I Hired a Hitman Read online

  I Hired a Hitman

  Alexis Abbott

  © 2018 Pathforgers Publishing.

  All Rights Reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  This book is intended for sale to Adult Audiences only. All sexually active characters in this work are over 18. All sexual activity is between non-blood related, consenting adults. This is a work of fiction, and as such, does not encourage illegal or immoral activities that happen within.

  Cover Design by Wicked Good Covers. All cover art makes use of stock photography and all persons depicted are models.

  More information is available at Pathforgers Publishing.

  Content warnings: stalking, mafia violence, covering up a murder, harassment

  Wordcount: 53,000 Words

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  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Daisy

  2. Alexei

  3. Daisy

  4. Alexei

  5. Daisy

  6. Alexei

  7. Daisy

  8. Alexei

  9. Daisy

  10. Alexei

  11. Daisy

  12. Alexei

  13. Daisy

  14. Alexei

  15. Daisy

  16. Alexei

  17. Daisy

  18. Alexei

  Epilogue

  Also by Alexis Abbott

  About the Author

  Connect with Alexis

  Romance Novels to your Email

  Prologue

  My truck tears down the gravel road, spitting rocks up and clinking again the metal. The wind is in my hair, whipping around me. The blue sky spreads out before me, kissing the gold of the land.

  I never knew how big the sky could look until I moved to the Midwest. It’s strange. Americans think little of the wide-open plains and the rich fields that go on forever, but to me, I can’t get enough of it.

  It gives me life. This is why I came to this country. This is what brings me peace. This is what freedom looks like.

  As the thundering truck engine rumbles under me, I think back to the howling winter winds of Siberia where I was born. And then the high rise towers of the city that blotted out the sky and horizon.

  Now, I find myself here in this sleepy farming town. Strange that it took me moving to the other side of the world to find a place that feels like home.

  The drive from my modest homestead to town is the same as always. To someone just passing through, it might seem like an endless road with equally endless farmland on either side. I know better, though, and so do the locals.

  As the smell of rich earth and seed fills my nose, I pass fields that belong to people who I know just by having driven by them enough times. An older farmer is out on his tractor to the right, while the field on the left is getting worked by a younger man while an older one watches warily. Must be a new hire.

  I pass a couple of teenage girls walking down the road outside one of the farms like they always are around this time of day, and I move over on the road out of courtesy to avoid roaring right beside them. The first time I did, the shorter of them got startled, so I make a point to be more conscientious now.

  Things are different outside of the city, and I don’t want to stand out in the wrong way.

  My truck roars into town, but I don’t turn many heads. The locals have gotten to know the sound of my truck.

  I draw more attention when I bring my motorcycle through. Even then, the roar of my bike isn’t too different from the sound of some of the worn-out old trucks that rumble through on a regular basis, carrying chickens, seed, hay, and anything else that fills the air with that rich country smell.

  What I like about this place most is that nobody pays me much mind. I get no questions from them about where I come from, who my connections are, and what I’m doing here.

  The very few people I’ve spoken to know I’m Russian, and they know that I occasionally buy drinks at their bar, keeping to myself in dark corners where I can enjoy the privacy of my own thoughts.

  At well over six feet in height, that’s all anyone wants to know from me.

  I like it that way.

  The less they know about my past, the better off we all are.

  I pull up to the only real store in town, which I’ve never visited before today. My chickens need seed, and my horses need hay. I usually buy everything wholesale, but my shipment is late, so I have to make a quick stop to tide the animals over. It’s such a pretty day out that I’m itching to be on my bike, but as much as the locals would like to see me try, carrying hay on a motorcycle is something I don’t want to test out.

  The store is tall and wide, and there are no fancy adornments on it. I’m fairly sure it used to be a warehouse that someone bought and turned into a store. The people around here are hardworking, honest, and frugal. They don’t bother tearing down perfectly good buildings to make room for fancy new ones unless they need to.

  The Midwestern US is a bit like Siberia in that way.

  I step into the store, and the woman at the counter greets me with a gruff smile and a nod of her head. I return it, and I make my way in.

  I loop around the outer aisles to the back of the store, where I start to make my way toward the seed. I move quietly, not because I mean to, but out of habit.

  For so many years, moving through buildings quickly and quietly was part of how I made my living. I made my body into a walking shadow, a soundless spirit who could slip through a hotel or a house or an office with ease. Not a soul could detect me, if I didn’t want them to.

  I might have left my old life behind me, but the skills I honed to perfection are still with me. When anyone asks why a man my size tends to sneak up on people, I just tell them I’m a hunter.

  It’s not far from the truth.

  A few aisles before the one where I can find chicken seed, I pass a young woman who’s busying herself with stocking the shelves.

  Her head turns, surprised, and for a fraction of a second, our eyes meet.

  Despite my best efforts, my heart skips a beat.

