Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,12
the cellar. “All right, now we’re—”
A fist came out of the shadows and connected with Baldwin’s face. The billionaire dropped like a sack of privileged potatoes, and August shook out his hand.
“What the fuck?” Ricardo stared at him. “Punching him wasn’t part of the plan!”
“I know.” August shrugged. “I just wanted to.”
“Oh my God. You’re an idiot.” Ricardo rolled his eyes. “Did you get the service door open?”
August snorted. “Pfft. Did I get a door open? Please. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
Ricardo pointed at the groaning billionaire at their feet. “What intelligence?”
August just laughed. “Come on. Let’s get him out of here.”
Chapter 4
August indulged in a little bit of internal fuming—just a little bit—as he and Torralba carried Baldwin to the service entrance.
It’s like he thinks I’m completely incompetent.
No matter how much August told himself it didn’t matter what his reluctant ally thought, there was some nagging part of him that insisted actually, it really, really matters! But why? Just because Ricardo “Smiles Are The Devil and Fun is Like Torture” Torralba was an esteemed, highly-rated hitman? Just because he had the kind of respect and gravitas that made clients fight each other for the privilege of having someone killed by him? Just because he’d prompted a bidding war last month for his services?
No. August had his own admirers, and most of them were people who weren’t tempted by Torralba’s style—or lack thereof. August didn’t have to worry about the competition in that way. Then what was it?
“Hang on.” They stopped at the door and August glanced through the crack he’d left in it, checking for movement.
“This would be a lot fucking easier if you’d left the mark conscious and just let him walk out with us,” Torralba muttered.
“Omigosh, really?” August pressed his free hand to his cheek in mock-amazement. “You think he’d stay totally calm and compliant if we happened upon some of his highly-trained, hyperactive security instead of screaming for them to take us out? Personally, I find it easier to explain away an injury or an accident instead of letting the target do the talking, but what do I know about how overly indulged rich people think?”
Whatever leverage Torralba had used to get Baldwin down to the cellar, he hadn’t brought it with him, because instead of scoffing again, he actually looked like he was considering what August had to say. He didn’t agree with him out loud, but August took his silence as a win anyway.
“Okay, then.” He checked outside again. “Looks clear to me, let’s move.” He opened the door and led the way around the crushed marble path—pink marble, for the love of God, were they living in Florida now?—and to the parking lot behind the house, right beside the garage where Lance Baldwin stored his mobile cock extensions, also known as his collection of vintage race cars. August hadn’t been able to get inside—the security system on that building was even better than the security inside the house, and that was saying something—but he’d looked in the window, and good. God. Damn.
“He’s got better taste in cars than you, Ricky,” he told Torralba as they got to his ugly Pest Assassin truck. Baldwin was already stirring—August hadn’t hit him all that hard, they might need him to get the rest of the way out—so he opened up the back doors fast and led the way inside.
Torralba scowled at him. “Don’t call me ‘Ricky.’”
“Excuse me?” Was this a crack in the famous façade at last? “I’m sorry, did you just invite me to call you Ricky exclusively? Thank you, I will.”
“When this is over,” Torralba said as he hoisted Baldwin’s legs into the back of the van before getting in and shutting the door behind them, “I’m going to shoot you in the face.”
August grinned like a shark. “Not if I shoot you first. Keys, please.”
“I’m driving.”
August shook his head. “Nooo, you’re the one working the target now. You kidnapped him, so you’ve got a rapport. I’ll drive.”
Torralba glared at him suspiciously. Then again, when did he ever glare in any other way? “I don’t trust you behind the wheel.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to damage your junker?” August rolled his eyes. “I’ll pay for the damages if I do. This would probably be insured for, what, five hundred dollars these days? Just give me the keys.”
“Mmm…hnnngh…”
“He’s waking up,” August said in a sing-song voice. “The longer we linger, the more likely we are to be found. Keeeeeys, pleeeeeease.”
Torralba sighed, then fished in his pocket