Out of Plans (The Mercenaries #2) Read online

  “And no flirting. Flirting is what got me into trouble in Africa. No flirting. No relationship. No sex,” she stressed. Kingsley snorted.

  “I take it back – you're already making me regret this.”

  “Deal?” she asked, sticking out her hand.

  “What deal? Sounds like you're offering nothing in return,” he laughed, shaking her hand.

  “Exactly. Sounds like a hell of a deal to me.”

  “Dear god, you've already picked up on De Sant's awful sense of humor. We have so much un-training to do,” Kingsley sighed.

  “Whatever it takes. You train me, and I'll help you in anyway you want, with anything,” she offered.

  “Mmmm, anyway I want, huh,” his voice dropped low while his eyes wandered over her body.

  “Look here, Law, I meant what I said – you touch me inappropriately even once, and I'll break your hand in ways it can't be fixed,” she warned him. He smiled and leaned close again.

  “Ooohhh, I love it when you talk rough,” he hissed, sliding his bottom lip between his teeth.

  “You won't love it so much when I back it up with action. Now let's get out of here.”

  *

  They spent their first month together in Phuket. Kingsley owned a large house there and they almost never left the estate. He'd had a massive studio built onto the side years before, and they spent most of their time in there. Lily was good at fighting in a rough and tumble kind of way, very similar to Marc. She knew how to hit and she knew where to hit, but that had been the extent of her knowledge.

  Kingsley actually knew quite a bit of Aikido and Karate. After practicing with him for a few days, Lily quickly realized that their “fight” in Dakhla, when they'd first met, had been a joke. Kingsley could've taken her down anytime he'd wanted to, he'd let her scrap with him.

  She wasn't looking to become an expert, but he did make her quicker. Cleaner. More efficient. “Kingsley's law: Style is everything, darling,” was regularly spouted off, usually right after he'd thrown her to the mat.

  At night, after dinner, he taught her how to crack into safes. He had several tools for teaching, it turned out – he liked to keep in practice. He taught her how to drill through a lock, how to listen to the tumblers through steel by using a stethoscope, lots of different techniques. He also taught her how to pick locks, of almost any variety, from handcuffs to door locks to cars.

  He was a fountain of knowledge and she soaked it up. When they would relax sore muscles by sitting in his sauna, he would tell her old war stories. Tales of past jobs. If it was a good job, he would explain everything he'd done right. If it was a bad job, he'd break down everything he'd done wrong. Towards the end of the month, he would describe a situation and ask her to point out the rights and wrongs on her own. He was a very good teacher.

  “What is the point in all this?” he asked one night. Lily was sitting at his ten-seat, all glass, dining room table. She had his big gun in front of her, his fifty caliber Barrett named Sheila, the gun that had saved her in Tangier. She was cleaning it for him. Apparently, part of their deal included her being his maid.

  “Well, regular maintenance will prevent the rifle from -” she started. He picked up a roll of paper towels and threw it at her.

  “Shut up, you know what I meant. As much as I love this happy little home we've formed here, I can't stay forever,” he warned her. She nodded.

  “I know. You can go whenever you need to, there isn't a time frame or anything. I just want to get good enough to hold my own on a real job,” she explained.

  “And then what, after you've gotten a job? You're just going to dive in, head first?” he questioned. She shook her head.

  “No. I'm going to find Stankovski,” she replied.

  “Ah. You're still stuck on that?”

  “My goal was always Stankovski. Nothing has changed, I just don't want a repeat of Africa. I want to be ready for anything. I want to be professional.”

  “Lily,” Kingsley sighed, sitting down at the table next to her. “Do you really think that's a good idea?”

  She paused for a moment, her hand freezing over the barrel of the gun. Marc had repeatedly told her that killing Stankovski for revenge was a bad idea, and Kingsley had agreed with him. He was entitled to his opinion, and she even understood where he was coming from – but he couldn't possibly understand her position in it all. He hadn't had a sister murdered, lost five years of his life, and then watched as the last person he'd truly cared about walked away from him like he was nothing.

