Page 54 of Hate Mates

Since that isn’t happening, I won’t worry about that.

He does, however, procure many barely eighteen-year-olds. Picking them up when they’re fresh out of school and just trying to find their footing in the world. They’re easier targets at that age, less jaded and street wise.

As far as Maclain knows, William Mayhew is a connoisseur of what he deems ‘exotic young women’ and wants the equivalent of a passport stamp to every country in the world. Lyle likes Mayhew’s game and was happy to oblige by offering up several countries in one easy stop.

“Your memory serves,” I confirm.

Lyle stands, taking the few steps toward us. Reaching out, he trails one bloated finger slowly up Beth’s arm.

“Look, honey,” she says softly, a wide grin blooming. “I have goosebumps.”

Lyle’s eyes alight with sick pleasure. She’s fucking perfect at this.

The deal was, if Maclain produced what I wanted, he would get Christine Mayhew in return. One night, whatever he wants to do with her. He thinks it’s leverage. I suppose in other marriages, real ones, that would hold true. He’d hold some semblance of power over the couple by fucking the wife in the most demeaning way and returning her to her husband broken and bruised.

Beth pretending this will be fun for her makes it even more enticing for him. He believes that means it will take more to shatter her.

He doesn’t know her like I do. He doesn’t know that the only way to pull a reaction out of her is to deny her a kill. Beth Miller is a selfish, greedy thing. She’d take whatever torture Maclain has planned for her tonight so long as he’s dead by the end of it.

We’re too alike in that way.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy whatever is in store,” I tell her. Beth’s eyes glitter, and I lean down to press a kiss to her lips. “Be good.”

“Jensen will show you to your purchase,” Lyle says to me.

The job really begins now. I follow Jensen down a long hallway, while Maclain leads Beth in the opposite direction. Not ideal, but jobs rarely are. Tonight has felt too easy until now.

“Slovakia, Namibia, Ukraine. I believe all were on your list, yes?” Jensen asks.

“Yes,” I answer as he opens a door at the end of the hall.

“Enjoy.” He lets me step through, closing the door with a soft click behind me.

The room is dimly lit by a few wall sconces, the windows all covered with electrical blinds. Very little furniture has been brought in. Only a large bed and a small sofa on which three women sit. Identically dressed in short ivory slip dresses, all have their heads downcast, hands folded in their laps.

Cameras can’t be seen, but I know they exist. Someone will be watching, listening. Recording.

Leverage.

You can’t hold anything over a ghost, though.

I move in front of the one closest to me. “Stand.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, her voice shaking as badly as her body. I bury a hand in her dark hair, pulling her head up to my lips.

“Play along and I’ll get all three of you out of here,” I whisper down her neck. “Is there another way out of this room?”

She nods, and I move the string of her slip down over her shoulder. Her eyes dart to a full-length mirror beside us. I move her to it, placing her hands on the glass so I can run my fingers along the edge, finding the latch that opens it. I don’t press it though, not yet.

Kicking her legs out wider, I instruct her to push her ass out and stay put with a swat. I follow a similar pattern with the second woman. She isn’t shaking like the first; there’s a resolve on her face that stabs me right in the gut.

“Are there guards behind the mirror?”

“Yes, sir.”

I move her to the wall next to the first woman, placing her in the same position. The third woman goes on the opposite sideof her. Going slow enough to formulate a plan, but not so much that I look like I’m stalling.

I should do more, play up this act. My stomach, my fucking moral compass, doesn’t allow me to take further advantage of these girls. It’s why I’m an assassin and not a fucking spy. Deep cover isn’t for me.

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