No Good Dead (Bad to Be Good #1) Read online

  No Good Dead

  Dana Volney

  Copyright © 2017 by Dana Volney. All rights reserved.

  Published by CreateSpace

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Kasmit Covers

  IBSN 10: 1542863686 (CreateSpace)

  IBSN 13: 978-1542863681 (CreateSpace)

  ASIN: B01N16O6A9 (Amazon)

  Dedication

  To Julie: Our friendship has enriched my life profoundly.

  Acknowledgments

  My editor extrodiannaire, Julie Sturgeon, whom I look forward to working with on every manuscript: You’re always a rockstar, but this time you truly outdid yourself on coming through for me in a tight timeframe. Through your support, friendship, and our shared laughs, this self-published novel not only became possible but one I am proud to put out in the world.

  Jami Wagner, my fellow critique partner, romance author, and conference buddy: You’re a critiquing badass and I loved our system this go-round. Thank you for reining me in, yet again, and talking out my plot ideas. Our new incentive sessions are a hit—may we always be tied!

  Ashley Blevins: Thank you for being there every step of the way! I value your marketing and pr savvy, beta reading notes, and all of your advice on navigating self-publishing. #TeamJessForev

  Brina Courtney: Thank you for your outstanding blurb writing skills! I appreciate all of your help on publicity for the Bad To Be Good series.

  Thank you to Kasmit Covers for the sexy, sexy cover and social media artwork!

  Marissa Dresang: Thank you for your technical support for all things on gunshot wounds and other medical issues (that may or may not have made it into this story). I appreciate you!

  Dad: My go-to guy for information on guns and ammo. I really enjoy our time talking weaponry, research at the shooting range, and hands-on training.

  To my unfailingly supportive family, thank you for championing me and helping to make my dreams possible. I appreciate you more than I’ll ever be able to put into words.

  Thank you to my friends, family, writing group cohorts, and readers who have and continue to support my dreams. You inspire me every day and are appreciated!

  Chapter One

  Able March gripped the black metal scope and turned the sight one notch to the right. Fifteen more minutes and then he’d be packing up, headed home, and in his leather chair starting recon on the next job.

  This assignment had been one of his easiest, a referral from a solid acquaintance. The next commission he was going to accept was going to be abroad though, his face needed sun. Snow and cold in Arlington, Virginia, wasn’t all that pleasant in February, especially when one’s profession led them to work outside 70 percent of the time.

  He settled deeper into the rooftop’s ten-inch ledge. Perfect for stretching out and bracing the tip of his sniper rifle. Under the cover of darkness, there was no way he’d be spotted. Toby had made the wrong person mad and now he would pay the ultimate price for his words or actions or whatever the anonymous person depositing a hefty sum into Able’s offshore account was pissed about. Toby, the poor sap, probably had stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have—that was usually the nature of the government-involved contracts he took. And, as a cherry on the cake of this assignment, Toby always walked by the alley, the one in Able’s sights, at precisely 7:45 p.m. each night, right after eating at the deli at the end of the block. Pastrami on rye. The only place Able ate pastrami was at Katz’s in New York.

  He took in a breath, the cool night air stinging the insides of his nostrils. It was time to slow down his body, be one with his custom Remington 700 takedown sniper rifle. There was never a do-over in this line of work—either get it right the first time or scramble to fix the miss. Able didn’t do scrambling.

  A creak sounded behind him on the rooftop. The hairs on his forearm stood on end under his thermal black jacket and long-sleeved shirt. Then the nail drop tinked from the door twenty feet behind him. An isolated clink of metal on the flat-top roof. His security had just done exactly what it was supposed to: alert him to visitors.

  He slowed his breathing down to a sniper’s standard ten seconds between breaths, taking the cold air through his nose as he lay completely still. The warning nail was merely the first measure. Even on a supposed easy job he could never take his own safety for granted. He was the only backup he’d have. It wouldn’t be long now before the unwelcomed visitor would spot Able from behind the brick barrier that was between him and the door. That’s why he’d picked this particular roof to set up on; Able liked the location for himself as well as the target. The attacker—and make no mistake, the person who dropped the nail was not a friendly—would’ve made more noise by now if he’d come to the roof for a smoke or for chilly night air. No, the person who’d tripped his security measure was trying as hard as they could to be quiet. The only thing that gave the asshole away now was the small noise of dirt that twisted under their boots when they moved forward. Toward Able. He might be dead already if they’d just started shooting, but he hadn’t been double tapped in the back yet, so he’d take the miracle.

  And use it.

  The muscles in his arms, abs, and legs tensed. His hearing on high alert, he waited for any indication, any noise from the intruder edging closer on the rooftop and moving around scattered debris. Able couldn’t afford to miss when he spun and fired. He might get only one shot.

  It was time to kill or be killed.

