The Hitman Who Loved Me Page 3

  “Hey!” a man shouted. “Stop him!”

  Sam burst through the emergency doors beneath the overhang in the back, nearly taking down a man struggling on his crutches. “Asshole!” the guy shouted, wielding a crutch in the air.

  Police sirens shrieked as he ran past a parked ambulance and darted into the busy street. The two remaining guards were hot on his heels, but the bigger man had already begun to struggle and wheeze.

  A car honked and screeched to a halt as Sam jumped up and slid on his ass over the hood. He got his advantage as the guards were suddenly halted in between the flow of traffic in the middle of the street.

  He cut through the nearest alley and didn’t slow down. Despite years of smoking and his lungs screaming to stop and rest, Sam wouldn’t give up until his lungs collapsed or one of the officers shot him in the back of the leg.

  For some silly reason the only thing rushing through his mind as he turned onto the next sidewalk was that he told Terry he’d send carnations for Mary. What color should he send her, and how many? What’s expected for gifts when you pop out a kid? It would be unforgivable if he didn’t make good on his word. Terry would know something happened—if he didn’t already—and give him a blast of shit.

  Still, that was a close call. Too close.

  As he caught his caving breath, he scanned the street and spotted a bargain clothing store a few shops down. He rushed in, grabbed a pair of jeans off a shelf, a hoodie from a rack, and went straight to a dressing room. Once he transferred his wallet and cigarettes into his pockets, and removed the reading glasses, he stepped out of the dressing room like a new man.

  “Ah, just what I need.” With calm only a man used to a life of chaos could have, he strolled over to a row of baseball caps and fitted the nearest one onto his head.

  The cashier stared at him with wide, unbelieving eyes, before her nervous gaze shifted to the street. Two hospital guards and a few cops stood outside hitting up pedestrians for information.

  Sam smiled at the girl. She looked barely of age, probably only in the work force for a few months. He’d bet a grand she was about to pee behind that counter.

  He lifted his hands to reassure he didn’t have a weapon. “You have nothing to fear from me.” With one hand still raised, he reached into his pocket with the other, pulled out a few bills and gently placed them onto the counter. “This is more than enough for the clothes, and a little extra for you.”

  She nodded despite the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “I won’t say anything. Just promise you won’t hurt me.”

  Sam smiled again, positive she wouldn’t alert the cops. “I promise, and I appreciate your cooperation. It’s not what you think.”

  He knew she didn’t believe him. “Whatever you say, mister.”

  Sam headed toward the front door.

  “You—you’re gonna go out there? There’s cops everywhere,” the girl said, her eyes wide with surprise, her mouth curved up in a do it, I dare you grin.

  Sam couldn’t help a low chuckle. She may be scared, but like a typical kid, she was thrilled by the chase. He headed for the door again, but paused to say over his shoulder, “If I were you, I’d treat myself to a night out with that money. It’s Saturday, the best day of the week.”

  The cashier blushed and pocketed all of the money. “We don’t have cameras in here. Stuff goes missing all the time.” She shrugged, obviously more comfortable now that he was leaving, and maybe because she had made a few bucks for keeping her mouth shut. She grinned. “Have a good day, sir, and good luck.”

  Sam winked and walked out of the store, right in front of the men in uniform. He knew he wouldn’t be recognized with a new outfit and a baseball cap. He plastered an expression of concern on his face. “What’s going on?” He stood next to one of the officers, withdrew a cigarette and his lighter from the case. As he lit the end and took a long drag, one of the cops turned to face him.

  The officer gave Sam a good once-over and nodded. “We’re looking for a man who just escaped from the hospital.”

  “You mean a mental patient?”

  The cop shook his head. “No. All we know at this time is that he was wearing grey slacks with a white button-up shirt, glasses, and he looked to be of mixed descent. Average height and build.” The cop glanced at him again from shoes to baseball cap.

  Sam hid his amusement as he sucked in another deep drag of his cigarette. Mixed descent could mean anyone this day and age. He was often confused as being Asian or Native American, or a mixture of the two, and he enjoyed keeping people guessing his true African-Irish origin. “I see.”

