Old Wounds (Chance Assassin Book 4) Page 10

  The library. Giant penises. “I got you something,” I purred, cozying up against him. Dickens would obviously lead to sex. It was even in the name.

  “I told you no gifts.”

  “You also told me the food was horrible. They have clotted cream, Frank. It's like whipped cream mixed with butter.”

  “That's not my gift, is it?”

  “No.” Although I regretted not buying more. I'd only managed to grab a small jar of it, not realizing what it was, and I'd stress-eaten it as dip for a Snicker's bar on the train home. “But if you want it, you're gonna have to strip search me.”

  “We have company.”

  “I'll be quiet.”

  He doubtfully raised his eyebrows.

  “Well you know the quickest way to shut me up is to put something in my mouth.”

  “That's the only way to shut you up.

  “Then let the silence commence.” I took a few steps backwards toward the bed. He tugged me to him again by my shirt, the fabric tearing under his grasp. Then he tore it further, tossing it onto the nightstand and me onto the bed.

  After sliding my pants off, he stood back to enjoy the view. “It's beautiful, thank you.”

  “Your present is actually in my carry on,” I admitted, although now I kinda wished I was in the habit of randomly tying ribbons and bows around my cock for such occasions. “I just wanted to get naked.” I gestured to my bag and he dutifully retrieved it for me, plopping it down on the mattress beside me.

  “What is it?”

  “What it always is.”

  “Which book and from where?” He softly caressed my neck as I fished through my luggage, tossing my other dirty clothes where he'd thrown my pants so he wouldn't have to go completely out of his way to clean up after me.

  “Tale of Two Cities.” I laughed in anticipation. “Eaton Place.”

  Frank gaped at me, his grip increasing as it moved towards my throat. “You didn't.”

  “Punish me?”

  “I'm going to have to,” he said nonchalantly. He snatched the book out of my hand the moment I retrieved it, bopping me on the head with it and shoving the mostly empty bag off the bed so he could sit next to me. He flipped through the pages and then held it to his nose to smell it. “My mother loved this book when she was a girl. Loved English literature. London was the place to be. She must've been so disappointed when she actually got there. But she stayed.” And now she'd never leave.

  “I went to visit her,” I said, taking the book and his melancholic recollections from him and dropping it back in the bag. “Maybe we can go together, once we win Assassin War.”

  “How was it really? London?”

  Taking a moment to answer, and to get away, I squirmed up the bed as I said, “It was nice!” He grabbed my foot and dragged me to him, spanking me hard once my ass was close enough. “The weather was pleasant.” He hit me again and I whimpered into a pillow, smiling all the while. “Food was good.” That earned me several slaps and I groaned with satisfaction as my skin burned, arching my back and raising my ass for more. But Frank had other plans, and I watched longingly as he stroked himself with lube. “It was lonely.”

  “I know,” he said, giving me another light smack before he mounted me, bracing his arm around my throat to keep me from audibly crying out. A lot of good it did, since he moaned at least loud enough for the next bedroom to hear as he entered me.

  I reached back to hold him to me, his hair in my fist, his scruffy cheek rubbing mine raw. His weight on top of me was anchoring, pressing me into the mattress where we were both safe and no one could touch us. Where pain was foreplay and he was so deep inside of me that the prospect of him being taken away was inconceivable.

  Frank pulled out and rolled me over, his lips muffling my voice as he hitched my knees up and entered me once again. I broke our kiss to meet his eyes when I came, those final thrusts leaving me quivering underneath him as his breath hitched and his muscles went slack.

  “London wasn't that nice,” I panted.

  He rolled his eyes. “I know.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wide awake in the darkness, Frank inhaled the scent of his gift, hoping to evoke a memory. It had that comforting smell of old books that Frank equated with home, a place of stillness. Of silence. But that house had never been home to him, and the book smelled no different than the book he'd had on the nightstand for weeks. Of course, the new book had been shoved in Vincent's suitcase with his dirty clothes, and the other book had been buried under Vincent's shirt for several hours, so perhaps there could be a difference after all.

