Read Online Forced Assassin by Natalie Dae and Sam Crescent - Free Book Online
Authors: Natalie Dae and Sam Crescent
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actress.”
“Anything else?”
“I was followed from the hotel. Probably the man Waterman sent to collect.”
“Marvellous.” The word was full of disgust and sarcasm.
“I gave him the slip, but it won’t be long before they’re on the lookout for my licence plate.”
“They haven’t spotted it since you infiltrated his mob, so why the devil would they find you via your vehicle now?”
“I suppose…”
“New plates will solve it. Should have done that before. Bloody got sidetracked with other things.”
“Yes.” Like shoving your cock into women .
Bishop waited for further instruction. Huntington didn’t seem in a hurry to offer any—he did that often, just left the line open while he thought things out, leaving Bishop hanging on until he deigned to speak. While he listened to what he imagined was Huntington getting out of bed and walking downstairs to his alcohol cabinet—a nasty, tacky-looking globe where the top half opened to reveal even tackier crystal decanters—Bishop glanced at the monitors on a shelf above his desk. His cameras were trained on all areas of his property. The grounds were in darkness, nothing untoward going on, and he let out a breath of relief. He wasn’t afraid of what he’d have to do if someone did happen by—he was trained in armed combat and had no conscience with regard to sinking a bullet or knife into anyone who threatened to expose him or the government officials he was contracted with—but he had Fallan to consider now. She hadn’t seen a gun let alone handled one until she’d met him, and false bravado wasn’t enough to get her out of a tricky situation.
This location had been secure for years. It didn’t exist as far as any regular Joe was concerned. It wasn’t on any files other than governmental ones, and he didn’t receive any mail or deliveries. He picked up his post from a PO box and bought whatever he needed himself. His credit cards were at his other, civilian address, and the name on them was a far cry from any he’d used while working. He rarely went ‘home’, though. That place contained too many memories, too much of his past that he’d forced himself to forget.
After… Well, years ago, when…when things had gone wrong, he’d removed all photographs of… Removed things that reminded him of what he’d lost, what his job had made him lose, and vowed never to dwell on them again. Every so often she infiltrated his thoughts, but he quelled them, pushed the sight of her smiling face away because seeing her made him hurt.
He clenched his teeth, annoyed that he’d let her in again, if only for the briefest of moments. He’d failed her, put her in danger, and she hadn’t even been aware of it until it had been too late.
Until the bullet had ripped off the side of her face and ricocheted through her brain, taking her away from him. From that traumatic, absolutely hateful day, he’d vowed never to allow a woman into his life again. Never to let a woman be in the danger she had been in.
You can’t even bear to think of her name, can you?
No, he couldn’t. And wouldn’t. Ever.
Guilt rested heavily on his shoulders, a burden he’d carry to the grave. He worked twenty-four/seven, burying himself in his jobs so he didn’t have a second to pause and think. And now here he was, allowing another woman to get to him, making him want to know her in ways he shouldn’t. Was he ready to try again, was that it? Had years of one-night stands and abstinence in between trysts given him enough time to grieve? To forget? To forgive himself?
I’ll never forgive my fucking self.
“Uh, there’s been a development,” Huntington said, his razor-sharp tone hauling Bishop out of his thoughts and into the present.
“What is it?” Bishop’s heart rate increased, the familiarity of adrenaline surging through his veins erasing the last vestiges of thoughts from the past.
“Seems someone—Waterman’s crew, I suspect—has enlisted the help ,
“Anything else?”
“I was followed from the hotel. Probably the man Waterman sent to collect.”
“Marvellous.” The word was full of disgust and sarcasm.
“I gave him the slip, but it won’t be long before they’re on the lookout for my licence plate.”
“They haven’t spotted it since you infiltrated his mob, so why the devil would they find you via your vehicle now?”
“I suppose…”
“New plates will solve it. Should have done that before. Bloody got sidetracked with other things.”
“Yes.” Like shoving your cock into women .
Bishop waited for further instruction. Huntington didn’t seem in a hurry to offer any—he did that often, just left the line open while he thought things out, leaving Bishop hanging on until he deigned to speak. While he listened to what he imagined was Huntington getting out of bed and walking downstairs to his alcohol cabinet—a nasty, tacky-looking globe where the top half opened to reveal even tackier crystal decanters—Bishop glanced at the monitors on a shelf above his desk. His cameras were trained on all areas of his property. The grounds were in darkness, nothing untoward going on, and he let out a breath of relief. He wasn’t afraid of what he’d have to do if someone did happen by—he was trained in armed combat and had no conscience with regard to sinking a bullet or knife into anyone who threatened to expose him or the government officials he was contracted with—but he had Fallan to consider now. She hadn’t seen a gun let alone handled one until she’d met him, and false bravado wasn’t enough to get her out of a tricky situation.
This location had been secure for years. It didn’t exist as far as any regular Joe was concerned. It wasn’t on any files other than governmental ones, and he didn’t receive any mail or deliveries. He picked up his post from a PO box and bought whatever he needed himself. His credit cards were at his other, civilian address, and the name on them was a far cry from any he’d used while working. He rarely went ‘home’, though. That place contained too many memories, too much of his past that he’d forced himself to forget.
After… Well, years ago, when…when things had gone wrong, he’d removed all photographs of… Removed things that reminded him of what he’d lost, what his job had made him lose, and vowed never to dwell on them again. Every so often she infiltrated his thoughts, but he quelled them, pushed the sight of her smiling face away because seeing her made him hurt.
He clenched his teeth, annoyed that he’d let her in again, if only for the briefest of moments. He’d failed her, put her in danger, and she hadn’t even been aware of it until it had been too late.
Until the bullet had ripped off the side of her face and ricocheted through her brain, taking her away from him. From that traumatic, absolutely hateful day, he’d vowed never to allow a woman into his life again. Never to let a woman be in the danger she had been in.
You can’t even bear to think of her name, can you?
No, he couldn’t. And wouldn’t. Ever.
Guilt rested heavily on his shoulders, a burden he’d carry to the grave. He worked twenty-four/seven, burying himself in his jobs so he didn’t have a second to pause and think. And now here he was, allowing another woman to get to him, making him want to know her in ways he shouldn’t. Was he ready to try again, was that it? Had years of one-night stands and abstinence in between trysts given him enough time to grieve? To forget? To forgive himself?
I’ll never forgive my fucking self.
“Uh, there’s been a development,” Huntington said, his razor-sharp tone hauling Bishop out of his thoughts and into the present.
“What is it?” Bishop’s heart rate increased, the familiarity of adrenaline surging through his veins erasing the last vestiges of thoughts from the past.
“Seems someone—Waterman’s crew, I suspect—has enlisted the help ,
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