prove to this new client that he could get the girls needed for the first job. Nobody was better at this than he was.
He’d just finished his beer when the knock came.
Tossing the bottle in the trash, he checked his gun. Keeping a loose grip on the Beretta 92FS, he headed to the door. He didn’t plan on needing the gun. But Mike was a big believer in being prepared. It was sort of his motto . . . be prepared for everything to go wrong.
With that motto in mind, he kept the Beretta in one hand and the other hand on the doorknob, standing off to the side. He didn’t unlock it right away.
Through the door, he called out, “Yes?”
“Interested in a job?”
Smiling a little, he said, “Jobs are always nice. Especially in the current economy.”
“Having the right kind of work is nice, too. It doesn’t matter what the economy is, if you’re not the right man for the work, it just leads to trouble.”
“Trouble is never good.” Pleased that he had the right person, he slid the Beretta into the sheath under his jacket and opened the door.
The man on the other side of the door looked rough. He looked like trouble. He was big and dark, and looked nothing like the rich fuck Mike had expected. Wary, Mike stepped aside and let the man enter, eyeing him narrowly. He shut the door behind him and turned, keeping the man in his sight at all times.
Instinct started to whisper as the man turned toward him.
He never even had a chance to draw the gun.
A blinding pain practically ripped his mind in two and he collapsed to the ground, unable to draw breath even to scream.
* * *
THIS time, Joss didn’t feel bad about unleashing the power of that gift into this son of a bitch’s mind. As he took what he needed from him, he stood over Mike Sellers with his hands jammed into his pockets. It was that, or haul the fucker up and pummel him bloody.
Seeing as how the man was almost catatonic at the moment, it wouldn’t really be rewarding to beat him up just yet.
There were so many . . .
The faces just kept rolling through his mind. One right after the other—
Cutting off those images, Joss said, “Why are you here?”
Mike Sellers, or whoever he really was, didn’t speak, but the mind had the info Joss needed. As it yielded those answers, he braced himself to get even sicker.
He wasn’t disappointed.
A job. Yeah, it had been about a job.
There was a saying that Joss liked, by a cartoonist, Frank Tyger. Tyger had once said, “Doing what you like is freedom. Liking what you do is happiness.”
Ol’ Mike must have felt like a really free, happy man. One who believed in his work and took a hell of a lot of pride in it.
Once Joss had finished, he took a step away and looked around the neat little cabin. He needed a fucking drink. He needed a fucking shower. He really needed a fucking vacation—and now sounded like a good time to take one, but just like the monster lying catatonic on the floor behind him, Joss also believed in what he did. He also took a lot of pride in it.
So no vacation. Yet. But he’d have a fucking drink and if the boss didn’t like it . . . well. Who said he had to know? Spying a bar, he stormed over to it. Stocked. Excellent. He grabbed the whiskey and eyed the label. What in the hell ever happened to good ol’ Jack? He liked Jack Daniels. But just then, he didn’t care. Splashing some into a glass, he tossed it back, relishing the hot burn of it down his throat before he turned back to the man lying on the floor.
He was whimpering a little now. Deep in his throat, the way a wounded animal might if it was afraid and hurt.
Savagely, Joss wondered if he could make the perverted freak hurt just a little more.
Except he was expecting company.
That knowledge thrummed inside his head, a head that felt too damn full. He’d felt like he’d found a decent middle ground, but meeting Dru had pushed him off center and he was back to floundering. After another drink, he slammed the glass down and went over to the man. Grabbing him by the front of the shirt, he stared into glassy eyes. There was awareness in there now. Barely.