  Lily had to do this, it simply wasn't up for debate. And not just for her sister, and not just to prove something to Marc.

  She had to do it to get herself back. To prove it to herself that she was good enough to accomplish any goddamn thing she set her mind to.

  “Look,” she finally replied. “You're my best friend. My only friend. I'll never be able to pay you back for the things you've done for me. But I have to do this, Law. I have to. I don't ask you to understand me, or even agree with me. But I do ask that you let me have this, and if you can't, then we need to part ways.”

  Kingsley had simply smiled, then asked what she wanted for dinner.

  About a week into the second month, he finally took a job. A heist. Standard B&E, a divorcée trying to get an expensive heirloom back from her rich ex. A job Kingsley normally would've been above. But he took it for Lily.

  They flew to New York, where the job was, and though he set up the plan, Lily was the one to execute it. She was almost surprised at how calm she was the whole time. Previously, she'd only ever transported stolen goods. She'd never been the one to take them. It made her feel powerful, and when she'd arrived back at their makeshift safe house, she'd also felt proud.

  Fuck you, Marc.

  Kingsley gave her twenty percent of his fee, which she felt was grossly unfair, but didn't say anything else when her complaints caused him to give her a nasty glare. It was easy to forget that underneath his flirtatious facade, he was a thief. A con man. A killer.

  They hopped around the states, building up to bigger and better jobs. Lily learned how to wrap someone in a choke hold until they passed out. How to break into a security protected house. How to hack into a home surveillance system. She began to feel invincible. Before, in Africa, she could remember feeling like she was lawless. After a couple jobs, though, she quickly realized she'd had no clue what that really felt like – now she was part of the shadows. She moved in stealth, and if there was something she thought she couldn't do, she had a very bad man behind her to make sure she could do it.

  Meanwhile, as month after month passed, as the difficulty level of each job increased, as each task grew more bold, more daring, more dangerous, and Lily started to really make a name for herself in the underworld, she always kept one thought in the back of her head.

  Do you see any of this, De Sant? Wherever you are, have you heard about me yet? You're a coward, you're spineless, you're weak willed, and I'm going to prove who is the stronger one, once and for all.

  DAY ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FIVE

  Marcelle De Sant.

  He'd never thought much about his name. His father was of Spanish descent. His mother, English and Irish. Nothing terribly exciting. He wasn't sure where “Marcelle” had come from – no relatives shared the name. He'd always figured his mother just liked romantic sounding names. He went by “Marc” most of the time, anyway, so it wasn't like it really mattered.

  In his later years, it became its own brand. He'd considered concealing it for a while. Marcelle De Sant the mercenary, jesus, it sounded like something out of a movie. His reputation quickly grew enough to precede him, though, so it wasn't like he could change it.

  Sometimes he would remember the way Lily said his name. She'd mostly called him Marc, like most people, but sometimes she had used his full name. When she was teasing or flirting, or when she was being bratty or mocking. She would stretch it out, place the emphasis on the second syllable, mar-CELLE, and li
nger over the L's, her tongue between her teeth. If he concentrated hard enough, he would swear he could actually hear her whispering it in his ear.

  “Marcelle!”

  Though it was hard to concentrate on anything at all when the goddamn devil was shrieking at him.

  “This is really embarrassing,” he sighed, letting his head drop back on his shoulders.

  “What's embarrassing, dear?” the blonde woman cooed, leaning into his line of sight.

  “Being caught by someone like you.”

  Marc had tracked Stankovski to the Ukraine on a hunch. He'd learned about an unusually large shipment of women that had been brought through Stankovski's territory, and that was a no-no. At least, not without paying dues. Someone was going to get in trouble, and for such a large transgression, Marc had been positive that the Pakhan himself would want to see to the issue.

  Instead, Stankovski had sent an emissary, as it were. Someone who could be trusted to act in his stead. Someone who could carry out the harshest punishments without batting an eyelash. Someone who was almost a bigger sociopath than himself.

