Chapter 3 Bounty Isla
Bounty
Isla
The man in the passenger seat slowly raises his hands as I slip into the driver’s seat of his car.
For a guy who obviously feels like dog shit, he’s still fucking hot.
“I’m really sorry to tell you this,” I say, sucking in a breath between clenched teeth. “But you’ve been poisoned.”
There’s a beat of silence. The man’s mouth pops open, but nothing comes out, thankfully. Because there’s a good chance that what would come out would be a spray of crimson.
“Look, please don’t blame Lumos. It’s really not Chef Kowalska’s fault. She’s amazing. It was all me.”
The man tilts his head, his brow furrowing.
“Don’t hold it against her for the star.”
“What star?”
“The Michelin star, for fucksakes. What other star do you think I mean?” Now his head tilts in the other direction, and I let out an exasperated sigh.
Keeping the gun trained on his forehead, I start rummaging in my interior jacket pocket for the small black case hidden within.
“Look, I know poisoning is really the antithesis of Michelin star material, but the meal was good, wasn’t it?
Service was friendly and efficient, right? ”
He doesn’t answer.
“Right?” I ask again, more forcefully this time.
“Right, sure. Right,” he says, a subtle Andalusian accent warming the notes of his voice.
“And the dessert was delicious?”
“Yeah. Dessert was great.”
“Cool. Great. Then just remember that part.” I don’t take my eyes from the man as I unzip the case. I hold up a prefilled syringe of viscous liquid between us. “See this? This is your ticket to not dying an excruciating death.”
His attention tracks to the syringe, his hands falling just a few millimeters as though he’s ready to take a risk and fight me for it. I firm up my gun in a threat and his eyes snap back to mine.
“I’ll inject you with the antidote, you’ll pass out and probably not die—”
“Probably—?”
“And then you’ll make sure Lumos keeps its star and I won’t find you and kill you in your sleep. Deal?”
The man doesn’t answer. We just stare at one another, me with impatience, him with confusion and probably a considerable amount of vertigo. Christ, he’s so fucking gorgeous, with his chiseled jaw and that thick, swept-back hair and those rich brown eyes. One of which is starting to turn red.
“Look, you don’t have much time, mister .
. .” I set the vial down on my lap so I can dart a hand into his suit jacket for his wallet.
Even though he’s swaying in his seat, he makes a valiant effort to stop me, his movement faster than I anticipate.
I still twist free easily when he grabs my wrist, but mostly because his palm is slick with sweat.
I flip the wallet open, glancing down just long enough to pull a credit card free and read the name stamped on its surface.
White-hot rage eats through my veins, and I pistol-whip the hot asshole in the head.
“Ouch! Hey—”
“Tommy Fucking McCormick?”
“No, wait! I can ex—”
“The same Tommy McCormick who killed Carl Donnelly?” I hit him again, this time in the hand as he shelters his face. “Donnelly was an icon, you prick—”
“My name is not Tommy, I swear,” he begs as I continue whacking him with my gun. I could just shoot him, I guess, but he’s dying anyway, and this is more fun. “I know you’re gonna kill me, but at least don’t mistake me for that McCormick asshole. I’m Mateo. Mateo Rocha.”
I halt my assault abruptly, my gun poised above his flinching face.
Mateo. Fucking. Rocha.
“You’re lying.” My heart riots against my sternum, every beat a detonation. He shakes his head. “Prove it.”
The man slowly lowers his hands, my finger on the trigger and ready to shoot as he unbuttons his dress shirt.
It’s disgusting how hot this man is. His pecs are outrageous.
So outrageous that it takes me a beat to realize he’s just holding his shirt open for me, waiting for me to scan his skin with my phone.
A flush blooms in my cheeks as I scramble to pull my mobile from my pocket and open the camera app.
The modified phone detects the UV fluorescent ink of the tiny, invisible tattoo above his heart, and I click the link of the QR code.
Mateo Rocha
Class 1 Assassin
Independent Contractor
Current client: Worden Inc.
Confirmed kills: 128
Bounties: Click to view
I glance up at Mateo, who cringes a little. I’m sure he knows I’m about to click on the link for his bounties. And of course I do.
A list of more than a dozen companies comes up. Including Juniper Guild, my longtime employer, who is offering a $5 million bonus for proof of death.
I could make so much money if I just finish this man. More than enough to open my own bakery and live my dream.
I close my phone and set it on my lap to stare at the legend before me.
A man who once materialized in a locked building containing thirty-two armed men and killed every one of them in less than ten minutes.
A man who slit the throat of the great Valentin Svoboda in the panic room of his own heavily guarded home.
Everyone in my world knows what Rocha is capable of.
Even with my poison coursing through his body, he could have killed me ten times over in this vehicle. If he’d wanted to.
He could beg for his life. But he doesn’t. He just looks . . . resigned.
He also looks rapidly on the way to death. Both his eyes are now bloodshot, a single crimson tear pooling at his lash line, ready to slide down his left cheek.
One corner of his mouth lifts, his expression bittersweet.
There’s a small scar on his cheek that looks like a dimple when he smiles.
It’s almost endearing, a mark that likely doesn’t appear very often.
A little magic beneath the line across his skin.
“It’s okay.” His voice is soft. Forgiving.
He closes his eyes. “Take the kill. Just make sure they pay up.”
He doesn’t open his eyes as I caress my trigger with my gloved finger. Or when I draw in a long breath. Or when I shift in my seat, the leather creaking beneath my body.
But his eyes fly open when I jab him in the jugular with the antidote.
Mateo’s hand flies to his neck as soon as I remove the needle. That crimson tear slides down his cheek. His mouth opens with a quiet gasp. And then he passes out, his head smacking the dashboard as he slumps against the passenger door.
I watch as his breathing deepens to long, rattling exhalations. Maybe he’ll survive. Maybe he won’t.
But I don’t stay to find out.