Page 65 of Along for the Ride

This will be fun.

We’re hitmen, not fucking assassins, but if you get us mad enough, we might just change our line of work. And George has taken this too fucking far.

I kill the headlights and pull the SUV into the woods. An embankment blocks the view of the mansion, which means they can’t see us, either. I gesture for the phone, and Karson places it against my palm and turns away. When I turn on the screen and run my finger over the giant crack in the glass, George’s message pops into view.

I’m only looking at the cover image, but it’s enough to make my blood heat to a simmer beneath my skin. Leana lies on a hardwood floor, her blonde hair fanned around her head. Her eyes are closed, and she looks like she’s sleeping. I click the video and an icon swirls around on the black screen before it begins. The camera operator zooms in on Leana. Her face is toward the camera, but she doesn’t move, even as the cameraman puts his dick in her mouth. Then her eyes flutter, and she gives a weak groan.

She’s drugged up.

The camera pans downward and focuses on the ripped shirt and her bare chest. It moves lower and I don’t want to watch, but I can’t look away. It stops on her pale thighs, which hook around the legs of someone in black slacks.

Then, the cameraman speaks.

It’s George.

“You want your girl, Gentry? Come and get her. We’ve come for her several times already.”

It’s the first time Karson has heard the audio, and his hands clench into fists when he hears the laughter from the other men in the room. He was wholly correct when he chose to keep this from me.

I crack my neck, then my knuckles, and expand my chest with a deep inhale to send another rush of snaps down my spine. “Get the fucking hand.”

“What?” Karson asks, his eyes wide.

“The pastor’s hand. Get. It.”

He keeps his eyes on me as he reaches back and grabs the vacuum-sealed appendage. I lay the pistols and knives on the dash, then pick up my pistol and rack it to ensure it’s loaded. I stuff my spare magazine in my pocket. I don’t carry more than that because I’ve never needed to. If I run out of ammo in one magazine, I use my hands. Or my blade. I check the Glock I pulled off the bouncer. Ten rounds. California “legal.”

Lame, but that’s ten more than I had.

I pocket the Glock, affix my blade to my hip, and tuck my larger pistol down the back of my pants as I get out of the car. I stuff the hand into my free pocket, but the baggy sticks out a bit, brushing the bottom of my arm. It’s annoying, but I need it. Karson follows me, racking one of his pistols and letting a bullet land in his open hand. He drops it into his pocket.

I stare at him. “Why?”

He slides his gun into the holster on his hip. “I always stash a bullet before a hit. Have since we started.” He shrugs. “It’s lucky.”

I shake my head. “If you were lucky, you wouldn’t have been a marked man yourself not too long ago. It sounds like a bad omen if you ask me.”

“You have your hand. I have my bullet. Don’t judge what I carry into battle,” he says with a scoff.

Touché.

We crest the embankment and I squat down. The view of the mansion is enough to shift my blood from a simmer to a boil. It’s a grand display of exquisite architecture and impressive craftsmanship, with intricate carvings and ornate details adorning the sprawling facade of brick and stone. All of it paid for with blood and drugs. My eyes focus on the entrance, which is framed by two towering pillars, each with a wrought iron lantern that casts a warm glow over the entryway. The double doors are made of heavy, dark wood, and feature intricate carvings of vines and leaves, giving the impression of a hidden garden. There’s a lot hidden beyond those doors, and it’s not a fucking garden. I scan the manicured lawns and spot the guard stations.

“Get that one,” I whisper to Karson as I jerk my chin toward the farthest booth. He likes to run, so I’ll let him run. “I’ll get this one.” I motion to the closer booth, and he nods and takes off.

I skulk along the perimeter, trying to avoid the spotlight swinging across the grass. It runs on a pattern, scanning each section before going to the next. I wait until it makes a pass before I walk among the shadows and end up beside the booth. When I take a quick look inside, a young man is fumbling with the CCTV. Based on the way his fingers jerk and move and reach for the walkie on his shoulder, I can only assume he’s spotted Karson. I lean inside and wrap a hand around the man’s mouth before he can depress the button on his mic. He throws his body backward, trying to slam me into the wall. With a quick jut of my knife, I sink the blade into the base of his skull and push until I hear a satisfying pop. His arms still. I could have just broken his neck, but I want George to see the blood on my clothes. The blood of his men.

I grip the man’s mic and tug the radio off his belt. I clip it on, lower the volume, and take off toward the other box to see if Karson needs help. When I lean in, I see a very dead man with a very determined Karson standing over him, stabbing his chest and abdomen with a very determined purpose. I don’t stop him. He’s taking out his anger the only way he knows how. Finally, a sigh leaves his lips, and he drops back with a glassy high to his eyes.

The radio makes a noise before a muddled voice breaks through the static. “Me and Roy are heading to the back of the house to have a smoke. It’s just us, so don’t release the dogs.”

Karson was right. They have fucking dogs.

We look at each other and nod. Two men alone at the back of the property? It’s the prime situation for us. Just as we’re about to leave the booth, a deep growl rumbles from the tree line. Before I can even react, the sound of paws slamming against the ground draws closer. I step through the doorway and face the massive fur missile barreling toward me. A chain collar rattles an eerie tune with every movement the German Shepherd makes.

“I don’t want to kill a dog,” I say. I will, but I don’t want to. My brother was the one who brought home dead animals, not me.

Karson takes a step in front of me, but the dog is focused on me. Just as his form comes into the spotlight, I move Karson out of my way and stare down the dog. His paws dig into the ground as he slows to a stop in front of me, his brown eyes trained on me as his head cocks. He comes to my feet and sits beside me, looking up at me with a drool covered maw.

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