Sister's Revenge: Action Adventure Assassin Pulp Thriller Book #1 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin) (12 page)

“Yeah, all right. Hey, Marro!” the clerk called over to him, voice muffled through the phone line. “Some smart-mouth broad’s on the phone for you.”

“Who is it?” Marro shouted back.

“Didn’t say.”

After a slight pause, Michelle heard him say through the receiver, “Marro here, how can I help you?”

“Is your wife working today?” she asked.

“She’s at the end of the counter.”

“Still pregnant?”

“Always,” Marro said.

“I’m in town and thought I’d get some Italian sausage this evening. Do you deliver?”

“Of course we deliver. I can have Pepi bring your order now. Or, if you prefer, I can bring your order by after I close this evening. Where would you like your delivery?”

“Same place as always. About nine thirty?”

“Make it closer to ten,” Marro said. “I’ll wrap it up special for you after we close.”

“Don’t bother with the wrap,” Michelle said. “Just bring the sausage.”

T
IME TO SCOOT
. Michelle had a plane to catch, but first, she needed to change her style. She was in New York as herself but wouldn’t travel that way; she’d be going as Jenny Santiago, a soccer mom with an ID from Texas. Sporting long, medium brown wavy curls that matched her lighter foundation makeup, large glasses, and a padded bra for a fuller figure, Michelle looked the part.

This would be a short trip with a quick turnaround—take the redeye flight into L.A. for a fast bit of business, catch the first morning flight out. She’d be back in New York without missing a day and with no one the wiser.

* * *

S
tanding in the open doorway to Jerome’s bedroom, Michelle turned on the overhead light. Like the rest of his small apartment, it was surprisingly tidy. She thought he’d be sloppy.

Like Momma used to say, God doesn’t leave you broke. Everybody’s got something. Jerome may be a prick, but at least he’s a neat prick.

Took a moment for the light to rouse him. Some people snapped to full awareness immediately, while others woke up in steps. Jerome, it turned out, was a slow one—first he gave a little rustle with a bit of a pause, then he jumped up in realization that someone else was in the room, ending with the always predictable, “What the fuck! What the hell are you doing in my room, bitch?”

“Sit your stupid ass still and shut the fuck up.” Michelle clutched the same silenced Ruger .380 she’d used before. She liked the .380, or baby nine as some people called them; the petite pistol fit right in her small hand. Too bad she had to put this one in the drain after tonight.

“Fuck you, bitch,” he said. “You won’t do nothing.” Yet he didn’t move.

“Jerome, you’re a skanky bitch,” she said. “That’s right—you’re nothing but a punk-ass with no balls. Any man punk enough to hit a woman is a sorry-ass chickenshit bi-otch. Any chickenshit coward who kicks someone when they’re down is an asswipe punk bi-otch. That makes you a punk-ass bitch through and through. Now, you’re my bitch. You got something else to say—
bitch
?”

“Suck my dick.”

“Now that’s original, especially coming from a dickless asshole like you. That lame shit is exactly what I expect from a lop-ass chickenshit. Now,
bitch
, this what we’re going to do: lift your left hand up over your head, you stupid shit.”

Jerome looked down like a sullen little boy. “I don’t gotta do nothin’ you say, bitch.”

“Wrong answer.”

Puhffiitt!

Jerome flinched as the bullet bore into the mattress next to his leg.

“First and last warning,” she said. “Now lift your left hand.”

He raised his hand over his head like a school kid asking permission to speak.

“Good. Now, with your left hand, reach over, pick up the TV remote and turn on the news.”

Jerome did as he was told. Apparently he’d gotten the message—Michelle was in no mood to play.

“Turn up the sound a bit.”

Jerome punched up the volume just loud enough so they could still talk. If someone walked by the apartment door, they’d only hear the TV.

“Now listen carefully, asshole. You’ll live through this. I don’t understand why, but Deja would be upset if I killed you, so I only have the pleasure of putting a couple caps in your ass. Up to you if it’s two or three. Cooperate, and you’ll only get two bullets, and I’ll go easy. You fuck around and don’t do exactly what I say, you’ll get some extra. Each time you piss me off, you’ll get shot. If I shoot you when I’m pissed, it’ll be worse. You feel me?”

“Fuck you. I ain’t feeling shit.”

“We’ll see about that. Now stand your punk-ass up, stay by the bed, and face me. Take one step this way, you’re a dead muthafucka.”

Dressed in only his pajama bottoms, Jerome got up and stood by the bed.

“Now let’s see who has balls and who doesn’t. Pinch the skin on your right side and pull it out real wide-like.”

“What? You’re crazy.”

Michelle cocked her head, silently pursing her lips.

“I ain’t doing shit.”

Michelle dropped her quizzical look, replaced by a flat-eyed stare. “Then you die,” she said and the aim of the .380 moved from his torso to his face.

