Festive Fugitive (Murder and Mistletoe #3)

Chapter 1

Cesar

You know how they say to not gift a puppy for Christmas? This rule should be extended to not giving away your child to erase a gambling debt, but my parents already did that, so I don’t get a vote.

At thirty-three, I’ve had a lifetime to resent the Holiday season, but this year is especially aggravating. This year was supposed to be the Christmas when I get my freedom back from the man who took me in, trained me, tortured me, and made me his favorite weapon.

The man who’s been refusing to take my calls and left my messages on ‘read’, communicating through an assistant who can never give me any information.

I’ve killed, maimed, and bled for him, but since I lost my eye, I’ve only been given menial jobs that don’t make full use of my skills, nor are worthy of praise.

At first, I thought it was because I lost some muscle mass during the rehabilitation period, but I’ve been determined in my training, and I know I’m ready to buy my life out with a final deed. If only Sullivan lets me.

That is why I am here, enduring the greens, reds, and golds, the cheerful music that reminds me of the last time I saw my mother.

The air smells of pine, but it’s an artificial aroma originating from diffusers, and the undertone of fakeness it carries makes the protein bar I’ve eaten rise in my throat.

My artificial eye feels particularly alien in its socket tonight.

I haven’t worn it for days, but Sullivan doesn’t like it when I walk around with an eyepatch, so I bear with the discomfort for the sake of putting him in a good mood.

Sullivan loves to show off, so he paid for this grand gala to celebrate him becoming the new mayor.

As his bodyguard—my replacement—trails behind him, I can see the mistakes he’s making from my spot on the mezzanine.

To think I was tossed aside in favor of such a rookie…

If Sullivan had more brains than cruelty in him, he’d have at least three guys like Lyle guarding him.

This asshole was far too busy glancing at a woman in a short red dress to spot the man passing far too close to Sullivan.

She smells of expensive perfume I can sense all the way up here.

Women are not the kind of prey I seek, but the click of heels she makes with every step?

As enjoyable as the ticking of a well-timed bomb.

My job tonight is being on standby, which pretty much means doing nothing but remaining on call.

I’ve had enough of that and I will talk to my boss.

Face-to-face. I might have been a five-year-old sniveling kid when he took me in, but now I’m taller than him, bigger than him, meaner than him, and I could snap his neck if only—

Sullivan and Lyle disappear from my sight, so I move along to see them descend the stairs. They’re headed for the restrooms. Perfect.

Whatever happens, I will convince him to set me free, to let me enjoy a future I’ve been preparing for years now. It’s the least I deserve after everything I’ve sacrificed for him. I might not know the exact debt my parents accumulated, but my work must have long paid it off. With interest.

I will not be ignored.

I push my way through a sea of guests and staff, including the waiters in Santa outfits.

I’d call the way silver beards cover their faces a security risk, but I guess it’s not my job anymore.

I snarl at someone who pops a cracker filled with glitter right next to me, covering the whole arm of my black suit in shiny particles.

Someone’s camera flashes close by, and I stiffen as the hair on my nape bristles.

For a terrible moment, I expect lightning to go through my body, but we’re indoors, the weather outside is as perfect as it can be in December, and I have no reason to fear a storm tonight, so I ball my hands into fists and offer the guy with the cracker a fake smile.

My boss would resent me if I slit this bastard’s throat, but I wish I could do it anyway.

At least it’s just my glorified uniform, not something I wear because I want to.

When I can, my style of choice is much more utilitarian. A soft hoodie, a fitted T-shirt, a bomber jacket allowing movement, and cargo pants with many pockets to hide weapons, paired with combat boots to crush people’s toes with ease.

I have to accept the civilian’s apology, because I don’t want to lose Sullivan in favor of an argument I don’t truly care about. Shiny tinsel hangs over the restroom doors, as if pissing in December was somehow different from doing it any other time of the year.

When both men disappear inside, I stand with my back to the door and listen.

I know Sullivan well enough to realize I shouldn’t give him too much time to think things through, so I only enter once I hear the splash of water.

The two pairs of eyes stab my chest, but I ignore the sharpness of their gazes, remaining calm even when Lyle’s hand gravitates to the gun holstered at his side.

Nothing good would come from a scuffle right now.

A part of me is pleased when Sullivan stiffens. It means that no matter how long he’s been ignoring me, he sees me as dangerous. Worth a degree of respect. So I give him a curt nod.

“Why are you here, Cesar?” he asks, shaking water off his hands. “You were meant to be on standby tonight.”

Like any other day in recent times. It did give me plenty of reading time, but each passing week feels like confirmation that I’m no longer needed, and that Sullivan wants to punish me for getting injured in the first place. As if I haven’t taken that stab in the eye for him.

A part of me knows his life should not be more important than my own health, but like every well-trained dog in existence, I can’t resist the compulsion to fight for my master.

“May I have a word, sir?” I ask, hoping Lyle takes the hint and leaves the two of us alone, but he remains in the restroom, watching me as if I’m an outsider.

Sullivan exhales, making me feel like even more of a burden. “It’s fine, Lyle, you can leave us, just stay outside and don’t let anyone in. This won’t take long.”

Another slap in the face.

Lyle gives me a dirty look I couldn’t give less of a shit about, and I’m finally alone with the man who pretty much owns me.

I should hate him, and sometimes disdain weaves its way into my heart, but it never stays long.

He’s the closest thing to a parent I’ve ever had.

It’s because of him that I have a life, plenty of money in my bank account, and the possibility of a future.

“So? What is it, Cesar?”