  Another officer joined them. Sam recognized him as one of the guys connected to the McCoys. They often called upon him for Intel: when patrol would be going by, or to make tickets and profiles disappear, or to dig up background on a person. He was also among the badges at Colton’s funeral. As they made eye contact, Sam kept his expression passive. “Well, I hope you find him. We don’t need criminals running around these streets.”

  The second officer didn’t bat a lash. “Absolutely. Be sure to contact the police department if you happen to see this man. You can move along now.” The cop smirked, nodded his head, and turned the other way.

  Sam grinned and headed down the street at a casual pace. As he passed a few vagrants sitting along the edge of the sidewalk, a happy couple walking hand-in-hand, and a few suits rushing to get to work, he wondered what life would be like on their side of the fence. Was a normal life boring or was it peaceful? He halted, turned back, and tossed a few bills into the cups lined up in front of the poor men, then headed back down the street.

  Auntie Rose would be proud of him. No matter how tight she was for money, she always did her best to help others who needed it more than she did. Despite her horrible cooking, she regularly volunteered at shelter houses and soup kitchens. She handed out blankets during the winter months, and was even known to haul women back home, even if only for her own company.

  She’d be sitting on her front steps right about now, possibly crocheting a scarf or perhaps a pair of socks. He had a closet full of her colorful creations he didn’t have the heart or the balls to wear. Sam chuckled out loud remembering the last pair of socks she’d given him, half-yellow and half a putrid, baby-shit green. He put them on in front of her, of course, and she smiled sweetly with open happiness.

  “Oh, they look wonderful, sweetheart.”

  He’d lifted his pant legs and had to force himself not to laugh at his appearance. But the moment he got home he ripped those things off and tossed them into the closet. It wasn’t the color that bothered him, or the fact that they were three sizes too big, it was the horrible scratch of the wool on his skin. He’d spent a majority of the night rubbing lotion on his feet and ankles to alleviate the burning.

  Never again.

  He made it back to his truck and headed to the nearest flower shop. With Mary in mind, and the newest addition to their little family, he chose five-dozen pink carnations and had them delivered to the hospital. He couldn’t think of what to write on the card, but as that bag of potatoes came to mind, he quickly scribbled, I wish you a speedy recovery. Love, Sam.

  After a brief ferry ride and short drive to his quaint apartment downtown, once again he became invisible with the mixture of the homeless, the street thugs, and the junkies. Nobody would ever guess a hired killer to lived here, but while it wasn’t the safest or cleanest, or most aromatic place to live, it provided the perfect cover. He had friends who enjoyed a lavish lifestyle, only to eventually cause too much attention to themselves because of it. Sam rarely wore a suit, and he didn’t drive the latest sports car. He liked his old Ford pickup just fine, especially when the beast packed a few surprises under that hood.

  While he quickly packed some comfortable clothes for his first vacation that was bound to give him privacy and relaxation, Sam realized he wouldn’t have time to visit Auntie Rose before his flight.

  On impu
lse, as he’d done many times over the years, he went online and wired some money to her account. It always made him feel good to provide for her. One day he’d take her on a trip with him. But for now, he needed time to himself, without mindless chatter and responsibilities, or the threat of a possible job.

  He couldn’t wait to get on that plane and head to paradise. A place far away from anyone he knew, and quiet enough to maybe give him some peace. If peace could ever be found for a man like him.

  Chapter 2

  Over seven months had passed since she’d had the pleasure of a real penis. Jamie Fields watched as rickety old Groundskeeper Jobe ambled across the lawn, and wondered if she should hit him up for a one-night stand. That’s how desperate she had become, because she couldn’t get anything else.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Jobe asked, and waved his liver-spotted hand out in front of him, gesturing toward the trees.

  The leaves were beginning to change to the autumn hues of pale yellow and burnt orange in the deep woods of Northern Ontario. This was the time of year that fishermen loathed as the boating season would soon be at an end.

