Slipping a key into the lock, he quickly scanned the area around him before disappearing inside and turning the deadbolt. The loud voices and cheers from the sidewalk were reduced to the background, muffled by thick draperies covering the windows.

Passing the front parlor filled with dusty dropcloths hung over large pieces of furniture, he soundlessly climbed two flights of stairs to the master bedroom. A cloud of dust floated to his nose when he dropped the case on the bed. He pulled aside the heavy drapes and assessed his vantage point to the restaurant’s balcony across the street. The angle was perfect. He knew it would be. Everyone had a hidden talent, and Jace’s was the uncanny ability to calculate the exact angle and distance needed to place a bullet between a target’s eyes. No matter where they were—a vehicle, sidewalk, apartment window, or, in this case, the second story balcony of an overpriced New Orleans restaurant on Fat Tuesday—once his target was set, they were as good as dead. Jace’s clients depended on it.

Pulling a frilly chair from its spot under the dressing table, Jace straddled the back and tapped a Marlboro from the soft pack he kept in his jacket pocket. The low flame of his lighter briefly illuminated the corner of the bedroom as he lit the cigarette. He took a first drag, inhaling smoke into his lungs and slowly blowing it into the darkness waiting for his target, Max Chantal, to appear. Max was on the fast track to take over the Giovanni crime family and someone wanted to cut him off the rails before it happened.

He snuffed the cigarette on the sole of his shoe and stared through the slit of light between the drapery panels where the long muzzle of his rifle would soon penetrate. He rolled the tension from his shoulders. There was nothing different about this job. A hit was like fucking. Just like one wrong move during foreplay meant a missed opportunity to score, a misstep during a job meant life over death. He was paid to kill people and Jace never missed. The difference between a kill and sex was he always remembered his targets. His fuck partners? Not so much. They’d become faceless outlets to bang away the reality of his life and temporarily blur the intensity of his razor focus.

Jace lit another cigarette and waited. If this was foreplay, he’d be at the part where her panties had just dropped to the floor and she was reaching for his cock. It was the part of the hit that put him on edge because for a short time, others had control of the situation. There were countless ways his carefully executed plan could unravel between now and the moment his target stepped into range of his rifle. He scanned the crowd funneling through the streets below, pulled the photo of Max Chantal from his back pocket, and flicked the corner with his thumbnail. Physical photos were harder to come by, but Jace refused to use digital devices. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how things worked, the problem was he knew too much. Every online search, every saved photo, every keystroke could be copied and traced to the source and user. It was a mistake he’d made once and he’d live with the fallout of his error for the rest of his life. He quickly learned to fly under the radar using old-school techniques that were easily disposed of with a flick of a match. It also helped that he preferred as little human interaction as possible. His rule for dealing with people was unless the result rewarded him with information for a job, or wet his cock, he wasn’t interested. When he was lucky, both happened at the same time.

Despite his aversion to people, when it came to women Jace turned on the charm with a flip of the switch. He knew exactly how to get women to open their mouths and their legs. But he wasn’t selfish, not by a longshot. He left them more than satisfied while he collected information. Getting his rocks off was a bonus. For example, Chantal’s ex-girlfriend, Brittany—or was it Whitney?—was more than happy to give up Max’s photo, along with her panties. As far as Brittany/Whitney was concerned, the chance encounter with Jace was the sign she needed to “turn the page” as she referred to their tryst in the restaurant’s bathroom. Jace called it sucking his cock. Semantics.

He checked the time and scanned the restaurant’s balcony while a waiter set a silver ice bucket and two champagne flutes on the table. Jace popped the locks of his case and lifted the lid, exposing his AK-47. He fisted the weapon and attached the silencer and scope before snapping the magazine into place. Jace flipped the latch on the window and opened it a few inches.

Without the buffer of glass, the frenzy of the street invaded the room. He lowered one knee to the floor, brought the rifle to his shoulder and peered through the scope. Moist air of New Orleans blanketed his cheeks as a combination of sweat and beer from the street below accosted his nose. His gaze tracked on the restaurant’s entrance as Max and the familiar strut of his dinner companion stepped into his field of vision. Max held the door as she stepped inside. Jace narrowed his eyes as he watched Max ogle her sumptuous ass wrapped in a tight skirt, before throwing a glance over his shoulder. Brittany/Whitney mentioned Max’s suspicious streak. She had rolled her eyes as she recounted the number of times Max had said he’d had the feeling he was being followed and watched. His suspicions were not only spot on, they would also play a part in his demise because reserving the entire balcony not only ensured Max’s privacy, it also made Jace’s job easier by reducing the number of possible witnesses.