  I notice her by her hair before anything else. It’s the kind of very light copper that Americans call strawberry blonde. But as soon as she looks at me, she draws my gaze to her hazel eyes that catch the sunlight and make it dance.

  Then, she gives me that smile that melts my heart. Her freckled face and curvy figure draws my eyes. Daisy Jenson. That’s the name on the pin just above her left breast. Daisy. I’d certainly like to pluck her, I muse, thinking back on the childish games the kids used to play. Wants me, wants me not. Wants me, I settle on, my gaze moving forward once more.

  That slightest meeting between us scorches me like fire, but the next moment, I move on.

  In the past, I might have followed my heart’s impulses. I could chat her up at the bar and see where things go—what else is there to do in a small town like this?

  I’m here to keep a low profile and live out a quiet life for the time being, not fool around with the locals. I’m a restless man, so I know I might not be able to do that forever, but if I want to try to play the part of a reclusive homesteader, leaving a trail of broken hearts through town isn’t the best way to go about it.

  But I can’t deny that her breathtaking smile and beautiful curves ignited something primal inside of me. I’m smiling as I pass another young man about Daisy’s age who doesn’t look at me as we cross paths. He’s a good-looking guy about my height, which I don’t often see, but I figure he’s the loc
al heartthrob. Has the look of a sweet country boy about him.

  I get to the seed and pick up what I need before heading back the way I came.

  Another of the many skills I keep with me from my old life is a sharp sense of hearing.

  And when I near the aisle where Daisy is, what I hear makes me freeze.

  “Look, we’re going out tonight. I already told the guys I’d have you out there, I don’t want you makin’ me look like a damned fool!”

  The low growl of a voice comes from the farm boy I passed a few seconds ago. I’m not in sight of him yet, but I moved so quietly that he must not have noticed me. Slowing down, I take a few steps into the aisle behind where the voice is coming from, and I listen.

  His voice sounds angry. I know a threat when I hear one.

  “I’m not off my shift until nine tonight, Dean,” Daisy whispers back, and I feel my heart rate pick up. She sounds frightened, but she’s putting up a fight. “I’m gonna be exhausted.” An excuse. A pleasant way to turn someone down when saying something harsher might lead to unwanted consequences. Dean isn’t the type of man that takes no for an answer, I can tell that much already.

  “Scott said you’re off at eight,” he snaps. “Don’t lie to me, Daisy. I don’t like liars.”

  There’s a menacing edge to his voice that makes my fist clench and my jaw set.

  “I’m sorry, I meant to say eight,” she lies. I can tell she’s trying to placate him, her voice dropping into a more soothing tone the way girls are trained to speak to aggressive men. “It’s just been a really long day, Dean.”

  “You told me you’d see me again,” he says. “My pa raised me to take people at their word, and I’m gonna do just that.”

  “I-I want to, I promise,” she assures him. “And I’m going to, you just keep asking at bad times.”

  “I don’t care,” he says. He sounds like every other young man I’ve known who has never heard the word ‘no’ before. “If you keep actin’ like this, Daisy, I’m gonna take it personally. When you don’t talk to me right, it makes me mad.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, Dean,” she whispers, trying to keep their voices low.

  “Not yet you’re not,” he replies, and I feel my blood boiling. “You keep carryin’ on like this, and I’ll take matters into my own hands. Understand me, girl?”

  My mind is already running through a plan of attack. It’s pure instinct. I could drop the seed and slip around the corner, grabbing the man before the bag even hits the ground. He’d be dead before anyone even realized what was happening, and I could be out of the building and speeding away in my truck in less than thirty seconds.

  But I take a slow, deep, silent breath and count to ten.

  I can’t do that.

  I can’t act on those impulses, even if they’re justified.

  I am not a hitman anymore.

  “I understand,” Daisy’s thin voice says, barely above a whisper.

  Another voice calls from the back of the store, making them both jump.

  “Dean? Can I get a hand with the propane back here?”

  “Be there in a sec, Scott,” Dean calls back, his tone immediately shifted to one of pleasant helpfulness. He’s the type of guy that changes on a dime. That’s the type of guy that’s truly dangerous. There’s enough of a pause for me to know that he’s giving Daisy one final look. I can picture it so perfectly in my mind’s eye that it’s painful.

  I don’t want to let this happen to her.

  But I can’t break away from my priorities, or it could cause more trouble for this tiny town than even Dean must cause.

  By the time Dean appears from the aisle and starts heading to the back of the store, I’m already halfway to the register, where I set the chicken seed down. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Daisy making her way to the employee bathroom in the kind of gait of someone in a hurry who’s trying not to let anyone know she’s in a hurry.

  “Three bales of hay, too,” I add, and the woman at the register gives me a nod and a smile.

  “You own this place, don’t you?” I ask.

