Prophet, page 2
“Speak.” The acerbic British tone crackles over the phone, a stark contrast to the lazy puffs of smoke I exhale into the inky sky.
With my second drag, I flick the cigarette to the ground, crushing it with my boot. A couple hits are all I need to take the edge off the inevitable downer after a job.
“It’s done.” I proffer a smile to no one, certain my grin beams bright with a false confidence the male on the other end of the line can’t see.
“Any problems?” Slaughter’s words are muffled and edgy.
My smile falters, and the wailing horn of a distant train heightens my unease. In all the years we’ve worked together, he’s never asked that question. Ever.
I don’t cause problems. For eighteen years I fix the shit others create. John Slaughter knows this, so why ask?
I search my memory for answers but come up empty. I’ve never given him any reason to doubt my abilities, which makes his sudden trepidation… vexing.
My mind whirs. He insisted I take this job. Was he expecting problems?
“None.” I curl my gloved fist and end the call.
I unleash my aggravation on the cell, cracking its back and dismantling the pieces for trash.
John Slaughter deals in guns and girls. Once, in the early days, when on a job, screams came from within a shipping container. We found a dead girl among the cargo of skin. It was packed with girls of all ages. That was a shit night.
Human trafficking is a no-go for me. I made sure Slaughter understood that. Even a guy like me has standards.
Slaughter’s a monster, but to most, I’m not much better. After all, I did turn a blind eye to his flesh trade.
In this game, if you want to make money and survive, stick to your own business. And the secret to my success? Don’t ask questions or take sides. So long as I’m paid, the problem goes away.
My gut’s telling me I may have a problem. First the surprise request from Slaughter and the easy money, then Joe’s MIA, and now, that fucking question. I don’t like it.
My guys exit the building, most grinning thanks to thicker wallets with Kit at the tail end. He arches a brow at my scowl.
“We good?” His six-foot-five frame looms larger than usual.
“Let’s get out of here,” I dodge, needing a scotch and a good fuck before mulling over the situation.
“Why you pissed?”
“Slaughter, the bastard.” My jaw hardens.
“What?” He locks the wooden door, and double checks it’s secure.
“Asked if there were problems.” My lips twist at the sour taste in my mouth.
He folds his beefy arms over his chest. “He’s never asked that before.”
“Exactly.” Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair. “Where the fuck is Joe?” I study the night shadows and frown.
“I’ll find him.”
I nod, confident Kit will. On the way to our cars, he breaks our comfortable silence with the question. The one that’s hanging between us like a guillotine for weeks.
“Is this it? You out?”
He’s referring to my retirement from this gig. I’ve had a good run. Hell no, a fucking fantastic run, but it’s time to get out. It’s always been the plan, even though it will mess with Kit’s livelihood.
This life isn’t for the faint of heart, and sooner or later, it’ll get you killed. So, yeah, it’s always been a matter of when, not if, I leave this life. The time is now, especially since tonight’s job has rankled me in a way I can’t explain.
“When?” he asks.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale. “Not now, Kit.”
“Fine. Wanna grab a beer after I get a handle on Joe?”
“Nah, I’ve got plans. Come after and blow off some steam.”
I’m going for a drink and a fuck. My way of unwinding after a job. The drink, for sure—the fuck, sometimes. Kit won’t come. He wants a sports bar, not paid female company.
High-class escorts are pricey but worth every penny—no hassle or expectations. All business. No risk of falling in love.
Relationships aren’t wise or safe for me, and less safe for the woman. I work with bad people who wouldn’t hesitate to use someone I care about.
“Nope. Besides, we both know they’d never let me through the door.” He gestures to his grungy attire, coated in grease and a thin layer of dirt.
“True.”
“Not all of us are as fancy as you.” Mocking my refined wardrobe is a constant source of delight.
“Hey, man, if you want upscale pussy, you gotta dress the part.” I shove his shoulder before holding my arms out wide with a huge grin—the first true one for the night.