“Yeah, what the fuck . . .” He stretched the skin out on his right side at his waist.

“More.”

He glared at her—

Puhffiitt!

She shot him in the side, right where he’d pulled the skin taut.

“Goddamn!” he yelled. “Fuck! Fuck! Oh, shit!” With hard breaths and a wince, Jerome sat back down on the bed.

It was only a flesh wound, but still a painful through-and-through. For a guy who’d never been shot before, this kind of gunshot would be very frightening, and since Jerome didn’t have any old bullet scars, Michelle assumed he’d be scared shitless over this. She could have just creased him in the side like before and done about the same damage, but in forcing him pull out his skin, she made him into her bitch. She wanted him to know, deep in his heart, he belonged to her.

“You crazy motherfucking ho.”

“Yeah, I shot you. Now stand your coward-ass up before the next one goes between your eyes.”

“I’m bleeding; I need to stop the blood.”

“You’re not bleeding that bad. Now stand up.”

Michelle aimed her baby nine straight at his red-rimmed eyes. There’d be no jumping to get her; no matter how fast he moved, he’d be dead. He knew it. She knew it. Holding his side, Jerome stood up.

“One step, muthafucka, and you’re dead.”

“I’m gonna get you,” he said, standing as still as a statue, gaze darting around the room.

“No, Jerome, you’re not going to do shit. You’re the same bitch you’ve always been—all mouth and no courage. Fuck around, and I’ll take you apart, piece by piece. Now pull out the skin on the other side.”

“Fuck you, you crazy bitch. You done shot me once; it won’t happen again.”

Puhffiitt!

His right shoulder kicked back, and he grunted, staggering backwards in shock.

“You were saying?”

When Jerome again raised his head, Michelle trained her Ruger on his face, and his eyes bugged out in deep fear. Finally, the message had sunken in: not only would she pull the trigger, she could kill him—easily.

“The other side now,” she commanded.

His legs shook, and tears ran down his face. Could he actually remain standing? Had this been just about fear and dominance, she would have already accomplished that. Although this next shot wasn’t necessary, she was pissed; she wanted him to pay for hurting her friends.

With a trembling hand, Jerome reached down and pulled out the skin on the other side, stretching it as tightly as it could go.

Puhffiitt!

Another through-and-through. Both shots would leave some nasty scars—good for bragging later on—but in the end, they were really only flesh wounds.

“Sit down and look at me,” she said.

Jerome collapsed onto the side of the bed, hiccupped, then caught his breath; his sobs reduced to small whimpers as fresh tears ran down his face.

“Here’s what’s going to happen next. You’ll drive your sorry ass to the hospital. You don’t need an ambulance. You can say you shot yourself cleaning your gun or got jacked; that’s up to you. You don’t say anything to the police. Most importantly—and I can’t stress this enough: keep your goddamned hands off my friends.”

He stared blankly at her.

“What did I just tell you?”

His eyes refocused, and he said, “Keep my hands off your friends.”

“If you tell the doc or the police what we discussed here, you’ll have real trouble. If you snitch, I promise this here will seem like a day at Disneyland. If you hurt any of my friends again, I’ll be back and you won’t see me coming next time any more than you did this time. You do right and keep your bitch mouth shut, you’ll live to tell stories to your grandchildren. You feel me?”

“Yeah, I feel you.”

“Tell it back to me so I know we’re clear.”

“Don’t say shit, and don’t hit any of your friends.”

“Good. Now put that shirt on; forget the pants and shoes.”

Jerome struggled his left arm through the armhole, and then draped the shirt over his right shoulder. It hung open, unbuttoned.

“That’s good enough.” She stepped back through the door. “Now walk on out here into the living room and stand by the front door.”

He did so, and she tossed him the keys she’d picked up from the coffee table.

“Go get in your car and drive your bitch self to the hospital. I’ll follow you all the way; don’t try any stupid shit. The way you’re bleeding, you could go into shock and die.”

Although he wasn’t really bleeding enough to die, the part about his going into shock was true. Already he was showing the first signs of it.

Jerome nodded and went out the door. All of the fight had gone out of him.

Michelle followed him to the hospital where she watched him walk through the emergency doors. He’d live. Earlier, she’d given her word to Deja that she would only hurt him a little. To do more, she’d have to tell her friend first.

B
REATHE IN DEEPLY,
slowly to the count of four . . . hold—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . breathe out slowly to the count of eight . . . and hold—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Repeat.

This breathing exercise helped to slow Michelle’s heart rate, to calm and center her for the task ahead. After five repetitions, she was ready.

She had everything set. Unfortunately the silencer added length to the sniper rifle, which made it a little awkward. Using the silencer wasn’t really a choice, though. Gunshots always drew a lot of attention, even in New York City.

