Two things today. First and foremost, I have a new release out with L.A. Witt, Hitman Vs Hitman. It's an m/m action/suspense novel with more snark than you can shake a stick at, and it's only going to stay $.99 for a VERY limited amount of time, so get it while it's highly affordable! An excerpt and Amazon link are below.
Once in a while, Ricardo Torralba hit the hired gun jackpot and
scored a job in a high-rise office building. For all the owners of those places
convinced themselves their properties were ultra-secure, they were… not. Hundreds
of people came and went all day long, and sometimes that continued well into
the night. Security had neither the time nor the inclination to give photo IDs
more than a cursory glance, and those who did were quickly chewed out by
important people in a hurry to conduct important business. Briefcases were as
much a part of the scenery as frazzled workers, shouted cell phone conversations,
and the ever-present marcato of dress shoes and high heels on hard floors.
About the only thing Ricardo didn’t like about working in an
office building was that he usually had to wear a suit to blend in—God, he
hated suits—but the hits paid top dollar and most of those places had excellent
coffee shops on their ground floors. A hundred grand and a perfect caramel
macchiato? He couldn’t complain. Those jobs were the best.
Today, Ricardo was on a job, but he wasn’t going into an office
building.
No, this contract meant working in his absolute least favorite
venue—some rich asshole’s fortified citadel of a mansion. In this case, the multimillion-dollar
monstrosity belonging to tech billionaire Lance Baldwin. Ricardo was more than
happy to take out that fuckwit for a lot of reasons, but his liaison had
insisted it had to happen at Baldwin’s home.
“It doesn’t matter why,” she’d told him after giving him a
laundry list of strict rules about the when, where, and how. “This is the
job. Take it or leave it.”
He would’ve been happy to leave it. After all, he had plenty of
money and plenty of work, and he didn’t need that kind of bullshit in his life.
The problem was all the bullshit that could follow on the very rare
occasion he did turn down a job. “Take it or leave it” in this line of work
basically meant “take the job, or get shot because you know about the job.”
At least the employer had sweetened the deal this time with a five-million-dollar
payday. In cash. With half of it upfront.
Okay, fine. Twist his arm.
In the moment, all the inconveniences associated with
infiltrating the mini Fort Knox home of a self-important prick had seemed minor
in comparison to the suitcase full of cash. This afternoon, as he drove a
shitty exterminator van toward the Baldwin compound, his thought process was
basically Damn it, past-Ricardo. What were you thinking?
No matter. He was here, he’d taken the deposit, and there was no
turning back until Lance Baldwin was dead. And at least he didn’t have to wear
a suit, though his tactical gear was a little uncomfortable beneath the stained
gray Pest Assassin coveralls. He could live with it.
In an effort to hide in plain sight, Ricardo conspicuously drove
past three of the wall-mounted cameras in broad daylight before reaching the
southwest gate, which was a service entrance. Seriously, who the fuck had a
service entrance at his house? Lance Baldwin, that was who, but as ostentatious
as it was, it did make Ricardo’s life a little easier, so while he judged the
shit out of it, he didn’t complain. It would probably be the last piece of
Baldwin bullshit that worked in his favor tonight.
At the gate, Ricardo pulled up to the security booth, eased the Pest
Assassin van to a halt on its shrieking brakes, and rolled down the window.
A tired-looking security guard shuffled out. “You here to deal
with the rats?”
Ricardo smiled and tapped the magnetic sign on the driver’s side
door. Carefully masking his Catalan accent with an American one, he said, “That’s
what they pay me to do.”
The guard grunted. “Good. Baldwin’s wife sees another rat, she’s
going to blow a gasket.”
“Can’t blame her.” Ricardo handed over his fake identification
and a clipboard containing the work order for today’s extermination. “I’ll get
‘em out of there.”
With a nod, the guard took his documents. He skimmed over them,
then nodded again and handed them back. “You’re all set. I’ll let the staff
know you’re on your way up.” He motioned at the driveway beyond the gate. “Just
follow that, and when it splits off, hang a right. It’ll take you where you
need to be.”