“I’ll pass on the crabs, chlamydia, or whatever else. Some of us actually score without paying for it.”
“Keep telling yourself that. By the way, your left hand doesn’t count as ‘scoring.’”
“Fuck you,” he grumbles, no longer enjoying the banter.
The guy may be the size of a Sasquatch, but he’s a diehard romantic, and this is where we are night and day. For me, sex is purely physical. Love’s got nothing to do with it.
A brisk chill stabs my chest, and it’s time to get the fuck out of here. I grab a new drop phone from my car, and hand one to Kit. We text each other our new numbers, knowing we’ll be doing this again in a few days.
“Update on Joe within the hour.”
“Got it.”
Now relaxed after my indulgence, shut-eye is the only thing on my mind when Kit texts with news on Joe.
Kit: 😇
He’s used our code. The angel means death. Joe is dead. My renewed apprehension eats greedily at my exhaustion.
At a red light, I quickly reply.
Me: 👌 Talk later.
Nearing the place I’ve called home for the past week, flashing lights and fiery hues of orange and yellow illuminate the dark sky. The street is littered with people arisen from their beds, firetrucks, and hoses gushing water.
My apartment is on fire and my stomach pitches. I can’t explain it, but this is connected to tonight’s job and Joe’s death. I feel it in my bones. No matter what investigators find, this isn’t an accident.
I hightail it out of there, not wanting to be spotted, and stop once I’m a safe distance away to make a call.
A familiar raspy smoker’s voice answers. “Owen.”
Padrig Owen, better known as Paddy, is a cop, less than five years from retirement, and crooked. He’s my guy on the inside, providing intel that keeps me ahead of the boys in blue.
“Fire on Spadina.” I’ve got a hunch Drago is behind it, but I want confirmation.
“Nicky, my boy, just heard about it.”
“Find out what you can.”
“On it. What’s up?”
He knows better than to ask. It’s his job to tell me. What the fuck is with everyone tonight?
Paddy won’t find any connection between the apartment and me. I pay by the day under an alias and I’m always on the move.
“I’ll text you the number to send me any info.”
Mikhail Drago is a Russian arms dealer, among other things, and one seriously crazy motherfucker. Explosions are his calling card. But why’d he set fire to my place? And how is this connected to Slaughter?
My mind wanders to earlier today when I met with Slaughter. It was all last minute, the meet and the job. He was persistent that I take it. His transportation fell through, and he needed to move his shipment. Today.
I was reluctant, but he sweetened the deal, tripled my going rate. Shit. Come to think of it, Slaughter threw greenbacks my way. The man doesn’t part with cash easily, yet he did. The first red flag.
Exhaustion washes over me, and I’m dizzy with my convoluted thoughts, but I won’t get answers right now. I need sleep and I know just the place to crash.
I swallow thickly; the noose tightens around my neck. I’m getting out while I still can. My time is up.
3
Thursday 8:45 AM
Nick
I feel like donkey balls and my eyes burn from barely any sleep. I’m only thirty-four but some days this life makes me feel like I’m ninety.
After Maggie left, I called Kit and he came over with news. The Russian killed Joe, and word is he’s looking for me. Drago doesn’t want me dead, but he wants to punish me for my supposed betrayal. The fire was his way of flushing me out.
Turns out, Slaughter had Joe and me steal Drago’s shipment of guns. The very same cargo bound for New York last night. The big difference is Joe knew what he was getting into, and the dumb fuck still got killed.
Drago and Slaughter are now at war. And me? I’m the match that lit the dynamite.
Kit and I decide to leave the city, and devise a plan to get out of this mess. Before we go, I’ve got to collect payment for a job I finished yesterday morning for Chin, another client and a high-ranking member of the Triad.
Kit will take care of a few things for me, including Caro, my sister, and we’ll meet in Quebec. With my line of work, I stay away from my sister. I don’t want her ever used against me.