  There was a whisper of movement behind him, the air pressure shifting for a moment as his would-be killer stepped between the rotating air vents. Go. Able swiveled right on the ground, taking his rifle with him and firing at the glint of a button on the jacket trying to sneak up on him. Able rolled again and fired another round as the guy ducked behind the brick chimney.

  Able left his heavy rifle on the ground and ran to the next brick stack, staying low. He’d swear he got a piece of the guy, but he wasn’t about to pop his head up to find out. He reached for the .22 Rugur he kept in his left boot and the silencer barrel he kept in his right. He racked it, loading one out of ten bullets in the magazine into the chamber, and screwed the silencer to the end of the barrel.

  He ignored the noise of the cars and bustle on the street ten stories below to focus on his immediate surroundings. Anyone could sit on a rooftop and pick off people, shoot people at will, but it took someone disciplined and skilled in more than just marksmanship to stay alive in the game he played. Wasn’t the first time someone had come after him, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  He picked up a stray chunk of broken brick and threw it up to his right.

  Bang. The reverberation of the bullet shot in his direction was loud. So the asshole wasn’t dead yet. This shitstain was going to draw attention to them—cops were not needed.

  Able peeked his head around the left side of the stack. Just enough of a view to see the top of a black beanie outlined by the next building’s lights. Able ducked back behind the chimney, grabbing for another rock. This time he threw it five feet to his left. He waited a second then popped out around the stack and fired three times.

  A pained grunt drifted his way.

  That time he’d definitely drawn blood. Crou
ching, he quick stepped to the other side of the brick stack the intruder had taken cover behind, moved to the far end, swung around to the same side, and fired twice. Both shots landed in the guy’s shoulder; he slumped back.

  Able kept his grip on his gun tight and moved forward, still crouching, still with the guy in his sights. He kicked the guy’s leg with his boot. The man’s leg swayed, but there was no sign of life.

  Shit. It would’ve been nice to know why he’d been made a target. He kicked him again. Nothing. He took another small step so that he could reach the man’s neck. With one hand still pointing his gun to the man’s chest, he placed two fingers into the guy’s neck to check for a pulse.

  Dead.

  He unloaded another round into the guy’s heart just to make sure. And for the trouble he’d caused. No one needed to be coming back to life right now. Removing the silencer first, he returned the parts to their respective ankles then searched the man’s pockets and jacket. No identification. Only a cell phone. He pulled the guy’s head back and snapped a photo with his own cell. The face wasn’t familiar, but possibly one of his associates would know.

  Being an assassin should be a solo gig. You kept people at a distance and called when you needed something. Or picked up the phone when they called you so that they’d owe you a favor. Able didn’t trust any of them—maybe Samson—but reaching out couldn’t hurt.

  He’d fingerprinted the guy through a custom app and then left the body there to rot. Probably he wouldn’t be found for a week or two or more and the lead they’d find in the guy would never direct authorities to Able’s doorstep. His guns weren’t registered and he filed his barrels carefully after every shot to make sure there’d never be a ballistics match.

  Able returned to his warehouse, stripped out of his black job clothes, and showered. The bitch of the night was that Toby was still breathing. Dinner would have to wait.

  He grit his teeth as he scratched an itch that had been bugging him since things began to actually get exciting tonight—he logged on to search recent deaths in the area. Assassins who knew what they were doing, who wanted to be in the business for the long haul, and who were discerning when it came to accepting jobs didn’t go after other assassins. It was an unwritten code of sorts. If you went after a fellow hit man and missed, he’d take his revenge by not only killing you but anyone else you loved in this world. Not great odds unless you knew you could win. The guy sent after him was not up to his caliber. There was no way he was sent there to be successful.

  Unless someone had that low of an opinion about Able’s work.

  In the past two months, sixty-three people had met their maker in Arlington. He scrolled through the blotter. Most didn’t raise a flag: heart attacks, gang violence, muggings. His index finger froze over the laptop mouse. Andy Shay. He was a trigger man for sure. He clicked on the photo to be certain it was the curly haired sergeant he remembered. Yep. Able had met him years ago. Shay had just gotten out of the army and found his calling to continue in the private sector.

  A lot of hits went down in this area, being so close to D.C. and the capital of legal wrongdoing, so it wasn’t surprising a professional might die here. He scrolled to the description of Shay’s death. Car crash two weeks back. He rubbed the short brown hairs on his goatee and kept scrolling.

  Melinda Malinski. Gone. Drown in the river, assumed no foul play. Right. No pictures were available on her case. They probably disposed of her quicker because she would’ve been in the States on a temporary work visa, if she’d bothered to come in legally at all. Melinda had a reputation. She was ice.

  One, okay. Two, a problem.

  He continued his scroll until he got to yesterday. Pete Evans. Nope, this death no longer made Able’s attack a coincidence or random. He would’ve made number four in two weeks tonight.

  Someone was targeting assassins in the area.

  It would take too long to check deaths in other areas of the United States or world. But this information was good enough for him to take action. He had another job starting soon, and there was no way he wanted to devote even more time to watching his own back or covering his tracks.