Ricardo nodded and offered a congenial smile. “Thank you.”
The guard stepped back into the security booth, and a second
later, the gate began a slow inward arc while twin rows of tiger teeth and a
pop-up barrier descended into the ground. Ricardo rolled his eyes. If the gates
were this secure, the house was probably something out of an Indiana Jones
movie. His favorite.
That was the problem with jackwagons like Baldwin: they were
narcissistic enough to believe entire armies might come after them, and they
also had the money to protect themselves from those imagined armies. No one
gave enough fucks about Baldwin to send in an army, but he had pissed
off enough people that someone was sending in Ricardo, and that meant Ricardo
had to deal with the inconvenience of an obstacle course comprised of
paranoia-induced security protocols.
All of that was why he’d gone to the lengths he had to gain
legitimate-looking access to the house, rather than trying to infiltrate the
property and the structure like a wannabe ninja. Crap like that only worked in
the movies. People who wanted to stay alive, get the job done, stay alive, get
out, still stay alive, and live long enough to get paid… didn’t learn the trade
from Hollywood.
Ricardo slowly followed the long, winding driveway, looking
around like someone who wasn’t entirely sure where he was supposed to be going.
On any of the ridiculous number of CCTV cameras watching him now, he’d appear
to be clueless rather than giving his surroundings a tactical sweep and
memorizing potential escape routes, hazards, and annoyances.
The landscaping was, unsurprisingly, designed for more than just
aesthetics. Dense bushes that were useless for cover even without taking into
consideration the poison ivy growing along the edges. Narrow, well-lit pathways
monitored by cameras mounted on the many trees. Ponds that looked deceptively
like a place someone could hide in a pinch… right up until he noticed the swan
standing with water just barely cresting its knees. Did swans have knees? Well,
whatever that joint was. And the swans were an issue too—they could be even
meaner and louder than Canada geese, which said something. There were also a
few Beware of Dog signs, which may have been a bluff (the dogs hadn’t eaten the
swans after all) or they may have underscored what assholes those birds could
be if they roamed fearlessly on the same turf as guard dogs.
Guard swans. Awesome. That was exactly what Ricardo needed. The
feathery bastards were probably armed and everything.
After the driveway had taken him through nearly a mile—seriously,
a fucking mile—of forest and landscaping, the house came into view.
Ricardo had been surprised when he’d scoped out the property online. He’d
expected a tech guru to have one of those ridiculously over-the-top modern
houses with a bizarre angular design and too many windows. Instead, Baldwin had
gone for an enormous plantation style mansion with soaring white columns out
front. Maybe after this job was over, Ricardo could ponder how nauseatingly poetic
it was for a man known for exploiting workers both here and abroad to be living
in a house that gave oversized homage to the people who once owned slaves.
But there wasn’t time for that now. He had a job to do.
The driveway split, and as instructed, he followed it right. Several
cameras were mounted here, probably to alert staff that someone was heading
their way. A gate closed behind him; good to know for when he made his escape,
especially since this one also had a pop-up barrier and tiger teeth. If things
went well, he’d drive out as casually as he’d driven in, but if things went to
shit, that gate could be a problem.
Yes, this job was definitely going to be a pain in Ricardo’s ass.
Possibly a literal one, he realized when he saw that Baldwin even had
rosebushes under all the windows. Cliché, perhaps, but effective. Ricardo
squirmed at the memory of tumbling onto a rosebush during a botched burglary in
his youth. Those thorns had left some nasty scars, including three that were
still noticeable on his left butt cheek—something that had thoroughly amused
the last few men he’d taken to bed. Needless to say, he never threw himself
blindly out windows anymore.
The driveway led him to a covered portico behind the house. There
were a couple of security guards waiting for him out here along with a white man
in a suit who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
Ricardo stopped the van and got out.
As he did, the man in the suit approached, tapping his watch.