  Getting out of bed and dressing with the lights off, Frank carried the book downstairs to the library. The prospect of how it would appear to the library's current resident if Miko were to wake and find Frank sitting in the dark, sniffing books, did not phase him. Miko had plenty of creepy qualities himself, and at any rate, Frank was his favorite assassin.

  But before Frank could compare the rest of his collection he had to ensure that said resident was still capable of waking up and hadn't been smothered by the drooling gargantuan mass of Hugo. Frank couldn't even see Miko behind Hugo and he snapped his fingers to get the dog's attention, pointing to the floor by his feet. Hugo whined and put his paws on the floor in order to slowly slide off the couch to show his discontent. Miko was revealed behind him, no longer sleeping.

  “Sorry about him,” Frank said. “That's usually his bed.”

  “No, I like him.” Miko reached his hand out for Hugo, who waited for Frank's nod of approval and then hopped back up with far more liveliness than he'd had going down. “He is like stuffed bear.”

  Had Hugo actually been stuffed, perhaps he could've absorbed some of the blood Miko had left on the sofa. “Can I get you anything?” Frank prompted, assuming that Miko hadn't noticed just as he hadn't realized he'd been shot to begin with.

  Using the dog as a crutch, Miko cautiously sat up. “Lady doctor?”

  “She's coming in a few hours.”

  “From Los Angeles?”

  “Paris. Joe didn't think we'd need her last night.” On second thought, Miranda's absence likely had more to do with Vincent's needs than Miko's. “And there's a patisserie near where she lives that Vincent really likes.” Joe certainly knew how to manage Vincent's insecurities over not being the center of attention. And how to manage his stomach. “I suspect that may be why she's coming this morning instead. I'll get you a new shirt.”

  Frank went back upstairs, taking a clean shirt from the closet. It would be the third of his shirts ruined since yesterday. He grabbed supplies from the first aid kit and returned to the library, standing in the doorway to watch Miko fuss with the bandages himself for a bit. Miko lowered his hand out of sight when he noticed Frank's presence. Sitting on the coffee table across from him, Frank put on latex gloves. “Here, let me.”

  Miko watched intently while Frank worked, no longer seeming to feel the pain.

  “I never met Hector, you know,” Frank said as he replaced the bandages. Bella had worked with Hector. Frank only ever worked with Charlie. It was unnerving that Hector had told stories about him. It made him paranoid. Frank preferred to believe that no one noticed him at all, and would forget he existed the moment he walked away.

  “Hector knew a lot from Silva. He knew Silva when he first took over.”

  Frank nodded, removing his gloves and handing Miko the shirt to put on.

  “He said that you were connected to the agency. Like I was, but not. I do not know what that means. But you were important. Protected by Silva.”

  Silva had been protecting him, but Frank's connection to the agency stemmed from a mistake he'd made, from killing someone on a robbery that a professional was supposed to kill in another way at another time. That hardly made him important. Was it possible that Miko knew about the hit? If this were somehow part of Simon's game, he hadn't picked a very good pawn. Miko was not a threat.

  “You were one of his favorites,”
Miko continued. “You and Bella.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you take this setup job?”

  “I know the family,” Frank said, waiting to see if anything changed in Miko's expression. Nothing did. “Personally.” Frank had hesitated to say the word, the concept of this not being a job, or being only borderline self-defense, still piquing that part of him that strove for excellence. For professionalism. That part he was losing his grasp on.

  Miko cocked his head and smiled a little, as if nothing Frank said could sway his positive opinion of him. What the hell kind of stories did Hector tell him?

  “My father left me a good deal of money when he died,” Frank said, even now the humiliation of it making him tense, his ears burning. “Someone else's money. Their money.” He looked away with shame, only for his attention to be drawn right back as Miko gasped.

  “Oh!” Miko bounced with excitement, rattling off, “Simon knew you would want revenge so he gives you this job and someone will wait to kill you when you come!”