  “It sure is,” she called back, and released a disgruntled breath as he hobbled away. Ol’ Jobe probably got lucky more than she did. He was a horny old man and smooth with the widows that often vacationed here. She shuddered, recalling a time she’d accidentally caught him massaging the back of a woman’s neck while whispering something in her ear. That woman looked as if she was about to have an orgasm, and it was extremely uncomfortable to watch.

  Jamie glanced across the grounds and sighed. She both loved and hated this time of year. While she loved the beautiful fall colors, the hot days, and cool evenings at the beginning of September, she hated having to leave the wilderness and return to her apartment in the city. One month to go before the fun ended and real life returned.

  Back to real life and real problems.

  Every May she left home to return to Sharp Ridge Lodge, three hours north of the city—as their housekeeper. While Jamie didn’t enjoy the daily routine of cleaning up after people, summer life in the middle of nowhere had many rewards. After supper she could do as she pleased. Swim. Fish. Hike across the terrain that spanned for miles on end. Go for a leisure boat ride. Sit by a campfire. Have a sauna and jump off the dock. Enjoy a few drinks in the rustic lounge in the main lodge, and play cards with the staff and guests on rainy days. All of these things were a wonderful and relaxing experience, and she met hundreds of people throughout the season.

  Sharp Ridge Lodge was famous for its rustic setting and world-class fishing. It came as no surprise to staff if a customer returned with a forty-pound pike or a ten-pound pickerel. The guests may be awestruck, overexcited, and eager to bring their prize home, but to everyone who worked here, those catches were just another day in the bush.

  In total they had a dozen cabins of various sizes for the guests, neatly situated behind the main lodge which stood on the ridge overlooking the bay. Each of the staff had their own tiny cabin nestled in the back on the hill overlooking the main grounds. Other buildings scattered over the property consisted of a fish cleaning hut, generator and pump house, mechanic shop, laundry building, and a sauna. Sharp Ridge Lodge had everything a person could want for a wilderness retreat. Although the lodge had that rustic, in-the-middle-of-nowhere vibe, guests were still treated with as much luxury as they wanted. All with running water, thanks to a screened hose running from the lake to the pump house, where it snaked off to each cabin underneath the lawn.

  But the end of the season was fast approaching. Another group of guests would arrive by plane this afternoon, and next week the last group would arrive. Guest accommodations usually shut down during the last week of September, and the staff would winterize the buildings during the first week of October. In another month Jamie would be back at home, desperately searching for a new winter job.

  She eyed the list of guests from her clipboard and which cabin needed preparing before their arrival. One cabin with two queen beds for two elderly couples on a three-week stay; a single honeymoon retreat for two newlyweds for one week; and a single cabin for one man on an indefinite stay.

  She stared at the last name, Jack Daniels, and chuckled. That was her last foster father’s favorite whiskey. How she missed his funny anecdotes when he got plastered. He had been one of the decent ones. So many homes she had been taken from and dropped off to over her younger years, only to live in fear of either being abused or of liking them too much. Her favorite “father” had died of liver failure when she was seventeen. A year after that his wife passed away after a botched operation, and since then Jamie had been on her own. She’d never known her real parents, only that they had been too young to care for a child, and when too much time had passed without an offer of adoption, the foster system took her into its clutch.

  Jamie wouldn’t allow herself to love anyone ever again. The good ones always ended up dying, and the bad ones never seemed to learn from their mistakes. More than once she had been sexually abused by an adult who was supposed to care and provide for her—not treat her as a toy or a pet. She’d been beaten to the point of not being able to go to school for risk of bruises being noticed, and she’d gone without a proper meal on many occasions. Those days were hard, but they hardened her as a person. When her final foster folks came into the picture, Jamie was a damaged girl, yet they loved her and provided for her, made her feel like she was a part of a family. When they died, her perfect world had vanished, replaced, once again, by an uncertain future. The only certain thing in Jamie’s life now was her resolve to continue pushing forward.

  Maybe one day she could make her dream into reality and be loved by somebody who wouldn’t leave her behind. Fame and fortune had never been a part of that dream, only the certainty of having a loving home.