“You’re late.”
Adopting the American accent again, Ricardo said, “I know, I’m
sorry. The last place took a little longer than—”
“I don’t want your excuses.” The suit jabbed a finger at Ricardo.
“We’ll be expecting a discount.”
Ricardo arched an eyebrow. This guy was lucky Ricardo had a
policy of only taking out his target or people who directly threatened him. He’d
had to crawl through traffic to get here, and right now, his moral compass was kind
of tilting in the direction of being okay with shooting someone just for being
an asshole.
But he schooled his expression and his tone. “Of course. I’ll be
happy to take thirty percent off the final total.”
The suit blinked, mouth open and pointed finger hovering in the
air as if he’d been poised to argue, but had been caught off guard by the
generous accommodation.
Ricardo smiled. “So. Could you show me all the places where rats
have been sighted?”
* * *
It was common knowledge
that when rats started fleeing a ship, humans would be wise to follow. As much
as people didn’t think much of rats, they collectively understood the animals’ survival
instincts and their ability to sense that something wasn’t right, especially
once the ship started filling up with water.
Even the most
self-important paranoid billionaire, however, didn’t stop to question why a
colony of rats had suddenly arrived in his house. Or if it was perhaps unwise
to, regardless of the desperation to be rat-free, give an exterminator a
thorough tour and near unlimited access to one’s home, particularly the
basement and attic.
Ironically, Baldwin’s
propensity toward overworking and underpaying his workers extended to his
household staff, and that had worked to Ricardo’s advantage. For someone barely
pulling in twenty thousand dollars per year with no health insurance and two
kids to feed, a fifty thousand dollar bribe was irresistible. Baldwin could put
in millions upon millions of dollars’ worth of security and fortifications, and
in the end, all it had taken was fifty grand to get one staff member to turn a
bunch of rats loose in the basement, and another fifty to compel a second staff
member to call a specific exterminator to take care of the problem.
Two bribes, a few dozen
rats, and some fake decals later, no one even blinked when “Marty” from Pest
Assassins asked to see where the rats had been spotted.
It took a good hour and a
half to show Ricardo all the places where the rats seemed to be congregating.
“They just came out of
nowhere,” the suit—whose name turned out to be Kyle—told Ricardo on the way
down to the wine cellar. “There’s never been any issue with pests in this
house. Never. Then suddenly we have rats!” He huffed melodramatically.
“If Mrs. Baldwin sees another one, I swear she’s going to fire us all.”
“The rats aren’t your
fault,” Ricardo said blandly. “A couple of them must have come in through a
weakness in the foundation. Once they’re inside, it only takes a few months for
a single pair to produce hundreds of descendants.”
Kyle blanched. “Oh God.”
“Don’t worry.” Ricardo
gave his shoulder a friendly pat. “I’ll have them out of here soon. We might
have to fumigate, though, and that’s—”
“Fumigate?” Kyle
squeaked. “But the party is tonight!”
Ricardo froze. “Party?”
“Well, yes!” Kyle flailed
a hand toward the stairs they’d come down into the wine cellar. “Didn’t Ian
tell you when he called?”
“Um. No?”
Kyle huffed as if Ricardo
were the most clueless man on the planet. “The Baldwins are hosting a joint
fundraiser for Governor Hall and Mayor Young. Everyone who’s anyone in town—in
the entire state—is going to be here tonight.”
Ricardo’s blood turned
cold. Everyone who’s anyone… and all of their security. He had no doubt about
that. They wouldn’t leave their heavily-armed entourages at home just because
they were going to a well-protected fortress; how could they demonstrate how
important they were without their own personal mini-armies? Plus it wouldn’t be
a Mayor Young event without some representatives from the police department,
and Governor Hall was forever harping on the fact that he had an exceptionally
good relationship with both the National Guard and the brass at a nearby Army
base. Ricardo would be genuinely stunned if no one from those bases showed up.
Fuck. Fuuuck. This was
not good.
