Page 4 of Stolen By the Hit Man
The dirty coveralls and the mass of curly, dark hair piled on top of her head catch my eye the moment I enter the feed store.
She doesn’t make any sense, following around that faux cowboy-looking dude, with his pristine, thousand-dollar boots. He’s clearly a clothes horse, and she’s doing the real work. What the hell is wrong with this picture?
He seethes at her when she wanders off, looking at the snack aisle. She looks hungry. “Jasmyn! Where do you think you’re going? Pay attention,” the pretend-cowboy barks.
I keep a low profile as I follow them up and down the aisle. She asks if they can look at the cats up for adoption. He answersquietly, yet viciously: “What the fuck is the matter with you? You can’t keep that house clean as it is. If you want me to visit you more often, cat piss isn’t going to be the way.”
What an asshole. Probably one of those damn polygamists, from the sound of it. Who else talks about “visiting” their wife?
I remind myself that these people are none of my business. Whatever problems they have, whatever is making her flinch when he talks meanly to her, it’s not my concern.
I get paid upfront to participate in high-risk situations. When I succeed, the payoffs are worth every brush with death. Financially, I have nothing to gain by following Jasmyn around the store, or by doing what I think I’m about to do.
You’re gonna do it because you care, says my conscience.
Ah shit. I do care.
And I blame Jefferson. Last year, my brother-from-another-mother fell in love at first sight with one of those cult members and almost blew his life up in the process. I literally pulled him back from falling off a cliff when those dudes came after him for taking one of their women.
Despite the growing atmosphere of ill will between the town and that kooky church, I swore I was not going to care. Once Jefferson and Georgie were settled, I was done giving a shit about rescuing every doe-eyed, sad-looking woman that passes by me on the street, her chaperone close on her heels.
The man with Jasmyn finally gets distracted when he runs into Vern, the feed store owner.
I place my bets that she’s going to circle back to the cat aisle while she has a moment free of that jackass, so I plant myself there to keep an eye on her.
She can feel me staring. I know she can. At some point, she looks up, and her soulful brown eyes steal my breath.
Before I can stop myself, I’m striking up a conversation, and I take zero hints that she’s apprehensive of me.
Her husband’s chat with Vern doesn’t take long, and soon he’s back, climbing up her ass and bossing her around.
I have one shot to get her to safety.
“You don’t have to go with him,” I say.
Her eyes widen in astonishment at my words. Her throat bobs. She speaks carefully.
“He…they…”
She bites her bottom lip, turning it white.
I should call Jefferson and have Georgie deal with this woman. But that will take too long. Jasmyn is caught up in something evil, and her chance to escape is now.
If not me, who?
“Jasmyn!” shouts the approaching man, growing more agitated by the moment.
She startles again at the sound of her name.
She glances over her shoulder at the man and turns back to me, her face resolute.
I know that look. Hardened resolve is what got Jefferson and me through our years at the group home. We were in constant fight-or-flight mode.
The man is glowing with anger. No way I’m letting her leave with him.
“Jasmyn! Let’s go!”
I glance past Jasmyn as rage bubbles in my chest.
