The Unwilling Plus One (The Killer Kin #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

MAGGIE

It’s easy. All it takes is a quick stab through the jugular.

Stop being such a baby, Maggie.

There are over five hundred murders in the United Kingdom every year. People do it all the damn time. A bullet here. A noose there. A little poison drizzled over her husband’s steak. But not me. No. Larry-let-down over here turns into butterfingers every time I get close to my intended victim.

You can do this.

Rain cascades down my face, gathering in a drop at the end of my nose. I wipe it on the back of my chilled hand, careful to avoid slicing myself with the blade I clutch between frozen fingers. It would be just my luck to cut my own bloody neck while trying to live up to the family name.

Heavy dance music thumps inside the worn brick building, its crumbling facade resembling a visual representation of the despicable things that happen there. My watch hits eleven-oh-five, and my brow creases.

Graham Elroy, my target, always comes out to blacken his lungs at eleven. I know, because I’ve been trying to take him out for over a month. Far too many Friday nights I’d wasted trying to pluck up the courage to jab my knife into his throat.

Where is he?

The steady beat increases in volume as the thick black door opens, my target slipping from the back of the club. At last, I had better things to do than stand around in a smelly alley soaking up the rain like a soggy old sponge.

My pulse thunders in my throat, reminding me of the vitality I need to snuff out in him. The knife shakes in my fingers, my resolve disappearing as I watch him tap the bottom of his cigarette packet, pulling out the one that jumps upward.

There’s no doubt that Graham is a scumbag. He deserves to die. I’d looked into him when my sister, Eliza, had pushed me into taking another stab—so to speak—at the contract. Shame, I suck at killing.

Twenty-nine years old, and my body count still stands at a big fat zero. Hell, my baby brother is nineteen and has already racked up two deaths under his metal-studded emo belt.

What a joke.

No wonder Dad has all but given up on me ever joining the family business. The oldest kid and I can’t step up. Eliza still believes in me, at least. I think.

The orange end of my target’s cigarette glows in the dark alley, the only light visible. I’d smashed the overhead one ahead of my first attempt to eliminate Graham.

Clearly, building maintenance isn’t a priority for him. With his dodgy club being a front for his illicit, underground businesses, it’s hardly surprising.

The cigarette burns to a third of its size, my elevated heart rate deafening. I only have a minute or two left before he goes back inside, and I have to wait another week before I can try again. A week of night sweats and dreams where I’m stuck in this same alley, always frozen to the spot.

Even in my sleep, I’m a wuss.

Steeling myself, I creep from my spot behind the dumpster, focusing on the back of Graham’s neck. I have to be quick. He stands half a foot taller than me, and probably double my bodyweight. Speed is my only ally.

Pain shoots into my fingers where I grip the knife handle too hard. Doubt slinks around my ankles like a black cat, threatening to trip me with each terrified step.

You’re not a killer.

You’re NOT a killer.

I will be, I reassure myself. I want to be.

It’s just one guy. One piece of trash masquerading as a human. Just one little hand movement. Then I’ll be one of them.

My dad will be proud of me.

I can go to his wedding in a few weeks with my head held high, my hands finally as bloodied as my ancestors had been for generations before me.

The stench of Graham’s aftershave hits me when I’m a foot from him, the heat from the back of his neck palpable. With a final push, I launch myself at him. Wrapping an arm around his shoulder, I thrust the knife against his neck.

Shove it in. The voice in my head screams.

I hesitate, the knife heavy in my hand. The weight of what I’m doing hits me with a flood of regret.

The hesitation costs me.

Graham turns, smashing me against the brick building, my breath leaving me in a stuttering exhale. The knife clatters on the cobblestones as I lose my grip, and before I can figure out what’s happening, I’m pinned against the wall, a hand on my throat.

Smooth going, Maggie.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Graham demands, his eyes narrowing as he scans my face.

‘No one,’ I whisper, his fingers digging into my throat and cutting off my air.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Utterly useless alarm bells bounce around in my head like pong, all rage and no reason.

‘A no one doesn’t spring on a man in an alley and try to slit his throat. I’ve a mind to teach you a lesson. Maybe being sold to someone who will treat you like a bad dog will have you learning your place.’

I kick against him, my need to escape filling my limbs with renewed strength. With all that I know about his business, his words are more than just a threat.

I should have stabbed him while I had the chance.

‘Please,’ I gasp. ‘Let me go.’

