Page 224 of Tell Me Lies

She elbowed him in the stomach. “We’ll see how that goes for you.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of her head. “Yes, we will. It will be fun seeing your reaction.”

“I just bet it would,” she said, making him chuckle.

“Go to sleep.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Sugar.”

The End

www.evernightpublishing.com/lila-fox

THE ICE MAN’S MELT

Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

Copyright © 2024

Chapter One

From his vantage point on the hotel rooftop, Javier Morales lit a thin cigarillo and took the smoke into his mouth, savoring the rich flavor. At three a.m. the city that never slept appeared to be dozing. Little traffic traveled the avenues or along the West Thirties in Midtown, nothing but a few lonely taxis or the occasional vehicle. Most of the windows in the surrounding buildings were dark at the wolf hour but he had an excellent view of his target’s terrace to the west. If the broker proved to be a creature of habit, as Javier had been told, he would emerge from his apartment at four, then drink a cup of coffee while working in his flower boxes. If not, the operation would be a complete waste of time. When approached by a notorious Queens drug operator to take out a Wall Street financier who’d lost the drug kingpin’s investments, Javier accepted, no questions asked.

Although confident he could make the kill shot, a moment of doubt always came. Once he followed through and collected the money, it would be on to the next hit. Trained as a sniper by the military, his post-service career had been a simple choice. He lacked the skills to be a banker or broker or manager. No way would he work as a janitor, in construction, or become a cop. Javier’s forte was delivering death.

Time slowed as he waited, each moment longer than the next. Javier smoked too much and craved coffee. His focus remained on the target’s rooftop. When the man emerged, dressed for his day on Wall Street in an Armani suit, dress shirt and tie, Javier gripped the stock of his M2010 rifle and drew a bead. Once he had the shot in place, he fired without any remorse and didn’t miss. As the target toppled forward onto the roof, Javier disassembled his rifle with swift motions, placed it in his bag, and turned to leave. He halted when he heard a tiny whimper from behind.

“Ohhh,” a soft, female voice breathed.

From where he stood on the back side of the boxed entry to the stairs the sound was audible and disturbing. Javier had thought he was alone, but he wasn’t. A woman, wearing a strapless maroon mini cocktail dress and tall heels, stared at him, eyes wide and vibrant red lips parted. His first thought was, it’s Cinder-fucking-rella, then he wondered why a woman dressed for a formal occasion would be on the hotel rooftop at this hour. His next realization came hard—she’d seen him make the hit. Until now, no witness had existed for any of his kills.

“You didn’t see a fucking thing,” he growled, hoping it was true.

“I watched you kill a man,” she breathed. “He’s dead. Why?”

If this bitch thought he would explain, she must be loco. He had to make a swift exit now before some wiseass cop figured out the angle for the shot and arrived on the scene.

“It doesn’t matter,” he spit out the words as if they tasted nasty.

“You took his life so it does. I don’t understand why…”

Sirens screeched like banshees in the distance, the sound moving closer with speed. “I don’t have time for questions or bullshit,” Javier told her. “Why are you here?”

His tone emerged harsher than he intended and he watched her expression shift from shock to fear. She tugged a satin wrap he hadn’t noticed until now around her shoulders and turned to leave, wobbling in her designer shoes. “I … well, it doesn’t matter. I need to go.”

Sure, she did. Javier figured she would rush to dial the NYPD. If not headed to the death scene, officers would be within moments, and if they caught him, his life would be over. The media would go wild, outing the former decorated Army sniper, a hero who served time in Afghanistan, as a professional hit man. At times, the transition surprised even Javier.

No one plans to be a hit man when they grow up, but then he hadn’t set out to be a sniper either. Even though he’d never shot a rifle or any weapon until basic, during the white phase of training he earned the expert level on the shooting range. That ranked higher than marksman or sharpshooter. Javier had nailed 38 out of 40 targets and his fate had been sealed.

If he hadn’t come down with fucking malaria in the last year of the Afghanistan occupation, Javier would have remained in the military. He might not have been a sniper forever but he’d planned for an Army career. After twenty, maybe thirty years, he would have retired with a monthly pension and benefits. Malaria robbed him of the chance, made him sicker than he’d ever been, and earned him a medical discharge. Javier didn’t get a pension, however, because once cured of the tropical disease, he wasn’t permanently disabled. Even the chance it might recur without warning wasn’t enough for compensation.

“Bitch, you’re not going anywhere except with me,” Javier said. He grasped her hand and held it tight. If she protested or tried to pull away, he would take her arm. No way could he allow her to leave. He could end up in jail if she did and that was not happening.

Her eyes lit with anger. “Let go of me!”

Whoever this woman was, Javier pegged her as wealthy, probably from old money. Something about her imperious command indicated she bossed servants around on a regular basis, expecting them to do her bidding. It wouldn’t work on him but she didn’t realize that.

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