Once he leaves, I grab a few more hours of sleep and then call Paddy to run a background check on Miss Maggie Hill. Normally, she’d be long forgotten, especially with the shit on my plate, but something isn’t sitting right.
I check my service, shocked to have a message from Drago. The guy’s losing it with all the details he leaves on a recorded message.
“Prophet, you’re a dead man. You choose Slaughter over me?” His Russian accent is thicker and more abrasive than usual, belying the more than forty years he’s lived in Canada. “You will pay. I’m coming for you.”
That’s where he is wrong. I never picked sides, but Slaughter made it look like I did.
With a final swig of coffee, I get in the car and enter Maggie’s place of work into the GPS. Paddy provided a few details on her, nothing alarming, but what she did for a living intrigued me. I want to see for myself.
The Phoenix, a garage and restoration shop with a sterling reputation among vintage car aficionados, is bustling. Two bay doors are open, with sounds of whirring machines and clanking tools flittering outside. A crew of grease monkeys work on vehicles in various conditions.
I park out of sight and watch. My time should be spent on the Slaughter-Drago feud, but I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to her story. Once more, I scroll through Paddy’s text with details on Maggie Mae Hill.
Thirty-one, no criminal record, and lives alone in Liberty Village. Of course she lives in a hipster neighborhood with douchebag pretty boys. The garage is hers and has been for eleven years, but under her management only for the past five.
The purr of an engine draws my attention to a sleek black Corvette pulling up in front of the garage. A tall blond guy in sunglasses and an expensive suit exits the car.
He’s boringly attractive, like countless other asshats on Bay Street. He runs his fingers through his perfectly coiffed hair.
Maggie saunters through one of the bay doors in greasy coveralls, much like the ones on the bathroom floor last night.
Two thick raven braids like shiny rope trail over her shoulders. She has a completely different look. Younger. Innocent. A stark contrast to the fierce woman last night who could hold her own, not backing down no matter the situation.
I feast on her delicate bone structure and smooth moves. Elegance seeps from her every pore despite being covered in grease. I saw the same last night. Even naked and fighting, or shivering and vulnerable, she was pure grace.
She’s both queen and warrior. A young Elizabeth Taylor or Grace Kelly with her small, pert nose; full, perfectly symmetrical lips, and high cheekbones; and her enigmatic eyes.
The bruising on her neck jerks me from my trance. She didn’t bother to hide the marks from our altercation last night, and it’s the first thing blond boy notices.
I gnash my teeth together at the scarlet markings on her pale flesh. My fingerprints, angry and raw, band her throat, and it’s as if I feel her thumping pulse again.
The violent and sudden urge to hit something erupts within me. I don’t hurt women. Never. But I also never give anyone the chance to kill me. The jury is still out on whether that was why she was at the loft.
Golden Boy attempts to touch, but she steps back. Undeterred by her rebuke, he leans in to kiss her, hungry. Again, she shifts slightly, his lips brushing her cheek instead of her mouth. His face flushes like a little boy put in the corner.
Boyfriend? Friend? Either way, things aren’t all rosy, not with the move she just made.
He follows her like a puppy dog inside the building. A slow, easy smirk slides across my face. She’s got him by the balls. Better him than me.
My phone vibrates, and I glance at the text with an encrypted attachment.
Paddy: You’re going to want to see this.
The file is brief, but enough to almost choke me with the details. Any residual shame from the way I handled her last night evaporates.
Glimpsing the sable-haired beauty disappearing from my view, my blood simmers, both satisfied with being right about her and incensed at her deception. Last night’s mix-up at the loft wasn’t a fluke.
There’s more to Maggie than meets the eye. She may be the perfect portrait of class, but I see under her veneer. She’s a fake.
4
Thursday 11:55AM
Nick
I dip the razor into the basin filled with hot water for the final time and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My dark, day-old stubble is almost gone.
I should be gone. Maggie demanded I be out of the loft by noon. Screw her. She doesn’t call the shots. Besides, she’ll have Lo’s place to herself tonight.