Street gangsters and bangers wanted their guns to be heard. Just the sight of guns scared people. Gunfire always pushed them to the point of panic. Every shot drew attention—lots of attention: Danger! Danger! Gangster with a GUN! Duck, run, hide.

Professionals like Michelle didn’t want attention. Get in, get out—get the job done and leave only the footprint they wanted the police to find. The silencer might make things a little awkward, but nowhere near as awkward as an arrest. Besides, Michelle would take the more classy and ladylike
Puhffiitt!
over
BLAM!
any day.

Again, Michelle used the service steps leading down from the roof to reach her hotel floor. A plain backpack held the collected box of chicken scraps, in addition to a few small things she’d need for the job. She carried the disassembled FR F2 rifle in a lightweight case hidden inside a sports bag slung over her shoulder.

First, she hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the knob. Next, she turned the TV on loud enough to be heard through the door. Then she prepared her shooting stage, put in her earplugs, and settled in. From her earlier observations, she knew her man’s schedule, and the wait would be at least a couple of hours. He and an associate would come out of the hotel between 8:10 and 8:20 a.m., and they’d stand waiting at the entrance while the doorman hailed a passing cab.

* * *

8
:11 a.m.

Right on time.

Hmmm . . . interesting. They’re upset about something.

Her target and his associate had stepped out of the hotel, directly behind two other men. All four were dressed in the same style, and all four wore the same troubled expressions. Each gave the others nasty looks. Obviously there was bad blood amongst them.

Guess that’s why I’m here.

Focusing only on her target, Michelle disregarded the other three men. She set up the shot, took two calming breaths, and at the bottom of the third breath, she pulled the slack out of the trigger.

Michelle’s gaze was glued to the man’s face. He scowled at one of the other men. In that instant, his face went from scowling to wide-eyed surprise.

She pulled the trigger the last fraction of an inch and felt the recoil of the rifle.
PUHFFITT!

The back of his head exploded in a pink mist.

Her mark lay dead on the sidewalk, and so did the man he’d been earlier scowling at.

What . . . ? Two shooters? What the fuck?

She’d never heard of that happening before. Had they both been assassinations? Looked like it. Did each man hire a shooter to take out the other guy? What was going on?

Focus! Get outta here!

Michelle didn’t have time to think about what another shooter would mean. Right now, she needed to move—and fast. She started prepping the room for the police.

First, standing out of the line of sight, she closed the window.

Next, she did a thorough wipe down—the table she used as a base, the rifle, the German field glasses, and the chair, which she put back on the far side of the table. Then she placed the aluminum step stool in the right place where the imaginary six-foot-tall “shooter” would have stood. The stool, the rifle, and the glasses were her gifts to the police.

Expensive gifts, but worth every penny.

Standing in the bathroom, Michelle loosened the string of her hood, then pulled the hoodie over her head, turned it inside out, rolled it up, and shoved it in her pack. She wiped her face clean with a Handi Wipe, removing of any gunshot residue. The surgical gloves were stripped off, tucked one inside the other. The earplugs were rinsed off and, along with the used Handi Wipes, went inside the glove, which was filled with water then flushed down the toilet. The glove and its contents disappeared on the first flush.

With damp toilet paper, Michelle thoroughly wiped down the floor and all of the bathroom surfaces to pick up any hair that might have dropped when she’d taken off her hoodie. Then, she dumped the damp wad in the toilet, flushed a second time, and for good measure flushed again. Couldn’t leave evidence floating in the toilet when the cops searched the room.

One last look around confirmed that everything had been either wiped down or successfully removed, and Michelle calmly stepped out the door. From pulling the trigger to exiting the room, it took less than fifty seconds.

Out in the hall, Michelle glimpsed the back of a man as he rounded the corner toward the only service stairs that lay in that direction—the same stairs she planned to use in another six seconds.

This just keeps getting better and better.

The distant pounding of rubber-soled shoes echoed softly up the stairwell. At a run, Michelle headed up, while above her, the door leading to the roof clicked closed. Certain she was following the other shooter, she slowed before opening the door; experience had taught her a little caution here might be wise. Her heart pounded at the possibility of another professional killer being on the other side. Slowly, she turned the doorknob and pushed.

Nothing happened.

“Sonuvabitch!” Michelle whispered vehemently. He’d blocked the door from the outside, which only confirmed her suspicions: he was the other shooter.

Jesus, this is just bizarre.

Unbelievable. They’d both set up on the same floor of the same hotel at the same time.

And he’d gotten out first.

Yet he’d fired only a fraction of a second earlier. Maybe he hadn’t been as careful leaving his room? Or possibly he had a different routine, giving him a few seconds’ head start? None of that mattered now. What mattered was that she had a serious problem: he’d blocked her way out. Even if she could break through, it’d make a lot of noise, drawing attention she couldn’t afford.

