Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,3

place, Ricardo cocked his head. “I’m surprised there’s no press here already, with a crowd like that showing up tonight.”

Kyle huffed. “Oh, no. Mr. Baldwin kept this event very hush-hush so the press wouldn’t show up and no one would try to sneak in.” He lowered his voice. “You know how he is with security.”

Ricardo’s mouth had gone dry. Oh yeah, he knew how Baldwin was with security.

A sick feeling crawled up the back of his throat. Someone who was willing to shell out five mill to drop Baldwin had to have been thorough. His employer had to have known about this party. Was that why it had to go down tonight?

His blood turned even colder. Either his employer had been spectacularly unprepared, or they were completely prepared and knew exactly what they were doing. Both of those options meant Ricardo was on his own in an elaborately protected house that was about to be filled with hired security, cops, National Guardsmen, and soldiers. That meant that this was most likely a setup, and Ricardo was leaning heavily toward that being the case. He wasn’t as paranoid as Lance Baldwin, but he had a healthy suspicion of anyone and everyone, especially those who were willing to pay a hitman.

“So.” Kyle gestured toward the rows and rows of wine racks. “Can you take care of the rats before tonight?”

Ricardo swallowed. Oh, he’d be taking care of some rats soon, but not the small squeaky kind. “Let me have a look around down here, see if I can locate the nest, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“All right.” Kyle tapped his foot on the concrete floor. “But hurry up. The last thing Mr. Baldwin needs is a rat showing up on the hors d’oeuvre table during an event like this.”

Ricardo forced a laugh. “I’ll get it done.”

“Good.” Kyle checked his watch. “I need to go chase down the decorators and make sure food will be ready on time.” He thrust a business card at Ricardo. “If you need me, just call my cell.”

Accepting the card, Ricardo nodded. “Will do.”

Kyle took a deep breath, then hurried back up the stairs. “Jessica,” he was calling as he walked. “Any word on the ice sculptures?” Then the door shut behind him, cutting off his voice, and Ricardo exhaled hard as he pressed his shoulder against a post.

Fuck. This was bad. He had to assume the worst-case scenario, which was that this was a setup. That he had unwittingly become the rat in the exterminator’s crosshairs. Someone (he had no idea who) had sent him into a trap (he had no idea why), and he had to—

A footstep on concrete straightened his spine. He was just about to turn around when cold metal dug into the back of his neck.

“Don’t move.” The voice was smooth, lyrical, familiar…and as cold as the gun muzzle biting into Ricardo’s skin. “Or I will blow your fucking head off.”

Chapter 2

“Hey, man.” The exterminator’s voice was calm and slow, his arms perfectly still but his fingers spreading like starfish clinging to rocks in a current. “I have no idea what’s going on here, but I don’t have any trouble with you. I’m just here to do a job.”

“So am I.” August Morrison’s gun stayed steady even as his gaze dropped down to the man’s lower legs. He thought he’d seen that odd silhouette before. Who else would hide pieces of a sniper rifle down his pants? It had to be—

Oh, fuck me, August thought in exasperation just as the exterminator smashed an elbow backward, almost too fast for him to dodge. He stepped out of the line of fire, lashing out with a kick as he went and landing a glancing blow on the top of the other man’s thigh, forcing him to step back as well instead of following through on his strike.

The exterminator went for a gun, one of several no doubt, and August let him, confident that he knew who he was dealing with now. He wasn’t about to be shot, but if it made this asshole feel better to have a weapon in his hand while they talked—and with men like him, it always did—then he could make that concession.

It was the only one he’d be making today, so Torralba had better damn well appreciate it.

“What’s the job? Killing me?”

So suspicious. Not that he didn’t have reason to be, but still—it wasn’t like August had actually shot him. Where was the trust? “No I’m not here