Once clean-shaven, I pull on jeans, a black Henley, and socks—all brand-new—and slide my feet into boots, stiffening at the sound of a creaking floorboard. Maggie. Time for some fun.
I step from the bathroom, and the heel of a combat boot descending into the bedroom catches my eye. The muscular back and bald head of the guy sends my pulse rocketing. Fuck. Drago’s man.
I quickly scan the loft for more of them, but it’s empty. With keys in hand, I dash for the door, stumbling when a gruff male voice yells, “Prophet, stop.”
I run toward the elevator and stairwell at the end of the hall while another male joins in yelling my name.
At the same time, a gun fires and something whizzes past my ear, puncturing the wall. I flinch and plaster sprays everywhere.
Contrary to what many believe, hitting a moving target is hard to do and not many can. Thank Christ this guy isn’t a good shot.
With less than three feet to the elevator, the doors roll open. Relief floods my veins, cooling my hot, churning insides, but the feeling withers when long legs, curves, and tumbling raven locks consume my vision.
Maggie.
My insides are atomic, hot and fracturing into a million shards of emotion.
Anger slices my gut like a blade. This woman keeps popping up at the most inconvenient times.
Confusion. With her long cornflower-blue dress and leather jacket, hands laden with grocery bags, she is so out of place amidst the chaos.
Unease. I want her gone with a blink of an eye. Guys with guns are breathing down my back, and she’s now in the line of fire.
Resentment. What if she isn’t in harm’s way but also here for me? There’s no evidence to suggest she’s carrying out orders, but it would be a mistake to dismiss the idea.
My competing thoughts only make it harder to concentrate. I’ve got bigger problems with Drago’s men gaining on me.
I dive for the elevator, shielding her and we crash to the floor. I may not trust her, but I won’t have her blood on my hands. And if she’s here for me too, then I’ll deal with her.
“Get off me!” She pushes at my chest, oblivious to the danger.
I jump to standing and press my finger on the close button. Two Russian behemoths run our way, surprisingly fast for their size.
“Oh my God!” Her eyes widen at the guns aimed at us. “Shut the door!”
“What the fuck do you think I’m doing?”
My finger threatens to snap at the pressure I have on the button, and I prepare to fight if they get in the elevator.
The big guy on the left pulls the trigger and the bullet hits the wall. Her scream pierces the confined space and she wedges herself into the corner of the tin can. Terrified eyes bore into me as if I’m shooting at her and the elevator doors slide closed, separating us from the men.
I sink to the floor and rest my head on the wall for a beat or two, struggling to gain composure. It’s short-lived with the heat of her savage glare burning my skin.
She slides her back up the wall, using it for support. “What the hell is going on? Why are they shooting at me?”
Her frenetic tone pinches at whatever is left of my patience, and I mash my lips together to keep from losing it. I could have left her in the hall with those assholes. They wouldn’t have thought twice about killing her.
Fruit—oranges, lemons, avocados and bananas—litters the floor along with fresh meat, a box of Oreos, and other groceries.
Needing a moment of peace, I close my eyes, licking my dry lips. It’s a mistake. She lunges for me, feral and violent, shoving at my chest. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, her long hair wild and cheeks flaming.
“Answer me, dammit!” She beats on me; her blows hurt, but not nearly as much as a bullet would. “How the hell are we going to get out of here alive?”
She fights back her tears. I’ve never been good with a crying woman. As if reading my mind, she sucks in a jagged breath, stopping her whimpers, and sags into the wall.
“We’re fucked if there’s more of them on the ground floor.”
“We’re fucked? No. You’re fucked.” Her tone is venomous. “I’ve got nothing to do with this and you’re going to tell them that.”
I bark out a harsh laugh. “You’re mad. I’ll call a time-out and say, ‘Hey, guys, see this crazy-ass chick, she’s got nothing to do with this, so please leave her alone.’” Every word drips with sarcasm. “We need to run when the doors open.”