After a few minutes the two emerged on the patio with drinks in hand. Jace assessed Max as he stepped to the edge of the balcony. He had a clear shot, a perfect one, but he couldn’t risk Max’s six-foot frame tumbling over the railing and landing in the crowd below. Creating a scene on the busiest street in New Orleans during Mardi Gras wasn’t Jace’s style. Plus, it would risk harming innocent bystanders. He was a hitman, not an asshole.

Max’s date moved to his side and her wig of glossy black hair shown in the sunlight as it skimmed her bare forearms. Jace’s magnified view swept over her body, lingering on the swell of her full breasts and the curve of her hips. “Looking hot as usual, Black Widow,” Jace muttered. The slow heat rising in Jace’s belly turned to fire when Max’s hand snaked around her waist and pulled her against his body. Jace swallowed hard as she brushed her lips against Max’s and trailed her fingers around his ear. Max grabbed her wrist and moved her palm from his head to his crotch. Jace’s finger curled around the trigger as the urge to shoot the man’s fingers off one by one coursed through his mind. She pulled away and tugged him from the railing leading him to the table. Guiding him to the seat facing the street, she pulled the chair out, but Max’s palm covered hers as he made a gestured wave across the seat with his other hand. She hesitated before lowering herself into the chair and lifting her glass. “Shit,” Jace said with his sights on Max watching him as he commandeered the other chair and touched his glass to hers. Jace shifted and assessed his angle. From his vantage point he still had a clean shot at Max’s temple. It wasn’t ideal, Jace preferred to look his targets in the eye before pulling the trigger, but he’d get the job done.

A drum boomed in the background, followed by a collection of horns, signaling the parade was on schedule and would pass in the next few minutes. As Jace expected, excitement buzzed from the crowd as a juggler in a flashing suit bounced up the street on stilts. Moving his attention back to the scene playing out on the balcony, he watched as she pointed to the street and pulled Max’s arm, coaxing him closer to her chair. Max shuffled his chair closer, but seemed more interested in the view down her low-cut blouse.

The observation was confirmed when she leaned toward him and trailed her fingers along his collar to his neck. Max knocked her hand away as their lips touched, sending another sucker punch directly to Jace’s gut. If that wasn’t enough, Max shifted his body as her other hand moved toward his lap. Jace’s below the waist view was blocked by the table, but it didn’t take much imagination to figure out why Max leaned back in his chair. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Jace muttered, as Max cupped her face and pulled away from the kiss. Jace noticed the beads of sweat along Max’s forehead and temple as he tipped his head toward his lap and she nodded. “Jesus Christ,” Jace groaned and hooked his finger around the trigger, ready to blow the guy’s brains out if she dropped to her knees. Yeah, it would’ve been messy, but he preferred to deal with her wrath than watch her suck some asshole’s dick. His mood lightened when she lifted her index finger in a “just a sec” motion and swung her handbag over her shoulder. Leaning forward to give Max another boob shot, she slanted her lips over his before disappearing into the restaurant.

“The kiss of death,” Jace whispered as he sharpened his focus on his target. Max’s new position put him back in range for a between the eyes shot. “Don’t move.” Jace steadied on Max’s forehead. Jace’s attention tipped to the restaurant’s street-level door as the parade came into view. His gaze toggled back to the balcony. Max glanced at his watch and then to the balcony door. Max and Jace had something in common, they were both waiting. Max for a blowjob, and Jace to finish the job he was paid to do. Unfortunately for Max, only one of them would be successful.

Jace’s focus moved to the entrance again, willing the door to swing open. “Come on,” he muttered and held his breath before the familiar form dressed in shorts and a tank top left the restaurant and headed in the direction of the parade. The transformation from the Black Widow to his partner, Ursula Lyons, took a couple of minutes, but for Jace, they were the moments when his heart pounded the hardest. Her curly tresses bouncing around her shoulders as she disappeared into the crowd was his signal to fire at will.

Jace’s attention returned to the balcony, resetting his aim on Max as his finger tightened on the trigger. As though Max sensed the target on his head, he scanned the building façade, his stare steadying on the open window. Jace recognized the flicker of understanding as he opened fire and a single bullet zoomed silently above the parade and lodged itself between Max’s eyes.

Jace slid the window closed, returned the chair to its place under the dressing table and packed the rifle into the case before heading down the two flights of stairs. He stopped at the front door and peered out the window at the backs of heads because all eyes were exactly where he wanted them: directed toward the parade. He turned the knob and slipped outside, closing the door behind him, and tugged the brim of his hat down to shield his eyes.