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

grip on the gun goes slack. It spins back, the trigger guard hanging on my finger. I slowly kneel down and set the weapon on the concrete.
    “Kick it to me,” the masked man says.
    The weapon clatters as I shuffle it across the concrete. One of the masked men kneels down and picks it up. Then stuffs it in his waistband. Two other men rush to me and grab me by my arms. A third shoves a black bag over my head and draws the tie-string tight. I can barely breathe.
    They whisk me down the pier and stuff me into one of the cars. I hear the door slam shut. Weapons clank as the men file inside. The tires squeal, and I’m thrust back into the seat as the vehicle speeds away into the night.
    “Who are you? What do you want?” I ask.

Ryker
    W hen I arrive at the pier, four men in ski masks are stuffing Scarlett into the back of a black Lincoln town car. Two men jump in the back seat with her, one on either side. One man hops into the driver’s seat of the Lincoln. Another man hops into the driver’s seat of a black Chevy 300. The two cars spin their tires. Plumes of white smoke billow into the air.
    I leap out of the cab and draw the Uzi. The two cars are heading in my direction. I empty an entire magazine at the Lincoln—mostly aiming at the tires and the engine block. But the car doesn’t slow down.
    My cab squeals away in a panic, and I’m left alone in the street. The back tinted window of the Lincoln rolls down, and a machine gun juts out through the window frame. A torrent of bullets blast like a string of firecrackers.
    I dive for cover behind a parked car. Bullets pelt the sheet metal. Windows shatter, spraying fragments of glass.
    Engines roar as the two cars scream past me. A nonstop hailstorm of bullets whip through the air. The two cars squeal around the corner and vanish into the night.
    “Son-of-a-bitch,” I grumble to myself.
    My heart is pounding. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. My eyes scan the area. I see Murphy writhing on the concrete. I run to the pier and kneel down beside him. He’s struggling to breathe. His shirt is soaked with blood. It looks like he’s taken a shot in the chest and two in the stomach. His lungs are filling with fluid. He can’t move his legs. My guess is one of the bullets grazed his thoracic spine.
    “Who did this?” I ask.
    He gurgles and moans.
    “Who did this?” I growl.
    He reaches for my shirt and grabs a fist full of fabric. “Find her,” he groans. Then his hand goes limp and falls to the concrete. His hand leaves a bloody stain on my shirt. His last breath leaves his lungs and his body is still.
    An eerie silence falls over the pier. It’s quiet, except for the lapping of the waves against the shore. I reach into Murphy's pocket and take his badge and credentials. You never know when they may come in handy.
    I don’t have much to go on, but I have to find Scarlett. I have to get her back. No way am I gonna leave her to those animals. She’s a gorgeous woman, and a federal agent. If she was taken by one of the crime families, they will show her no mercy. I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do to her.
    I stand up and stagger back down the pier toward the Avenue. The adrenaline rush of the moment is starting to fade. I feel a stabbing pain in my chest. I look down and see my shirt is blooming red. And it’s not just the stain from Agent Murphy's hand.
    I’ve been shot.
    I clutch my wound, putting pressure on it. Blood seeps between my fingers. I hear the echo of sirens. My head is starting to feel light as I stumble across the Avenue. I need to clear out of the area before the cops arrive. This would be a hard situation to explain.
    I can’t go to a hospital. All gunshot wounds are reported. The place would be swarming with cops by the time I got out of surgery. But if I don’t get medical assistance soon, I’m not going to make it.
    I wobble down the sidewalk, trying to flag down a cab. But none of them stop. Nobody wants to pick up