Hitman's Desire: A Bad Boy Romance by Megyn Riley

from my coat. Then my eyes scan my body for injuries. Sometimes you don’t feel the shot until later. I appear to be unharmed—this time.
    I don’t recognize the shooter. At this point, it doesn’t really matter who they were. Everyone in the city is after me. The Commission doesn’t care how I die, or who kills me—just as long as I end up dead.
    By the time I get back to the Lexington, Scarlett is gone. I draw my weapon and clear the bedroom and bathroom. Empty.
    My whole body tenses. I’m furious. Where did she go? Did someone get to her? My stomach turns in knots at the thought. I don’t know why I feel this way. I’ve only known the broad for a day.
    My eyes catch site of the phone on the nightstand. I grit my teeth, thinking she may have made a call. I pick up the phone and hit redial. After a few rings, a gruff man answers.
    “Special Agent Murphy…”
    I scowl. I told her not to call anyone. My first inclination is to hang up. I just need to forget about this chick and take care of myself. Right now, I’ve got two options. I prove who actually killed Falco, or I get my ass out of town until things cool down. But it’s not in my nature to run.
    “Murphy, it’s Ryker.”
    “Where are you?”
    “That’s not important. Where’s Scarlett?”
    “I’m meeting her at Pier 57,” he says. “Stay put, I’ll send a few guys to pick you up, wherever you are.”
    “Don’t bother. I won’t be here.”
    “You can’t stay out on the street. That suicide.”
    “I’ve seen your definition of protection.”
    “I don’t know how that happened. But I’ll take full responsibility.”
    I hear a floorboard in the hallway squeak, just outside the door. I drop the phone on the bed, and draw my weapon. Murphy's thin voice crackles from the speaker on the bed.
    Under the door, I see the shadows of someone in the hallway. An instant later the door is kicked open. The doorframe splinters around the deadbolt. A blaze of automatic gunfire fills the room. Blinding flashes of muzzle flare. Bullets rip through the air, smashing the sheetrock and shattering mirrors.
    I squeeze off several rounds as I launch over the bed and take cover behind a wall. My ears are ringing, and I can smell the gunpowder in the air.
    In the metal ice bucket on the dresser, I can see the reflection of two men in the entrance foyer. One of them is dead on the ground. The other is creeping forward. He’s lining up to spray a flurry of bullets through the wall in an attempt to hit me.
    I’ve got to act quickly.
    I grab a pillow from the bed and hurl it into the foyer. A stream of bullets pierces through the pillow, exploding feathers everywhere. They dangle in the air. It provides a split second of distraction. Just enough for me to spin around the corner and fire as many rounds as I can.
    The assassin squeezes off a burst of automatic fire.
    Bullets puncture flesh, spewing blood.
    My bullets. His blood.
    The bastard falls back, tripping over his comrade’s dead body. He smashes into the full-length mirror on the closet door. And falls to the ground. To add insult to injury, a shard of glass falls, piercing his throat. The man gurgles and spits up blood.
    I dash to him, kicking the weapon away from his hand. “Who sent you?”
    I don’t think he could speak, even if he wanted to. The only thing that comes from his mouth are indiscernible groans. And the sound of him choking on his own blood. He lasts another few seconds, then exhales his last breath. His body goes limp.
    I rummage through the two mens’ pockets. But these guys are pros. No IDs, nothing. Just extra magazines, and a pack of matches. I stuff them into my pocket, grab one of the Uzis, and pry it from the dead man’s fingers. Then I scavenge as many magazines as I can find.
    I creep into the hallway. It looks clear. Then I rush to the stairwell and plummet down to the lobby.
    Sirens warble in the distance. Someone must have called the cops. Those Uzis made a hell of a lot of