In theory, he could bail
on the job, but his liaison had been specific that it had to happen tonight. She’d
made it clear that whoever had arranged this job would have Ricardo’s
head—literally—if Lance Baldwin survived to see dawn.
Keeping his voice calm
and his American accent in place, Ricardo cocked his head. “I’m surprised
there’s no press here already, with a crowd like that showing up tonight.”
Kyle huffed. “Oh, no. Mr.
Baldwin kept this event very hush-hush so the press wouldn’t show up and no one
would try to sneak in.” He lowered his voice. “You know how he is with
security.”
Ricardo’s mouth had gone
dry. Oh yeah, he knew how Baldwin was with security.
A sick feeling crawled up
the back of his throat. Someone who was willing to shell out five mill to drop
Baldwin had to have been thorough. His employer had to have known
about this party. Was that why it had to go down tonight?
His blood turned even
colder. Either his employer had been spectacularly unprepared, or they were
completely prepared and knew exactly what they were doing. Both of those
options meant Ricardo was on his own in an elaborately protected house that was
about to be filled with hired security, cops, National Guardsmen, and soldiers.
That meant that this was most likely a setup, and Ricardo was leaning heavily
toward that being the case. He wasn’t as paranoid as Lance Baldwin, but he had
a healthy suspicion of anyone and everyone, especially those who were willing
to pay a hitman.
“So.” Kyle gestured
toward the rows and rows of wine racks. “Can you take care of the rats before
tonight?”
Ricardo swallowed. Oh,
he’d be taking care of some rats soon, but not the small squeaky kind. “Let me
have a look around down here, see if I can locate the nest, and I’ll see what I
can do.”
“All right.” Kyle tapped
his foot on the concrete floor. “But hurry up. The last thing Mr. Baldwin needs
is a rat showing up on the hors d’oeuvre table during an event like this.”
Ricardo forced a laugh. “I’ll
get it done.”
“Good.” Kyle checked his
watch. “I need to go chase down the decorators and make sure food will be ready
on time.” He thrust a business card at Ricardo. “If you need me, just call my
cell.”
Accepting the card,
Ricardo nodded. “Will do.”
Kyle took a deep breath,
then hurried back up the stairs. “Jessica,” he was calling as he walked. “Any
word on the ice sculptures?” Then the door shut behind him, cutting off his
voice, and Ricardo exhaled hard as he pressed his shoulder against a post.
Fuck. This was bad. He
had to assume the worst-case scenario, which was that this was a setup. That he
had unwittingly become the rat in the exterminator’s crosshairs. Someone (he
had no idea who) had sent him into a trap (he had no idea why), and he had to—
A footstep on concrete
straightened his spine. He was just about to turn around when cold metal dug
into the back of his neck.
“Don’t move.” The voice
was smooth, lyrical, familiar…and as cold as the gun muzzle biting into
Ricardo’s skin. “Or I will blow your fucking head off.”
And don't forget, this one is free!
Double or Nothing
Rich Cody joined the U.S. Marshals to hunt down bad guys, not babysit
witnesses. Orders are orders, though, and now he’s protecting a hacker
with ties to the Albanian and Sicilian mobs. It’s just another exciting
day in WITSEC.
Leotrim Nicolosi was born into a world of crime
and bloodshed. When that bloodshed hits too close to home, taking down
Leo’s boyfriend—the son of a notorious mob boss—Leo is determined to
destroy the Grimaldi family. He’s got evidence that will send every last
Grimaldi to prison, he’s got the family’s wealth in an electronic
chokehold, and he’s got a vendetta that can only be settled with the
blood of the man who killed his lover.
When a routine transfer to
a safehouse goes horribly wrong, Rich and Leo narrowly escape with
their lives. With the Marshals compromised and Leo being framed for
murder, he and Rich are on the run from criminals and law enforcement
alike. They have no one to trust except each other, and nowhere to go
that their enemies can’t reach.
And the only way out might mean making a deal with the Devil.