  The woman looks surprised to have heard me speak, much less ask her a question. After a beat, she puts on another one of those customer service smiles.

  “Head manager, but I might as well own it,” she chuckles.

  “It is a nice place,” I say, and it’s only when I’m talking with a local that I realize just how much my light accent stands out. “Your employees are mostly the local kids, yes?”

  “Well, hard to call ‘em boys anymore,” she says with a chuckle. “Most of ‘em are in their early twenties now. Daisy’s the only gal I have here—don’t expect her to be here too long, though, that one’s got a restless heart. But sure, Dean, Scott, Andy—they’re all from around here.” She raises an eyebrow, looking a little concerned. “Why? One of ‘em didn’t give you no trouble, did he?”

  The fact that she had to ask makes me curious.

  “No,” I say simply. “I live outside town, and I’ve been thinking about paying one of them to tend my chickens if I have to go out of town in the next few weeks.” It’s a lie I come up with on the spot. I’ve had to come up with enough such lies on the fly that I can deliver them with a straight face, even to law enforcement.

  “Ah, I gotcha,” she says, glancing around the store briefly. “If it were me, I’d just ask one of the neighbors to do it.”

  I nod without a word, but a curious look, and the woman scratches the back of her neck.

  “Not to make you think they’re not good workers,” she adds, chuckling. “They can just get a little rowdy sometimes. Boys will be boys, you know.”

  There’s another one of those strange American phrases, boys will be boys. It is not one I appreciate as much, even though I know the meaning much better.

  “I see,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Come to think of it, don’t think I’ve seen you in here before, and I don’t think we ever properly met,” she says suddenly, changing the subject with a smile. “Name’s Jolene.” She extends a rugged hand for me to shake, which I accept. After a firm pump, I introduce myself.

  “Alexei.”

  “Ahh, so you are Russian,” she says with a grin.

  That makes me chuckle.

  “Hay’s on the house, first time customer,” she says. “Call it a belated welcoming gift.”

  “I appreciate it, Jolene,” I say simply. I got the information I came for, and I don’t want to dawdle too long. “Take care.”

  I head out of the store and walk around to the side of the building to the stacks of hay. But as I examine the bales, I hear the sound of Dean’s voice from around the corner. I catch the tail-end of his words, but he sounds like he’s talking about livestock.

  “. . . and let me tell you, I’ve never been gladder to put down a cow like that,” he says to the sound of a couple other guys chuckling. “The fat old cow nearly kicked me enough times that she had it coming. I took my time with her, made sure she felt it. They say it makes the meat bad, but I ain’t never heard anyone complain.”

  My mouth twists into a grimace as I realize what the young man is talking about.

  He threatens women and likes to torture animals?

  I pick up the hay bales while the men behind the store launch into more stories about troublesome slaughters they’ve carried out around the ranch, and I feel my stomach twisting up. I’ve only heard two conversations from this Dean, and both of them stir up an angry fire in my heart.

  The world would be a better place without such cruel men.

  But I remind myself what I need to do to keep a low profile.

  Swallowing my impulses, I carry the hay and load it into the back of the truck with the seed. I climb in and start the engine, pulling out of the lot and tearing back down the same road I always use.

  But I know myself too well.

  This isn’t the last time I’m going to cross paths with these men.

  Especially if they’re giving a yo
ung woman in town trouble.

  Daisy

  I sit up in bed with a gasp, my hazel eyes wide and fearful. At first, I think that thunderous calamity must be bad weather. A freak storm like the ones we do sometimes get out here on the prairies. Those dark clouds just roll in out of nowhere and light up the sky like the Fourth of July, hammering down on the roof and making the world feel like a ship tossed on the sea.

  But I realize slowly that the night sky is calm, the wind barely ruffling through the maple trees outside my window. It’s not nature beating at my door. It’s man. And I already know by instinct exactly which man it is.

  My heart is thumping so loudly I worry that he might hear it. I know he can smell my fear. He can sense the adrenaline pumping through my veins. He can feel the goosebumps on my skin, the sweat rolling cold and shivery down my spine.

  He can tell how frightened I am, how strongly his presence can affect me without his even having to try very hard. Sometimes I think that’s why he’s so interested in me in the first place. It isn’t enough for some predators to just kill their prey— they aren’t satisfied unless they get to play with it first.

  And to Dean Ashcroft, I’m nothing but a helpless prey animal.

  It feels almost as if the whole house is trembling, the bare bones of the decades-old foundation shaking with every pound of his fist against the front door.

  He’s followed me home again, but not like a sweet puppy trailing after a little girl to her house. Like a killer stalking his victim, intruding into her world to remind her that there is no true escape, no real safe place to hide from him. If he wants to find me, he will.

  My bedroom is all the way across the house, at the back of the building. And yet, I can feel the vibrations through the whole place. I swear I can almost smell the foul taint of booze on his hot breath.