Page 12 of Witness Protection

Cayden finished his dinner, then shrugged on his heavy holsters. He had a one-man arsenal strapped to his body, and his trunk had everything he’d need to set his plan into motion. After tonight, he hoped his concentration would return once he no longer had to obsess over his witness.

This chapter of his life needed to be closed.

He tugged on his jacket to keep discreet and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder before leaving his apartment. He jogged up the stairs and walked down the street toward the alleyway where he rented a garage.

He’d grown up in this neighborhood. One of his grade schools was just up the street, and he’d lived in a few of the houses during his foster care years. Some of his friends asked why he stuck around. His memories were fucked-up, but they were all he had. Most people took having roots for granted. Cayden had nothing, so he kept holding onto the little history he had. Now that the Almeida family had been wiped out, he’d never felt so unsettled. Nothing grounded him, and he didn’t give a fuck about anything. His darkening thoughts scared him.

The most dangerous man in the world is the one with nothing to lose.

He understood that now.

The alleyway was dark shadows, only one outdoor light giving him enough illumination to get the key in the lock. There were some punks doing a drug deal fifty yards away, but, for the most part, people left him alone.

He was anonymous, invisible, forgettable.

Cayden had been orphaned when he was a few months old. According to the stories, his mother was killed in a retaliation hit, and his father, an Irish gangster back in the day, went out in a blaze of glory. There were a lot of rumors floating around, but none of them did him any good. Thanks to their fucked-up Children’s Services, he wasn’t adopted out to a childless couple looking for a baby to love. No, he was shuffled around to foster and group homes until he was fifteen and had had enough of the bullshit. Life on the streets wasn’t easy, but his saving grace came over a decade later in the form of Frank Almeida. Without him, he’d likely be dead or in jail.

He reversed his car out of the garage, checked on his prized Harley, then locked up. The route to Vasily’s was etched on his brain. He hadn’t returned since that day, but his perfect hit had become messy. It was time to clean shit up.

As he drove, he called Randy. “Hey.”

“You’re alive.”

“Sorry I haven’t called. Been busy.”

“What do you need?” asked Randy.

“I can’t call you now?” He could hear the resentment in his friend’s tone, and he hoped after today things would settle into a new normal. He had some bridges to mend, and he needed to get his head right.

“You want something.”

“Nothing right now. I’m cleaning up that loose end tonight. Shit could get ugly if that prick doesn’t cooperate. Stay by your phone.” He didn’t anticipate much trouble with Vladimir, but if he had to kill him, he’d need Randy to get a cleaner over to the Morenov mansion.

“I’m always here.”

He turned off his phone and returned it to his breast pocket. Darkness provided the cover he needed. Cayden parked in an abandoned building lot behind the house. His surveillance put Vladimir in the study with a couple guests. They hadn’t been there an hour ago.

Fucking shit.

He watched the grainy footage from the camera he’d set up in the corner by the ceiling. One of the whores knelt in front of Vladimir, sucking his cock. At least his target was preoccupied, but Cayden didn’t need more problems. If he had to kill them all, he would, but it was always a last resort.

Cayden picked the lock at the back of the house and slipped inside unseen. The alarm was turned off, probably thanks to the unexpected visitors. He remembered these hallways from the day he’d taken his revenge, the day he executed Vasily Morenov for killing the only family he’d ever had.

The man was pure evil.

The Almeida family were honest and hard-working, murdered for being unable to pay the growing amount demanded by Vasily’s men for having a store in their territory. Cayden had no clue Frank had been paying them off for years or he would have put an end to it a long time ago. But driving himself crazy about a past he couldn’t change wouldn’t help him now.

Revenge helped.

He stood outside the office for the longest time, listening to the women giggling and that sick bastard talking dirty in Russian. Cayden looked down by his feet. The white marble was pristine, the stained glass replaced with a regular tinted window. It was like nothing had happened here five days ago. He turned his head and looked at the closet in the foyer. How had he not noticed her there?

His blind rage had stolen his senses. Frank had always taught him that anger was a weakness, to never react when he was pissed off, but to take a breather until he could act with a level head.

He kicked the double doors, and they burst open, splinters of wood flying in every direction. With his gun trained on Vladimir’s head, he pointed to the exit, hoping the bitches would be smart and get the fuck out. They screamed, ducking their heads as they rushed away, leaving half their clothing behind. Their heels clicked along the marble until all was silent again.

“So, you’re the one who killed Vasily. Who are you anyway?”

“Nobody.”

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