  Now it was Frank's turn to cock his head. “Revenge?”

  “Yes?” Miko said uncertainly.

  Frank had plenty of reasons to want Simon dead, but none that would really constitute vengeance. “For what?”

  Looking around like he was hoping someone else would step in, Miko squeezed his eyes shut in a wince. “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  Miko shook his head. “This is so bad I think you will bury me in the backyard.”

  Frank rolled his eyes. “I'm not going to bury you in the backyard.”

  “You had better sit down.”

  “I am sitting,” he said, his annoyance growing along with the likelihood of changing his mind about some late night gardening. Miko patted the sofa. Frank grumbled and complied, wondering if Bertrand had left the shovel in the cellar. But when Miko tried to hug him, Frank promptly moved further away.

  “I think you will want hug.”

  “I can assure you that I will not want a hug. Just say it.”

  “Simon worked for Alcott family before. Very slowly. So it looked like illness.”

  It only took a moment for everything Frank believed about the last twenty-five years to crumble into dust. The lies ran deep, and even though Frank knew there was no mistake, knew it all made sense, he asked, “You're certain of this?”

  “He worked as their butler. The doctor from Silva's even came to do tests, tell him he was ill. It took years. Then for him to publicize his will, it was very bad for Simon. Big fuck up.”

  “Simon killed my father.” The words hung heavily in the air like they would suffocate him. It wasn't some chance encounter that brought him into Silva's world, a woman destined for assassination murdered by the wrong hand, Charlie pawning the woman's rings and leading Silva straight to them. It was Simon. He could've easily followed Frank any of those nights of wandering, getting into fights with strangers just to feel something. Perhaps he'd even spoken with Charlie. He saw what Frank was. Frank's father knew where Frank would be, Simon could've easily gleaned the information as a trusted servant. Frank hadn't been recruited by Silva. He'd been recruited by Simon.

  “Do you want that hug now?” Miko asked.

  Frank left the room without a response. He felt like he couldn't breathe; naturally the best course of action would be to go outside and smoke.

  All this time. Through his very last breath, a breath he manipulated Frank into taking from him, Silva had lied. And yet, he had sent Frank away. He had protected him.

  The Alcotts must've been livid. So much planning, only to have it blow up in their faces. Silva would've made that deal even before Frank got back to Prague. Before he told Frank his father was dead. Frank's life for Simon's mistake.

  But had Silva really kept the job a secret from Simon, or had Simon known all along?

  The dogs were at Frank's heels as he walked through the woods, knowing the paths in the darkness. Miko trailed behind. “Don't come any closer,” Frank said with his back turned to him. Miko had proven to have less common sense than Casey, and inhaling smoke would only make him cough himself bloody. “If you can't walk I'm not carrying you back.”

  “I can walk,” Miko said. “Where is Malkolm buried?”

  “Farther.”

  “He came after you here?”

  “They did. Malkolm and Boris. Karl.”

  Miko was silent for a moment, like the trees were listening. “You kill Karl?”

  “Vincent did.” Frank found a smile creeping onto his face despite himself, and he turned to Miko. “Ask him about it. He'd be thrilled to tell you.”

  “You are sad?”

  “He wasn't the man I thought he was.”

  “Your father?”

  “Silva.” The betrayal hurt worse than reliving his father's death, watching the man wither away to the nothingness Frank had thought of him. Frank had trusted Silva. Wholeheartedly. Silva was the first man he'd ever trusted.

  Miko said, “He knew about the hit on Ophelia. He did not warn me.” Miko was still convinced that the job was official, although now it was looking more likely that Silva would lie about such a thing. “Did you get your money?”

  “No, and I don't want it.” Frank flicked his cigarette. Kiki started to run after it but he snapped his fingers to keep her in place. Miko took that as permission to come closer himself. He hadn't learned hand signals yet and didn't respond to snapping. As least he was housebroken. Frank promptly lit another cigarette to keep him and his unwanted hugs at bay. “Do you know what Simon used? Which poison?”

  “Arsenic I think. He is traditional.”