The kicks I lay into his shins don’t elicit a reaction. It’s like he can’t even feel them. He sneers at me before thrusting a hand up my top, his icy fingers groping my waist.

‘Need to get a taste of the goods. Know what price you’re worth.’

His smoke-tainted breath makes my stomach knot; it’s a sickly smell, making me want to barf. Maybe barfing was a grade-A plan. No one wants to screw a vomiting woman, right? Knowing my luck, he’ll be the sort of sicko who gets a lob on for the vom.

I try to heave, willing something to come up, sounding like a dying goose. Graham’s eyes widen, his hand loosening a touch at the spectacle I’m making of myself.

Taking my chance at his open confusion, I thrust my knee upward, aiming to get him right in the bollocks. His thighs pinch together, stopping me from meeting my goal.

The laugh that tumbles from his mouth has my fear piquing, the sound laced with dark promise.

Crap on a cracker. Of course, I’d be the one to die on my first genuine attempt at fulfilling a contract. Maggie the loser. Soft as shit. Kill count forever to remain at zero.

RIP me. Rest in patheticdom.

His hand presses higher, skimming the front of my bra and causing my body to seize. I’d rather be dead than let this smarmy scumbag profit a single penny off my misfortune. If escape is impossible, pushing him to eliminate me is the next best scenario. Death over trafficking any day.

Graham’s mouth turns up in a sinister smile. His rancid breath quickens as my struggling excites him. An unmistakable bulge grinds at my thigh. I see my knife on the ground, clenching my fist at its closeness. I should have severed his bloody dick while I had the chance.

The whole killing thing would be so much easier if I were half as hot as my sister. Men practically bend over and offer their necks to her blade to gain an ounce of her attention. Despite my best attempts, I lack such an effect.

It must be so much easier to lure them to their deaths like a siren calling ships to splinter themselves upon rocks than to have to come at them like a rabid little raccoon.

‘Fuck you,’ I snarl, sinking my teeth into his cheek, biting down despite the way it makes my stomach lurch. Coppery blood fills my mouth, and I heave at the slick, metallic liquid coating my tongue.

Gross. So gross.

‘You bitch!’ he yells, slamming me hard against the wall, a loud crack echoing through my skull as it meets the stone.

My vision dances as my teeth grind against each other, no skin between them.

He pulls back and slaps me hard, my mouth opening as a chunk of his warm flesh tumbles out.

‘Think that you’re going to get out of this, do you?

I’m going to fuck you ‘til you bleed, then sell you as damaged goods. If anyone even wants you. Not nearly the quality I usually trade.’

Static noise fills my ears as a sob chokes me, pain resonating from the wall slam. His fingers tighten around my throat, a crunching sound coming from the points where he applies pressure. How long does it take to suffocate to death? Six minutes? Assuming he doesn’t crush my windpipe first.

Oh god. I’m going to die.

Like, really, actually die.

My mind races, hunting for a way out of my situation.

Screwing my eyes shut, I fight for a breath. If nothing else, I’m not going out with his bug eyes staring into my soul. Some of the freaks get off on that.

Panic rises, bubbling higher with each passing second.

Heat hits my face, followed by a strange gurgling sound.

Like the noise the sink makes when I scrape the food debris out to unblock it.

I peek enough to see Graham’s throat gaping like the maw of a dying fish.

The gurgling doesn’t come from his mouth; it comes in bloody spurts from the new orifice on his neck.

Confusion fills me.

Then a pretty redhead peeks over Graham’s shoulder.

‘Hey Mags! Looks like you could use some help.’ Eliza’s face beams like sunshine, a chirpy smile belying the man who slumps between us.

Graham’s body slides down mine, desperate gasps coming from his gushing throat as I recoil in horror. Who knew that a splayed neck turns a man into a human fountain, spurting blood instead of water?

‘Oh, my god.’ A shudder tears through me, and I step out from his clutches, my throat still burning where he’d gripped it only a few moments before.

‘That was…’ Eliza’s voice trails off as she kicks Graham onto his back, a pool of red slowly forming around his head. The thick, red ooze reminds me of the delicious strawberry tarts Granny used to feed us every Sunday.

God. I’ll never be able to eat them again after this. Trust this disgusting man to ruin a favourite treat of mine. The tarts from the patisserie down the street from my London flat weren’t a patch on Granny’s, but I’d miss them nonetheless.

‘Terrible,’ I mutter, answering the sentence she left hanging in the death-stained alley.