  So he sent his wife.

  Roksana Stankovski was harmless to look at – a slip of a woman, short and petite. She had long blonde hair and big blue eyes, and only wore white. Marc hadn't been able to figure it out at first, why the white. But later it became more apparent to him.

  Mrs. Stankovski liked blood, and she liked taking it by force. It would splash against her creamy leather jackets and her pristine satin shirts, so vivid against the stark white background she would provide.

  He felt so stupid. Getting caught, like an amateur. He'd been running surveillance on a fake construction company. They did some minor construction work, but were really just a cover for human trafficking. Women were moved into the lot in huge container vans, then disbursed throughout eastern Europe.

  He'd gotten sloppy since Africa. He didn't sleep right, he was always moving, always hunting, and his brain was always there. In the sand and heat. Driving those highways and roads. With her sitting right next to him.

  Focus, De Sant.

  Someone had spotted him leaving the construction site, followed him back to his hiding place, and then knocked him unconscious. Shameful. Shit like that never used to happen, not before he'd met her.

  So really, it was all Lily's fault, he'd decided.

  “De Sant,” Roksana's heavy accent broke him out of his deep thoughts. “You are not paying ATTENTION!”

  There was a whistling sound, and Marc barely had time to flinch before something sliced across his chest. He shook in his restraints, clenching all his muscles, willing the pain away.

  Goddamn, that never gets any less painful.

  “Of course I am, sweetheart,” he panted, looking up at her. “You have my undivided attention.”

  Roksana was a very … interesting woman. Stunningly beautiful, but scary beyond words. After he'd been beaten over the head, he'd woken up in a large hotel room. It was sparsely furnished and he was in the middle of it, tied to a chair. Not too bad of a set up, though after sitting in the spot for three days, he felt the scenery was getting old.

  She favored small blades and thin whips – Mrs. Stankovski would not be outdone by her husband in the evil villain department. If Marc didn't give her the answers she wanted, he got whipped. If he tried the silent treatment, he got cut. Sometimes, there didn't even need to be a reason. She would just walk into the room, carve her initials into his chest, then walk back out.

  Marc had met the little woman before, on the third or fourth job he'd done for Stankovski's Bratva. She'd been icy and taciturn during the introductions, but when he'd gone to leave, she'd walked him to the door, grabbed his dick, and told him to give her a call some time.

  Charming.

  He'd never taken her up on her offer, but he knew many men did – bodyguards, drivers, influential friends. Marc wasn't sure if they had an “open relationship”, or if her husband just didn't care that she fucked anything that moved. Any time Marc had been forced to be in her presence, she'd propositioned him. He'd always turned her down, and apparently she hadn't appreciated that one little bit. Now that she had him captive, she didn't seem eager to let him go again.

  Someone should've told her I'm not into BDSM.

  “You are not protecting anyone. I know you haven't been in contact with that awful woman. I know she's the real reason why you stole our diamonds, I don't blame you at all, dear,” she kept her voice breathy as she bent over and put her hands on her knees, giving him a perfect view of her cleavage.

  “Really? That's sweet. Pity you're wrong. I stole those diamonds from her, dropped her like a bad habit. She probably wants to see me dead more than you,” he lied to her. Well, not a total lie – wherever Lily was, she probably did want to see him dead.

  Roksana let out a shout and jerked her arm forward. The whip lashed out and licked at the top of his chest, just under his clavicle. It was a sickening feeling, his skin splitting open under the leather. He clenched his lips together, refusing to look down even as he felt fresh blood begin to run down his front.

  “This charade does grow tiring. I have to leave the country tomorrow. If I can't get anything useful out of you, then we're done. I'll have them cut you into five pieces and we'll bury you around the border,” she told him.

  Marc went still. Not at the threat, but at her slip. She was leaving the country – why? As far as he knew, she was running the whole operation there in the Kiev. They couldn't possibly be done working, done moving all the stolen women. If she was pulling out, it could only be because Stankovski himself had called for her.