  Never give up. Never give in.

  “Hey.”

  From her perch on the top of a picnic table, she turned toward the familiar voice and smiled. Monty, the lodge cook, strolled toward her wearing an Iron Maiden T-shirt, a black bandana with skulls imprinted everywhere, and jeans with the knees completely ripped out. What set him off from every other man she’d met over the years was his sense of humor, and a ridiculous porn moustache. Monty was the typical metal man, and her best friend.

  Jamie smiled, knowing exactly what he wanted. “Sure,” she said, before he had a chance to ask.

  Monty chuckled. “Got me all figured out already, eh twit?”

  She set her clipboard down and gave him her full attention. “If we didn’t do this routine every day, then I might wonder why you’re walking toward me after lunch ended.”

  He unrolled his pack of smokes from the shoulder of his T-shirt and joined her on the picnic table. “The boss wants moose meat for our new guests tonight.”

  Jamie eyeballed him. “Since when do we keep wild game off-season?”

  “We don’t.”

  She stared at him in confused silence as Monty lit his cigarette, closed his eyes, and took a deep drag. After a long moment of suspense he glanced back at her with a sly grin. “But we have lots of beef.”

  “Ah.” Jamie laughed as she scammed one of his cigarettes. “And you expect to pull this off without suspicion?”

  He shrugged and handed over his lighter. “I’ll just add some crazy seasoning. The city folk won’t know the difference. Besides, Valerie is to blame if I get caught. She told them they were getting a wild northern meal.”

  Jamie shook her head. “You’re an ass, you know that? Why not just cook up some pickerel for your wild northern meal?”

  The door to the lodge whipped open and the person in question stepped out, shielding her eyes from the glaring sun. “There you are,” the boss said, her face flushed, her voice rising with hysteria. Valerie stared past Jamie. Even though Monty tried his best to hide behind her, his huge frame allowed no such thing. “Monty! Mrs. Westwood would like another salad.”

 
Jamie pursed her lips to halt a burst of laughter. One might’ve thought the kitchen was on fire by Valerie’s horrified expression—over a salad.

  “Ugh.” Monty stood and snubbed out his half smoke on the edge of the picnic table. “I don’t know why she can’t do it herself. Obviously she has no idea how frustrating it is cooking all summer for these people while she mingles and smiles.” He leaned closer to add, “But rumor has it she’s losing money, you know. I’ve noticed she’s been drinking more than usual lately. I think she’s getting ready to sell.”

  Jamie’s stomach flipped and she sucked in a sharp breath. Valerie promised to give her a loan to catch up on some hefty bills as long as Jamie promised to work off that debt. Rent was past due and her landlord had already threatened to evict her if she didn’t catch up when she returned at the end of the season. That wasn’t her only worry. She stared down at the lawn as another fear gripped her. The past had a terrible way of racing up to people and slapping them in the face. When you owe money to a dangerous person, well, either you catch up fast or you get broken. This had to be the worst year of her life, but she wouldn’t admit the truth to Monty. He’d call her more than a twit if he knew what shady deal she’d messed up back at home because of a dark past she wanted to forget.

  She forced a tight smile. “I’m sure it’s just a rumor. You know Jobe is always causing shit.”

  Monty nodded. “True. Want to switch jobs? I bet you could do a decent job whipping up a salad.”

  Brushing off her personal worries, Jamie glanced up at him and arched a brow. “And I bet you could do a decent job wiping out a toilet.”

  He grimaced as he rolled his smokes back up into his T-shirt. “Never mind. That’s a woman’s job.”

  Monty retreated to the back door leading into the kitchen, but not quickly enough for her to shout back, “Kiss my womanly ass!” She continued staring as the screen door smacked behind him. Since day one working at Sharp Ridge Lodge five years ago, they hit it off as immediate friends, only to find out they lived right around the corner from each other in the city. Even though Monty was a good man with a big heart, not once did she ever think to strike up a relationship with him. Her love and appreciation for the man never went beyond friendship. Besides, the thought of kissing a man whose mustache curled over his lips made her cringe.