  He dialed Samson Patrick—might as well bring in the family.

  “Patrick.” His foster brother’s voice was just above a whisper.

  “You on a job?” Able braced his cell with his shoulder and tied his hair back into a pony tail at the base of his neck.

  “You could say that.”

  He rolled his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, surveying the rifle that needed to be cleaned up and readied for the next assignment. If that gun has one scratch on it, I’m going to kill that asshole again. “Stop trying to pick up the ladies. They don’t want anything to do with your lazy ass. A recent job shed light on an issue our town has, and it’s a bigger problem for us.”

  “I’m going to need more than that. I’m like two seconds away from getting this redhead to take me home.”

  “Someone is taking out enforcers. Apparently I’m next on the list. Who knows who else made the cut.” He’d dealt with his shit tonight. But God help the motherfucker who aimed his barrel at Samson, especially if he pulled the trigger—Able would burn the world to the ground.

  “How do you know there’s a list? You’re a pretty big bastard. Maybe it was just personal.” Music started in the background, and he heard distinctly female giggles.

  “The guy with a gun trying to sneak up on me tonight was a pretty good indicator. Plus the three other enforcers taken out in the last two weeks sealed the deal for me.”

  “What?” That got Samson’s attention.

  “I wouldn’t call if I thought this was a one-off, but I think we’re being targeted and I wanted to give you a heads up.” He had no idea why he and his cohorts were being singled out. The job had its dangers, of course, but there was a sense of urgency in his gut he couldn’t ignore. “Especially since I know you’re headed back to work tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, okay, I’m on my way.” Samson disconnected.

  Able stood and walked over to the bench that took up the entire left side of his office—he used it for cleaning guns, making bullets, doing pretty much anything to a weapon to prepare himself to kill and not be killed. He started to unzip the case that held his broken down rifle—easier to carry them around in open view that way. Tending to his arsenal always helped clear his mind, allowed him to think through problems. He was probably going to get through his entire stockpile by the time Samson got in from wherever the hell foreign city he’d landed this time.

  * * *

  Teagan Wyatt touched her knee to settle the bouncing. She tried not to look suspicious, but what did normal look like? Maybe she was just a person who naturally looked like she was up to something dishonest. It also didn’t help she was in the middle of a company made up of highly trained persons with police and military backgrounds compared to her blue collar jobs bussing tables at restaurants, cashier for superstores, delivering Slim Jims to convenience stores, sweeping up hair at salons, and babysitting brats by the pool. They called that lifeguarding. The only benefit she’d derived from not being able to keep a job locked down for more than a couple months at a time was that she was an expert interviewer. Getting a job as a financial analyst at Hume Corp. hadn’t been that hard after a little online research. And her background was squeaky clean. At least she’d managed not to become a criminal in her twenty-seven years of life.

  Until now.

  But hey, her cause was noble and yet the adrenaline of dishonesty zinged just under her ribs. The loading bar on her screen was slow. Agonizingly so. She’d managed to get her boss’s password so that she could access the offline books that he kept—the ones that proved what her sister had suspected last year before she was killed. Hume Corp. was double-timing the United States and selling weapons to her enemies.

  The jump drive plugged into the tower on her floor blinked. Come on. She glanced around, not moving an inch. No one was staring at her. No one was whis
pering into their cuff and coming at her. She rubbed her stomach and willed the technology to move faster. She hadn’t been able to eat much this week. Her nerves were on overdrive.

  After she’d found the information that would make even the dumbest of attorneys look like a superstar, she’d contacted the FBI and had been put in touch with Agent Aaron Wheeler. She was to copy the information and meet him five blocks away.

  She pushed the round button on the bottom of her phone to see the time. She wanted to get the files and then get rid of them as soon as possible. She was so sure of this working out, she’d packed up her meager belongings and given notice at her apartment. She’d be on her way to wherever in thirty minutes. She hadn’t even picked out the place yet—she was going to get in her car and drive. When she knew she was safe, she’d figure out what she wanted to do with her life—something in a creative field. She’d always enjoyed painting. Agent Wheeler said he’d keep her apprised of the investigation. She was sure she’d be able to follow the trail in the news—treason tended to make front page headlines.

  100 percent. Gotcha. She logged out, grabbed her purse from her drawer, and hurried to the elevator. She pushed the button and stood back, keeping her eyes fixed on the number counting up. It got as high as two before it stopped. Then stopped again. She swiveled to the right and wrenched open the stairwell door. She didn’t have time to waste. And being stuck in an enclosed space didn’t sound that appealing. By the time she got in the elevator they could figure out what she’d done and be waiting for her at the bottom. She’d never see the light of day again if they caught her. No thank you.

  Chapter Two

  Able strolled into the concert venue, Samson sidled up beside him. It was a long-established tradition that whenever they needed to meet up incognito that they would do so at a concert. Didn’t matter which one as long as it was packed with people who were not paying attention to them.