Page 20 of Commit

I run my fingers over the screen and wonder, what the fuck just happened? I toss the phone on the passenger seat and grip the steering wheel. I don’t like this. I want to drive home and demand she tell me what’s wrong, but she doesn’t know she’s mine yet.

“Fuck.” I slam my hand into the steering wheel, knowing this will be the final nail in the coffin of my and Abbot’s relationship. Even knowing that, I can’t resist her pull.

I freeze when my cell phone rings and turn to stare at it in the passenger seat. I grab it and answer when I see that it’s Atlas calling.

“What’s up?”

“I know I promised you some time off, but we’ve got a situation down at the strip club.”

I frown at that. I don’t have anything to do with that place. “Okay?”

“Just get here, okay?” Whatever’s happened, he clearly doesn’t want to say over the phone.

“I’m on my way.”

I hang up, turn the car around, and head to the club, wondering what Atlas is doing there. He has a team that runs the place. With Kenzo having his own shit to run, they’ve been forced to bring in extra people. It’s funny as fuck watching two of the most untrusting bastards in the business bring new people into the fold. Credit to the new guys, though. They take it like champs, even though they must know they’re being watched.

I pull into the lot and park around the back of the club. Before getting out of the car, I slip on a pair of sunglasses and a ball cap. I’m not here as Atlas’s driver, so I want to blend in. Not because I’m worried someone will recognize me as a hitman—most people who have met me in that capacity are dead. No, because blending in and being unremarkable is what any hitman worth his salt does.

I head to the staff entrance and punch in the security code on the electronic keypad. I might not come here often, but I know the codes for every business Atlas owns. If he’s in trouble, I can get in and get him out without anyone knowing I’m on the scene. I walk past the security station, stopping when someone whistles.

“You can’t go in there. The club’s closed tonight.”

I turn, lift my hat, and remove my glasses.

I see recognition hit. “Sorry, Pete. I didn’t recognize you without your suit.”

“Yeah, well, I’m supposed to be on vacation, but Atlas called and told me to get my ass down here.”

“Good luck. The boss is in a foul mood.” He heads back to his station. “Go on down to the girls’ dressing room. That’s where he was the last time I saw him,” he calls out.

“Thanks,” I reply, and head down to the dressing room, curious about why the place is closed. Security here is tight. I’ve seen them handle problems with ease, so whatever happened has to be bad.

I know I’m right the second I enter the dressing room. The smell of blood and death in the air gives away just how bad this situation is. I spot Atlas as I walk around the corner. He heads toward me, stopping me from going any farther.

“What the fuck happened?”

“One of the girls found her in the costume closet. Thankfully, she’s worked here for a while and knows the score. She called security and me right away.” He nods to the far side of the room, where a blonde woman sits with a blanket wrapped around her. Her heavily made-up face is streaked with mascara and tears from crying.

“Found who?”

He leads me to the corner of the room, where I see another blanket covering what’s obviously a body. He crouches down and pulls the blanket back, revealing a vaguely familiar woman in her late twenties or early thirties with fire-red hair and a ring of dark purple bruises around her throat.

I stare at her face and notice a carved mark on her forehead. I cock my head. “Does that look like a scope reticle to you?”

“I was thinking a bullseye, but yeah, that’s why I called you. Wanted to be sure I wasn’t imagining shit.”

“No bullet holes, though?”

“No. I’d say she was choked to death. But why carve that into her forehead?”

“Maybe it was the killer’s way of saying he’s been watching her?” I suggest. I can spend days watching my targets through the lens of a scope, waiting for the perfect opportunity to take my shot. But I don’t then turn around and choke them. “There anything else?”

He lifts the girl’s T-shirt. She’s dressed in regular street clothes, not clothes for dancing. I look down at the section of her stomach Atlas reveals and frown. “Is that a 12?”

“I think so. If it’s supposed to mean something, it’s fucking lost on me.” He covers her before standing up. “Her name is Emma Jones. Goes by the stage name Foxy. She worked here for about two years before she quit. You ever meet her?”

I shake my head. “She seems familiar. I might have seen her here, but I can’t place her.”

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