  “Well at least I don't have to worry about it being hereditary,” Frank said dryly.

  “Why did you take the job if you did not know about your father? You do not want the money.”

  Shielded behind the smoke, Frank watched him intently. All of the stories in Miko's head, all the information, made him dangerous. And with his revelation, Frank was feeling anything but safe. With one hand holding his cigarette, Frank drew his gun. Miko looked at it not as a threat, but as an invitation to answer his own questions.

  “They wanted you killed?” he asked. Frank nodded and Miko continued, “You knew he would kill you. That is why you asked about him on the phone. How he knew you.”

  “He let my last name slip. He wasn't supposed to know who I was.”

  If Miko had to concentrate any harder on figuring this out he likely would've hurt himself. “The hit was a long time ago. That is why you went to America?”

  Frank raised one eyebrow to confirm.

  “But Silva was protecting you. Because you and Bella were his favorites. He would not tell Simon the hit. Why does Simon know the hit now?”

  “Good question.”

  Miko smiled, then stopped and looked confused again. “He is answering Silva's phone now. If Alcott call him for a job, this job, and Simon was mad for the job Russell gave him, he would want to kill you for his revenge. For that job killing István. He once drowned someone in a toilet.”

  Frank lowered his gun. Miko was quite certainly the only person capable of solving a mystery by anecdote. “So who would it be that comes after us?”

  “I give you list of who works for him. We narrow down together?”

  Putting the gun away, Frank nodded back towards the house.

  Miko nodded too. “We help each other. We are friends.”

  Frank sighed. This was precisely why he was antisocial. “I'm still not carrying you,” he said, picking up Kiki to reiterate that friendship or not, Miko was walking. Or bouncing. The level of excitement perpetually emanating from the unlikeliest of assassins was altogether exhausting and all Frank wanted to do was curl up in bed with Vincent. But Miko was right. He did want revenge. On the Alcotts. On Simon. And on Silva, who Frank was now truly grateful for having had the opportunity to bash his head in. The Alcotts' heads were safe for now, but the same couldn't be said for anyone on Miko's list.

  Leading M
iko back to the house, Frank visualized the pictures Casey had drawn, the faces of men Frank would soon murder. Imagining their gruesome fates lifted his spirits at least as much as the cigarettes had. Then his cellphone rang. There could only be one conceivable reason Alan would call at this hour: the sculptor.

  Suddenly, Frank couldn't blame Miko for bouncing.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I could tell immediately that something was wrong. More wrong than me being awake at this hour. Frank had that same haunted look in his eyes that he'd had when he told me Maggie and Gideon were dead. But he was smiling.

  “Who died?” I asked. Frank cocked his head inquisitively, as if it were unheard of for someone to die around us. “Why did you wake me up? What's wrong?” I clarified.

  “Miko's writing out a list of assassins who work for Simon. Come on.”

  So potentially lots of people were gonna die. That worked for me.

  Rolling out of bed, I reached to put on Frank's shirt from yesterday and then remembered Miko had bled on him. I threw it back in the hamper and held my hand out so he'd give me the one he had on. It smelled like cigarettes, as I imagined the new one from our closet would soon too. “Did he say anything about the Alcotts?”

  “We're going to have to try a different approach.”

  “Was that a yes or a no?” I grumbled. “It's early.”

  “He told us last night that he recognized the name.”

  I rubbed at my eyes as we went downstairs. Being only borderline awake and unfed, it took me awhile to remember when I'd seen that smile of his before: it was his Silva deception smile. That's the look he'd had when he figured out that Silva was the one who sent Bella to not kill Gideon. Appreciating the skill of the deceit, but pissed about being on the receiving end. And about to kill someone for it. “Babe?”

  Frank innocently raised his eyebrows. “Yes, dear?”

  “Why am I helping your new puppy with his list?”

  He smiled. “He really is a like a puppy, isn't he?”

  “Yeah, a Cocker Spaniel that's been hit in the head with a tennis ball too many times. Why?”