Hired to Kill (The Nathan McBride Series Book 7) Read online

  ALSO BY ANDREW PETERSON

  First to Kill

  Forced to Kill

  Option to Kill

  Ready to Kill

  Contract to Kill

  Right to Kill

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

  Text copyright © 2018 by Andrew Peterson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503949300

  ISBN-10: 1503949303

  Cover design by Ray Lundgren

  This book is dedicated to my uncle,

  Glenhall E. Taylor (1925–2016).

  A hero in every sense of the word, he served with distinction and bravery in the US Army’s Eighty-Seventh Infantry Division under General Patton during the Battle of the Bulge.

  A Purple Heart recipient, he is survived by my cousins, Myrica, Glen, Jamie, and Bill, along with nine grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.

  The Taylor family line is alive and well!

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Driving to the twenty-four-hour grocery store, Nathan McBride couldn’t shake his dark mood. Every so often, a black curtain descended onto the stage of his life, separating contentment from anguish. It used to trouble him. A lot. But over the years, he’d learned to ride it out. This morning would be no different. Time tended to heal wounds, and Nathan had some deep ones. He’d been reliving his stint in the cage, suspended above the jungle floor, suffering a slow death by starvation. A cruel end to three weeks of interrogation and torture. You’d think twenty-six years would be enough time to move on, but memories hurt more than physical scars. Scars could be hidden. Memories? Not so much.

  The saving grace to his life? Harvey’s friendship. Nathan’s relationship with Holly Simpson was special, albeit long distance, but his bond with Harv went beyond understanding. Harv had risked everything returning to the Nicaraguan jungle to rescue him. Nathan wouldn’t have lasted another day. Thank goodness he couldn’t remember being carried. He’d spent the two-mile trek unconscious, sparing himself the agony of multiple broken bones, dislocated joints, and severely lacerated skin. His tormentor had been quite thorough.

  Stop dwelling. It happened. It’s over.

  Move on . . .

  Like it or not, he’d fallen into another solitary pattern. If it weren’t for his live-in housekeeper and his dogs, he wouldn’t have any personal contact with other warm-blooded beings for days at a time. Not all was lost. He called his parents regularly, exchanged a few texts with Holly on a daily basis, and took walks and jogs around his Mount Soledad neighborhood.

  He wished he could spend more time with Harv, but by trying to help his business partner with the day-to-day operations of their security company, he only got in the way. Harv did everything and, quite frankly, didn’t need his “help.”

  At least Nathan recognized the signs of his own isolation and made an effort to correct his behavior. Right . . . like shopping for groceries at four in the morning?

  From his Clairemont home, the store was less than a ten-minute drive, especially with no traffic. Downtown San Diego didn’t mirror Times Square. This city rolled up its sidewalks well before midnight.

  He pulled into the underground garage and scanned his surroundings before getting out. The clunk of his Mustang’s door echoed for several seconds. Four other cars sat dormant against the far side of this concrete crypt, probably the employees’ rides. Nathan could handle most ruffians, drunks, and two-bit meth heads, but it didn’t hurt to be cautious. Better to avoid a fight in the first place. Given his six-foot-five frame, the long scars marking his face, and eyes the color of glacial ice, bullies rarely tested him. More often than not, Nathan found trouble, not the reverse.

  The elevator dumped him inside the store, and he again checked his immediate area. All quiet. During these predawn visits, he’d usually encounter a stocker, maintenance worker, or someone checking inventory, but he rarely saw a shopper.

  He didn’t note anything except for the obnoxious security camera—an intrusive construct of plastic, metal, processor chips, and glass. Despite its antiseptic appearance, the black polyp in the ceiling felt threatening, like the motionless glare of a predator. He really despised what it represented—the annihilation of privacy. The prying eyes of Big Brother were everywhere. If not the government, then private industry. Vegas casinos were the worst.

  He’d love to end its electronic life with a two iron.

  Oh, man, that would feel good right about now.

  He felt hypocrisy at the silly thought. His private security company routinely installed cameras for its clients.

  Nathan wondered what the fear of cameras was called. There were official names for every phobia imaginable. He was tempted to pull his phone and look it up but thought, Screw it. The world’s already infested with a billion and a half cell phone addicts who can’t last more than a few minutes without their artificial companions.

  Walking past the florist’s station, he thought of Holly and made a mental note to have some flowers delivered to her office in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. It seemed hard to believe they’d been together for six years. Ever since her promotion to the FBI’s chief of staff, they hadn’t seen each other enough.

  He offered a forced smile to the cashier. She waved back and quickly resumed staring at her phone. He wondered how many hours she stole from her employer.