This changed everything, and not in a good way. She needed to get out, unseen, and be long gone before the police showed up. In short order, they’d realize where the shots had come from, and they’d swarm the hotel.

The lobby had too many potential witnesses. Same with the kitchen, so the service entrance was out. If she walked up the underground parking ramp, though, she’d only be seen from the back. It was the best choice she had, so she headed down toward the parking level.

As she stepped into the garage, Michelle was relieved to find it quiet and empty.

So far, so good.

A siren wound down as a cruiser pulled up to the scene outside, while at least two more sirens blared, closing in with each second. Michelle walked steadily across the parking area toward the ramp, when—

“Shit.”

—a cruiser, siren fading, lights flashing, pulled up and parked in the entry of the ramp. Two cops jumped out and rushed across the street where the dead bodies sprawled.

Keep calm. They only need a place to put the car off the street. Keep walking.

“Oh, shit—damn, and double damn.”

A second cruiser pulled into the driveway of the ramp, completely blocking it. Another two cops got out of the car and walked away.

Okay, clear to go.

“No. Crap.”

A cop strolled from the direction of the scene, then stopped and talked to the parking lot attendant. A moment later, another one joined in the discussion.

Full of cops, the parking ramp wouldn’t work, and the front door was out of the question, and in a few minutes, the police would search the hotel. The roof was her last remaining option. She had to somehow reach the roof.

With a plan already formed, Michelle walked back toward the service stairs then, hidden almost out of sight behind the dumpster, she dropped her pants, squatted, and pee-soaked the hoodie.

With gunshot residue on the front and her DNA on the inside, the hoodie was hard evidence that would be any DA’s wet dream, so as disgusting as it was, she needed to hide it in plain sight, make it look like a street person had found a little privacy. Hopefully, no cop would pick up a wet and stinking pee-soaked rag.

Yet another good reason to dress down on the job—comfortably used clothes in good, serviceable condition were best. New clothes tended to draw attention, and repelled liquids. But this old hoodie? Soaked up her pee like a sponge.

One down. Now the hard part.

With a little prayer to the elevator gods, Michelle hit the button for the service elevator. The gods were with her; the elevator was empty.

Good and bad news. A maid’s cart stood in the corner. Maids didn’t normally leave their carts in elevators, so someone would be waiting for it to return. To prove her suspicions, the elevator started going up immediately when the doors closed.

More good news / bad news. The elevator had a maintenance hatch in the ceiling; unfortunately, it was in the middle—the exact hardest place to reach.

She hit the button for the tenth floor of the eleven-floor building, and leapt over to the cart. It would give her a needed boost. Michelle started to lock the wheels on the cart to steady it and caught herself.

No, she’ll notice someone has messed with her cart.

The elevator slowed to a stop.

In a few seconds the doors would open. She had to get through the hatch—fast.

Michelle leapt up on the cart, pushed open the top hatch, and tossed her pack through. As she jumped, the cart spun away, taking part of her momentum with it. Fortunately, she had a good hold and, kicking and scrambling, she pulled herself up. The hatch closed a half-second before she heard the doors swish open.

Hopefully, no one would take this car all the way up. If it went to the top floor, she’d be squished like a bug.

Damn the other shooter for causing her so much trouble!

Muthafucka.

Atop the elevator car, the faint smell of oil, grease, and machinery hit her. Not normally smells she liked; today, though, they smelled like the first steps to freedom.

Below, she heard two women talking and the rattle of another cart being pushed into the elevator, and up they went. Along the way, several people entered and left, and again, the elevator gods smiled down at her—the last person exited on the sixth floor, and the empty elevator car continued on its initial journey to the tenth floor.

The starting and stopping of the elevator had taken almost eight minutes. Peeing on her hoodie made it a total of nine since she discovered the police on site. All of this, combined with the time she’d spent going from the room to the roof and then down to the garage, at least twenty minutes had elapsed since the shot. The police were sure to be in the building, possibly in her sniper room. Time had run out.

The shaft had a maintenance workers side ladder that went to a platform at the top—

Almost there.

—and a few possibilities still remained between her and freedom. Would the elevator shaft’s ventilation opening be big enough to fit through? If so, would it be open, or would it be covered with a welded grate? And did it open to a welcoming rooftop, or did it open to the side of the building with nothing but air for eleven stories?

Shouldering her pack, Michelle jumped onto the ladder, and up she went in a climbing sprint.

“Thank you, God!”

The vent was a regular sliding window big enough to climb through, no problem, and as an added blessing, it was three feet from the rooftop. A couple of steps away stood the service door, where the other shooter had gone old-school, wedging a chair under the handle. An easy, effective lock.

Michelle followed her pack out through the window and started across the rooftop when—

Bam!

—someone heavy hit the service door from the inside. The explosion of noise almost gave her a heart attack.