Page 3 of The Ghost Assassin

“You don’t have it in you to do what is necessary to run this cartel, which is why you needed your uncle. Now you have me. And don’t you worry about the Society. Me and Pocher are like this.” He crosses two fingers together.

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t you worry, hijo. Daddy is here to save the day.” He holsters his weapon and says, “Let’s go sit for a meal. It’s only appropriate. I’m back from the dead. We need to decide what that means for you, me, and your lovely wife, Lilah.”

Chapter Two

Lilah

I’m as comfortable with death as I am my usage of the word “fuck.”

In fact, me and death have an affinity for one another, and a whole lot in common.

We both get along better with the dead than we do the living. We both scare people. We do a lot of showing up without an invitation. And neither of us is forgiving.

I stare down at Murphy’s dead, lifeless body, a clean, professionally placed bullet hole right between his eyes, and digest what has happened with a cold spot inside me.

Emotion is a lot like dark chocolate—it exists, and some say it’s good for you. I say it’s a bitter, messy, poor excuse of an answer to anything.

If I’d let emotion rule me, Murphy would have been dead days ago when I found out he was following my mother the day she died. If I discover Murphy killed my mother, I will forever mourn the fact that someone else beat me to killing him.

So, do I care that Murphy is dead?

Yes. It’s inconvenient.

Do I care who killed Murphy and why?

Yes, of course, I care.

Because this asshole killed him before he could tell me the truth to replace his mountain of lies.

I’m also concerned that the assassin closest to me, via Kane, and therefore closest to my boss, is Ghost. A single bullet between the eyes is one of his specialties, but it’s a common assassination technique as well. He might not be our guy, but he’s in the forefront of my mind.

A short man in a suit steps out of one of the adjoining rooms. “Agent Love-Mendez, you’re too close to this case. We’re going to have to ask you to remove yourself from the investigation.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Special Agent-in-charge, Larry Allen. This is my case.”

I don’t know him, which, in and of itself, is strange, since I know everyone in this city working for the bureau. But I don’t want to know him either, so that works for me. He was likely brought in from a nearby region to lead an impartial investigation, as if those really exist. “You’re not in charge,” I say.

“Yes, I am,” he bristles, his cheeks puffing out. “I’m in charge.”

If he was certain he was in charge, he wouldn’t need to argue that point.

It would simply be true. He’d know it. I’d know it. Neither of us knows it, right now.

“Of your house,” I say. “Maybe.” I eye the ring on his finger. “Big, big maybe. But either way, I’m not saying I’m in charge. I’m saying you are not.”

“This is not your case,” good ol’ Larry insists. “You need to evacuate the premises.”

Obviously, someone forgot to tell him Homeland Security escorted me here, and Homeland Security, in this situation, trumps FBI. Of course, my general opinion of Homeland Security is that they are idiots, and this assessment comes from my experience with two agents. One, on a task force I was on early in my career, who was so stupid I thought he was pretending. Turns out, he was not. The other, on yet another task force, was a jerk who thought a woman couldn’t possibly know what she was doing, but he was happy to hit on me. He found out I hit, too. With my fist. I enjoyed it, too.

Bottom line, two for two was all it took to convince me Homeland Security has a staff of stupid, but then I’m unforgiving.

I don’t pretend otherwise.

Stupid is what stupid does, which is piss me off.

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