Page 9 of Stolen By the Hit Man

Chapter Nine

Jasmyn

I’m watching a thousand-piece puzzle click into place all at once.

They lied to me. All of them.

I know who I am. I’m Jasmyn Fucking Waters from Tampa, Florida. I’m the head bitch in charge of my life and of J. Waters Luxury Fabrics.

And this is not Joaquin’s fight.

This is my fight.

Next to me, Joaquin is practically vibrating, readying for battle.

But there’s no need.

I place a hand on Joaquin’s arm. “Wait,” I say calmly. “I just remembered something.”

“Can it wait?”

“I’ve never been married to that man,” I say.

Joaquin knits his brows together. “Yeah, I know. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, girl. The whole thing is a construct?—”

“No, that’s not what I meant! Well, yes, it is, but there’s more…”

Joaquin is not listening. He’s too worked up and begins to exit the car.

I could vomit at the thought of him getting hurt, but I force myself to keep it together.

I tug at his arm.

“Don’t go out there!” I hiss. “They’re here to talk to me, not you! I told you how this works!”

“You did,” he says calmly. “And now that I know all that, I’m going to expedite things.”

“How?”

Joaquin leans into me and brushes back my hair, speaking low and directly into my ear, “It’s what I do, baby. I’m an expediter.”

“What does that mean?"

He kisses my forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

Joaquin opens the door and gives my hand a squeeze one last time. I refuse to let him go.

“I need to talk to them.”

“That’s not an option.”

“Listen to me. They’re not going to do anything once they hear what I have to say.”

“Do I gotta handcuff you to the steering wheel? Because I will,” Joaquin growls.

I smirk. “Thanks for the warning.”

I’m too fast for Joaquin, propelled by everything I remember. I keep my ugly mom purse clutched to my side.

Out on the dirt path, I face the six heavily armed men—with Joaquin’s tank of a body stepping in front of me.

“This is quite the welcoming party,” he says.

Stepping around him, I see one of the men step forward. It’s Braydon. “Hand Jasmyn over nicely and you walk away instead of leaving on a stretcher.”

“Aw, come on now, Braydon. We both know your kind isn’t in the habit of calling emergency services after you make people disappear.”

A couple of the men exchange glances.

“Hand her over!” Braydon barks.

“Why don’t you be nice and give her a choice in the matter?”

“All of you, shut your mouths and let’s get this over with,” snarls the oldest man in the bunch, Uncle Charlie. Well, not my uncle anymore.

Think about the people who love you. My work family and…that’s about it. That’s right. I haven’t spoken to my parents since I was 16.

“I need someone to contact the Prophet. I need to see about granting a release for my girl Jasmyn.”

I clear my throat and speak up, loud and clear across the thirty yards that separate us so they can hear me.

“I’m not your wife, Braydon. I know you all lied to me.”

No one says anything at first. “What’s that, sweetheart?” Braydon says, playing dumb.

I don’t miss the fact that Joaquin’s trigger finger is twitching.

‘Don’t you fucking speak to her,” Joaquin says.

“It’s okay, Joaquin. Let me handle this.”

Through gritted teeth, he says, “Jasmyn, get in the car.”

I ignore this and turn my attention back to the men. “You kidnapped me. I remember everything. I wasn’t in a farm accident. I crashed my car in the mountains. You took advantage of a woman with a concussion. I know everything.”

The one I knew as Uncle Charlie steps forward. “What do you mean, everything?”

What follows is a stare down while the final piece clicks into place.

That wasn’t a deer in the road. It was human.

Somehow, my mind couldn’t handle the fact that I was driving up on the scene of a crime — four men placing a body in the middle of the road.

They looked like they were arguing when I came around the corner, and in a split second, they scattered.

And I was so shocked and scared that I veered off the road.

My hand dips inside my purse, taking hold of the grip of the gun. Anxious sweat drips down my brow.

“I know what you all did, Charlie. And you’re all going to jail.”

“Well, we’ll see if the sheriff buys the story of a lying transient whore who took advantage of our hospitality. Or if he’ll believe those of us with roots in the community, that we came upon this little lady tourist trying to cover up a crime scene after driving recklessly through our mountains.”

Braydon shakes his head. “Sure is a shame what all these tourists are doing to our fine countryside.”

Joaquin’s last tether to reason finally snaps. “Jasmyn, get down on the ground,” he says as he reaches for his pistol.

I see it in the instant before it happens: Braydon reaches for his belt holster. He draws.

My hand tugs loose from Joaquin’s grip.

There are six men with rifles and pistols, and enough backup firepower in the UTVs for a small army.

The shot echoes across the field. My ears ring.

Braydon goes down first. Joaquin backs up, effectively knocking me to the ground, where the open passenger door serves as a shield as another shot takes out Uncle Charlie. His body jerks at the impact, and he falls to the ground.

Somewhere along the way, Joaquin drags me into the car and throws the Blazer in reverse. He drives like a madman as gunfire is exchanged. The car bumps over the rough terrain of the rutted lane until we’re on the highway, Joaquin shouting at me the entire way to get down.

As we drive away, a strange white spot appears on the passenger side window. Then another. It takes me a minute to realize it’s not random spots, but bullets being fired at us. I duck down and try not to panic.

“Joaquin?”

“Yeah?”

“Why is the glass not breaking?”

“Bullet-resistant glass.”

I swallow. “Are you a cop?”

He scoffs.

“What are you?”

After what feels like an eternity, and long after the shooting stops, he finally says, “I think they gave up for now. But there will be more. To answer your question? Let’s just say if you’d have let me handle the situation back there, they’d all be dead by now.”

“I didn’t mean for us to kill anybody,” I say.

“Yeah, but they’re dead. And now we have to go to my safe house.”

“Shouldn’t we go to the police? Give a statement to let them know I was kidnapped and those guys are dead because we acted in self-defense?”

His jaw is tight, and his knuckles are white on the wheel as we bound up the mountain.

“In my line of work, we don’t involve the cops. Ever. I just get the job done and disappear until the smoke blows over.”

“Your…line of work.”

He turns to me and finally speaks plainly. “I’m a hit man, Jasmyn. A hired gun. People hire me to do what the justice system won’t do. I kill for money.”

I blink at him. The mystery of my own life has already clicked into place.

And now the mystery of this man is finally solved.

“It feels weird.”

“What does?” I ask.

“I’ve never said that out loud so directly to anyone. For obvious reasons,” he says.

I should be repulsed. Horrified that I’ve learned that I’m keeping the company of a killer.

Shocked and upset that I’ve gone from the clutches of kidnappers to another, more dangerous type of criminal.

Frightened knowing this hulk of a man could murder me and make my body disappear, and no one would ever know the truth.

Would they do one of those frustrating Dateline episodes about me? The kind that makes everyone upset because the pretty CEO who disappeared on a work retreat was never found?

Focus, Jasmyn. Focus.

A sane woman might feel all of those things. And yet, I feel…the opposite.

I feel perfectly serene, alone with a hit man.

Best of all, I have my fucking memories back.