Always With You - Part Three(14)

"Tell me who hired you," Jason growls, paying us no attention once his eyes settled on us and then moved away. It's like he saw the opening of the door as a possible threat and then discounted it immediately when he saw Olivia and me enter.

Olivia.

I turn to my wife who is practically stuck to my right side, eyes huge and wide as she peeks around my shoulder. "Go wait in the car. Lock the doors."

"But Isabella-"

"I'll get her and send her out to you. Go. Now!" I hiss urgently, giving her a little nudge. Thank God she doesn't argue with me. Now is not the time for her to be her stubborn self and refuse to leave my side.



       
         
       
        

I wait until she's out the door and doesn't come back for a few seconds before I turn and walk slowly toward Jason. The back of his hand is up under the stranger's chin, keeping his jugular exposed, and they're both perfectly still. It gives me a second to check out the stranger.

He has a coldness to his face that isn't unlike the look on Jason's. It's similar, yes, but not the same. His is less … blood-chilling. He wouldn't intimidate me if I met him in a dark alley.

Jason would.

There's something in Jason's eyes, something I saw when he glanced over at Olivia and me when we walked in, that tells me he's in work mode. And work mode is deadly as hell. Not something I'd test if I had any other choice. I've learned from Gavin that there are some people who can kill without giving it much thought. They've been trained to detach, to become who and what they need to be in order to accomplish their mission. I think Jason King is just such a man.

The guy he's holding might have thought he was, too. Until he met Mr. King.

Dressed in what looks like tactical gear, I'd say the stranger is some sort of mercenary. He's wearing a protective vest that might be made of Kevlar. Hell if I know. It's not doing him much good right now, though. Neither is the gun that should be occupying his shoulder holster. It's lying on the floor about three feet away. His thigh is strapped with a sheath, too. Probably to house the knife that's presently in Jason's hand. All in all, I'd say the guy knows what he's doing. I just bet he's never met someone like Jason King before.

With a sharp yank, Jason suddenly twists the guy's arm up and back, the tip of said knife digging into the merc's throat, deep enough to cause a small trickle of blood to flow down and disappear into the neck of his black tee. "Who?"

I hear gurgling and the man's face is turning an unhealthy shade of purplish red. Jason lets up just enough that the guy sputters and squeezes out, "Go to hell."

The smile that slides over Jason's face is enough to freeze me where I stand. "You brought her here to kill a woman right in front of her little girl. You don't know hell until you've spent some time with me. Tell me who hired you. I won't ask again."

"Fuc-"

The man's words are cut off by Jason's forearm, which he wraps so snugly around the guy's throat that he passes out within seconds.

"She's in the closet. Get her out of here. Leave the rest to me," Jason says before he hefts the guy up on his shoulder like he weighs nothing and walks past me and into the men's restroom.

You brought her here to kill a woman right in front of her little girl. 

Jesus H. Christ! Could that mean what it sounds like?

I spring into action, racing to the back of the club, through the office and flinging open the door to the apartment. I'm brought up short by the sight of two bodies lying on the floor in front of the bed.

They're both about the same size, both blonde. Both unmoving. The silence in the room-the absolute absence of … life-is stifling. It's dense. Thick. Like mud, dragging at my feet. But I have to know. I have to see, so I cross the room and sink slowly into a squat beside the body lying nearest me.

I reach for the chin I see peeking through the blonde hair. When my fingers meet skin, I expect her to move, breathe, scream. Something. But there's nothing. Just more silence. When I brush the pale hair away from the even paler face, I brace myself for the familiar sight of Sophie, but that's not what I see. No, I see only a woman who looks a startling amount like her. A pseudo-Sophie.

I study her face, wondering who she was to Sophie and why she's here with a hitman. She gives me no answers.

Hesitantly, I put my fingers to the side of her neck. I hope for a pulse, but there is more nothing. Something wet brushes the back of my hand and I look down at the dark clump of hair between my skin and the floor. It looks wet.

I look more closely and see that the hair isn't just dark or wet. It's bloody.