Driven to the Edge: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance Read Online Free Page A

fingers twitch, like they’re already on a trigger. But all they hit is styrofoam coffee cup.
    The man, Hunter Voss, is a name I know. He leads me into Martinsen’s office, and thank God it’s just the two of them.
    I introduce myself with a flash of teeth. It looks like a smile, but it’s something more primitive than that. More predatory.
    “Mr. Hawthorne, thanks for coming,” says Martinsen.
    As he and Voss take their seats, I wander up to the head of the long, dark wood table. It smells like it’s been freshly oiled. Martinsen settles into a seat at the front and twitches a polite smile up at me, his little mouth slightly pursed.
    He looks so normal. I actually find myself wishing he looked more evil. But I suppose one of the truest things you ever learn, brushing elbows with real evil every day, is that most of the people in this world who do terrible things look just like you and me.
    Martinsen is portly, with a shaggy goatee and a broad-shouldered build. His hair is cropped short at the sides and swept back over his head with some sort of pomade. His suit is expensive, but not flashy. He has a wedding ring on. It’s simple, also not flashy.
    For a fleeting second, I wonder if his wife will even miss him. Or if she even knows about this part of his life at all.
    “I appreciate you lending me an ear for a couple hours today,” I say, setting my briefcase on the desktop. I open it so that Martinsen and Voss can’t see inside, can’t see that it doesn’t contain a laptop at all.
    But as I twitch open the latches, something in the room’s atmosphere changes. There’s a subtle shift, like the way atmospheric pressure drops before a storm.
    In a split second, I notice several things: Martinsen scoots his chair back, further away from me. And I’ve let my eye off Voss, which is a mistake. Voss is just a shipping and logistics guy in the organization, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous in close quarters. Voss is sitting up, reaching into his coat for something.
    There’s no time. My brain shifts into autopilot.
    I shift my center of mass lower, using the briefcase as a shield, and slip my hand beneath my coat. I whip the Sig out and shoot Voss through the forehead before my brain has a chance to try to talk me out of it. His body jerks backwards as he goes lifeless in his chair.
    I ignore the mess and turn on Martinsen.
    In that moment, I am certain of one thing: they know. The men I came here to kill knew I was coming. Because Martinsen has his piece half-fished out of his own holster, and I find it hard to believe these two would come armed to a meeting with a fucking software developer.
    Before Martinsen can free his weapon, I drop down low, beneath the edge of the table. I shoot Martinsen through the kneecap, crippling him.
    Silencers on pistols don’t work like they do in the movies. All they do is muffle and distort, so that hopefully the gunshot doesn’t sound like a gunshot. If there was anyone in rooms adjacent to us, they’d know exactly what it was. But further down the hallways, or above or below a floor, there is a chance the shooting might not sound like a shooting.
    Martinsen’s screaming however still sounds very much like human screaming.
    He tumbles out of the chair and I stomp over to him, kicking his gun away. I roll him over onto his back and press a shiny black boot to his throat, just enough to cut off his air supply.
    “No more yelling,” I say. I don’t remove the boot until he nods in compliance.
    “You know who I am. You know what I did in La Jolla. You saw what I did to Voss just now.”
    He nods again, his chin wobbling.
    “I’m only here for one thing,” I say. “And surprisingly enough, it isn’t even to kill you. I just need information.”
    I’m not being entirely truthful, but Martinsen is lying to himself if he thinks he’s going to live through his encounter anyway.
    “Nod if you understand me.”
    I wait for him to nod, then nod down at him once