I clear my throat, ready to recite the few sentences I’ve memorized over the past few days. But when my mouth opens, it’s as if something’s wiped my memory clean. With sweaty hands, I nod, struggling to speak, even though I know exactly what I came here to say.

I’m a grown man. A pot-bellied seventy-year old with skin sunburned after his most recent skiing trip shouldn’t make me so flustered, and yet here I am, embarrassed like a child who’s broken his parents’ antique vase.

He’s shorter than me, weaker, but something inside me still sees him as the towering figure who greeted me at his home so many years ago.

“I—I wanted to speak to you, sir. It’s been a long time, and another year’s gone by. I understand I’m not owed anything for the previous one, because of my injury, but I was active and ready in the past twelve months. I’d like to ask if you picked my tattoo yet.”

The last one, and we both know it. The only Christmas presents I ever got, etched into my skin from the year of my first kill at fifteen.

“And do you feel you’ve earned one this year, Cesar?”

It’s so condescending I want to grab his gray head and smash it into the sink, sending teeth and brains flying into every corner of this restroom. How’s that for Christmas decorations?

But I won’t. The power this man holds over me is greater than the strength of his muscles could ever be. I won’t be free of him until he takes off my leash.

“I’m ready each day with the exception of Fridays. My loyalty is flawless,” I say without thinking, because it is not my fault he chooses not to use me for any job of note.

“My Dobermans don’t need days off.” He chuckles, but his eyes remain cold.

He’s comparing me to dogs. Is it a slight?

Or is he telling me to do better? Despite the compulsion to keep him happy, I won’t give up on the one evening when I can roam free and bury myself in handsome bodies, so I stay silent.

“The holidays are a busy time. I will see about it in the new year.”

Bile rises in my throat. That means another year in his service.

Twelve more months of wasted time. Have I not done enough?

Don’t I deserve to finally start living for myself and breathe air rather than the smoke of my master’s cigars?

I’ve got this planned out. A house off the Alaskan coast, freedom to see people or not.

I could fuck someone every day if I felt like it, and even hunt, if my instincts need to be sated.

“What are you keeping me for, if you don’t plan to use me? Give me a job worthy of that tattoo, and I’ll do it before the year’s over.” I look straight into his eyes, something I was taught not to do, and step closer to show him how much bigger I am.

Sullivan stills, but I notice the single drop of sweat beading on his temple.

Yes, motherfucker. You nurtured a beast, now deal with it.

He straightens as if that can make him much taller. “I will give you a job when I choose to. You don’t call the shots here. Or should I use the words to remind you? Unless you actually want to kill me and test whether the implant in your heart is real or not?”

I step back as if he’s tazed me with a cattle prod, eyes back on the floor.

I hate myself for being like this, but I don’t want to risk my life, or have him ever use the words on me again. I shake my head, mouth dry as I move until my back hits the wall.

“No. Of course not. But I want to be useful. I want to be active.”

I don’t dare look up, but I can sense his gaze. Full of disdain.

“I will find something worthy of your talents in due time,” Sullivan says coolly.

It’s a compliment. A pat on the back after a slap, but it doesn’t cheer me up. He means to keep me for another year. Maybe he wants me to die on the job, so there’s no loose ends.

I don’t get to answer. He walks past me and exits the restroom, leaving me with the ghost of his peppery scent.

For several heartbeats, I remain still, my gaze pinned to the sealant between floor tiles, but then I’m at the sink and dunk my face under the faucet.

Icy water splashes the back of my head, forming rivulets through my hair.

There’s so much anger in me, but not being able to express it makes me numb.

Will this always be my life?

I walk out as if on autopilot, then find my way back up the stairs and to the mezzanine where I’m on standby. Like an outdated gaming console you’re not using anymore, but maybe you’ll want to pick up the joystick at some point, so why not just keep it indefinitely?

Since I’m not required to do much, I let my gaze follow a man in a sharp burgundy suit.

Slim, with a neat haircut and pretty lips, he glances my way as well, and I consider an act of rebellion against Sullivan’s rules.

It’s not Friday, but maybe I could sneak away with this stranger and fuck his brains out to forget tonight’s disastrous meeting.

I might appear silly with wet hair and water dripping onto my glitter-infested suit, but couldn’t that serve as an easy conversation starter?

Some animals bond for life, but my heart isn’t capable of love, so I make do with lust, taking whatever I need for the brief moments I get to hold someone in my arms.

I look straight into the man’s eyes—something I enjoy doing a little too much. Probably because I’m not allowed to be so direct with Sullivan.

But then a gunshot resonates through the room, the stranger screams and crouches, but I, like Pavlov’s dog, turn back toward the danger to find Sullivan in the crowd below.

He stumbles into Lyle’s arms, knocking him over while guests crouch, shrieking so loudly I can barely hear the second shot.

A bloom of red spreads over Sullivan’s white shirt, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

The shooter is wearing a Santa costume. He’s just feet away from Sullivan, his trembling hand still extended with the gun in it as people shriek and run, tripping over each other.

Impossible.

This amateur stands there, looking around as if he can’t believe what he’s done. As if he has no escape plan. I catch a glimpse of his eyes and pull out my gun. I have a clear shot. I could take him out and put an end to this now.

It’s a split-second decision, yet my whole life manages to flash through my mind. All the pain Sullivan caused me, who I’ve become because of him, the invisible collar I’m wearing.

This stranger shot through the links of my chain with two bullets.

He doesn’t deserve a shot in the forehead. He deserves my gratitude and protection, because otherwise, he’s not getting out of here alive.

When, painful seconds later, he finally flees, I lower my gun and run to follow.