  “Bummer. I was really beginning to enjoy our time together,” he sighed. She cocked up an eyebrow, then began to slowly approach him.

  “Really? For some reason, I find that very hard to believe. I have been having fun, but you? You will bear some of these marks forever,” she dropped her whip while she talked, and once she reached him, she pulled a knife from behind her back. The small weapon shined in the lamp light, menacing even for its tiny size. He knew what that blade could do.

  “Sweetheart, you haven't even begun to have a fun time. What could be better than playing with me?” he asked, smiling wide. For a big, scary guy, Marc knew he could pull off charming well. She wasn't immune to him – Roksana's esteem was shaky at best, she fed off attention.

  “Very little,” she agreed, tracing a finger through the blood that was smeared across his chest and abs.

  “If you're not going far, then maybe you could come back, we could pick up where we left off,” he suggested. She laughed loudly.

  “Colombia is about as far away as I can get from this god awful place. No, I will not be coming back. We end here.”

  “Baby, we never got a chance to get started.”

  He ran his teeth over his bottom lip and she stared for a long moment. Then she moved closer, hiking her skirt up past her thighs so she could straddle his lap. She dug the tip of her knife into his shoulder. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to keep him tense.

  “You've never once accepted any of my offers, De Sant. Years we have known each other. Much greater men than you have fallen at my feet, but you always resisted. Why are you so willing now? I don't like being toyed with,” she informed him, and the blade finally cut through his skin. He winced.

  “I was an employee before; a hired hand. I'm not gonna fuck the boss' wife when I'm trying to get paid. You think I didn't want to? Please, I used to dream about you,” Marc assured her. “But I'm pretty sure your husband is never going to hire me again. Also, you're never letting me get out of here alive. What a send off. One last ride.”

  She stared at him. Roksana was a bright woman, but she wasn't exactly intelligent. She was easy to manipulate, easy to set off. Her eyes were wide as she stared down at him, her pupils dilated. She was breathing heavily through her nose. The knife pushed harder against him for a moment, then she dropped it before sitting down, pressing her m
outh to his.

  She tasted like cigarettes and stale wine, her tongue aggressive against his own, but Marc didn't care. He kissed her back like it was something he'd been planning for years. Like she was someone he'd been long fantasizing about kissing.

  Like she's someone with red hair and green eyes.

  She writhed on top of him, grinding her hips down while her fingernails raked across his scalp. He was still tied to the chair, so he just leaned into her as much as he could, pulling his lips away from hers so he could work them down her neck.

  “God, you're incredible,” he groaned, pulling at her shirt with his teeth. She leaned away and yanked the blouse off, then grabbed his head and shoved it into her cleavage.

  “Why did you tease me for so many years!? We could have done this long ago, then you wouldn't have to die,” she told him, pulling her skirt up even higher so it was above her hips.

  “Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” he replied, then locked his lips over her nipple and sucked hard.

  That did it. She shrieked, her whole body shimmying. Then she was moving, pushing him away. She rushed around the chair and soon enough, he felt her cutting his restraints away. She came back to his front and cut his legs free, then grabbed his belt, yanking him to his feet.

  He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close, his free hand pulling roughly at her hair while he plunged his tongue into her mouth. She fought with his buckle while they stumbled across the room. They fell into a large dresser, the items on top of it clattering and clanking together.

  “I want you to tie me up. Use the whip – don't be gentle,” she demanded. He chuckled and bit down on her lip.

  “Oh, don't worry baby. I won't.”

  The hand in her hair yanked back. Beyond sexy hair pulling; hard enough to make her shriek and forcing her to look straight up at the ceiling. His other hand grabbed one of the many knives that sat on top of the dresser and then he spun her around, letting go of her hair and circling his arms around her torso, pinning her arms down. He held the knife to her throat, pressing hard enough that if she so much as shook her head, blood would spill.