  Blown away by all the food choices, he rolled his cart down the crackers-and-snacks aisle. No matter how many times he saw this, it still dumbfounded him. What would a starving child from Sumatra think of this obscene display? Thankfully, this stuff didn’t get tossed like dairy, produce, and meat. He’d once heard a shocking statistic: every year in the United States, one-third of all the food it produces gets thrown away. One-third! Could that be true? Something on the order of 150 billion pounds. He knew it was pointless to think about it, but damn, that was a crazy number.

  Nathan never took food for granted. He had, after all, been literally starving to death at one point. Wastefulness didn’t anger him as it once ha
d, but—well—okay, yeah, it still pissed him off. A bunch, actually. He’d written his congressman and received a rubber-stamped form letter thanking him for voicing his opinion and doing his civic duty as a concerned citizen. Blah, blah, blah. Typical career politician . . . like my father? He knew it wasn’t fair to malign his dad or politicians in general. Someone had to do it, right? So why not the great Stone McBride? A perfect fit.

  He turned right at the Oreo cookies endcap and worked his way toward the meat counter, currently closed. At the household-needs aisle, he glanced right and saw a mixed Hispanic and white family. Presumably they were a family. These days, you never knew.

  What happened next pissed him off worse than seventy-five million tons of wasted food.

  Just before he moved out of their line of sight, he saw the man’s arm swing in a wide arc toward the woman. He didn’t see the impact, but he heard it.

  A hard, meaty slap.

  He pivoted his cart 180 degrees and returned to the mouth of the aisle.

  Holding her cheek, the woman cried softly. The guy looked at Nathan and made an exaggerated “mind your own business” gesture. Firmly hugging her mom’s leg, the child had her back to the man.

  Don’t do it, Nate. Don’t you dare . . .

  Too late. He’d already started down the aisle.

  There were three surefire ways to press Nathan McBride’s buttons. Strike a woman. Hurt a child. Or kick a dog.

  This jerk probably did all three on a regular basis.

  Approaching, he smelled the stench of alcohol.

  Not beer or wine. Hard stuff.

  Dressed in blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a smeared ball cap, the guy was pasty white, big—maybe six two—and noticeably overweight. Cheap tats marred his arms. His wife or girlfriend stood a foot shorter. The little girl looked five or six with skin darker than the man’s and lighter than the woman’s.

  Most people would’ve been intimidated by the guy’s size, unless they stood three inches taller, weighed the same, and had a BMI of less than 15 percent—which happened to be Nathan’s build.

  It’s not too late to turn back. You know this isn’t going to end well. For who? Or is it whom? Probably whom.

  With a smug expression, the man squared up and made no attempt to hide his revulsion at the sight of Nathan’s scarred face. A southern drawl declared, “This ain’t your concern, Frankenstein. Mind your own business.”

  Frankenstein? What a dumb ass . . . although technically the monster’s name was Adam Frankenstein. Not that this joker had any clue.

  Oddly, the guy’s speech wasn’t the least bit slurred—apparently, he had a high tolerance for corn whiskey.

  The man possessed high Slavic cheekbones but lacked the requisite chin structure. Clearly his family tree didn’t have enough branches. Six days of stubble made him look like a bad facsimile of Fred Flintstone. When the little girl looked at Nathan, he saw a trace of dried blood under her nose, and her left arm displayed a bruise above the elbow. Her clothes and shoes were scuffed and dirty.

  “Are you deaf? I said mind your own business.”

  Nathan ignored the question and appraised the woman. In her mid-twenties, she wore an inexpensive skirt and buttoned shirt. Black hair hung in a single long braid. Fine cheekbones. Dark brown eyes. Her most noticeable characteristic: a lifeless expression. Not fear, only hopelessness.

  Nathan locked eyes with her and nodded toward the man. “Habla él español?” Does he speak Spanish?

  She shook her head but didn’t say anything.

  “Está usted casada?” Are you married?

  Another no.

  “Hey, asshole, what’re you saying?”

  Without taking his eyes from the woman, Nathan pointed at the man’s face, snapped his finger, and said, “Please watch your language.”

  The woman clutched her daughter tighter when the guy lashed out with the f-bomb.

  Nathan ignored it. “Quiere usted que llame a la policía?” Do you want me to call the police?

  She looked down and said, “No.”

  At hearing the word policía, the man glanced up and down the aisle.

  The woman’s cheek had turned red, and a trickle of blood ran from her nose. She wiped it with the back of her hand but didn’t look. She’s no stranger to being battered.

  Not expecting an answer, he asked anyway, “Usted está aquí ilegal?”

  The woman offered a barely perceptible nod.

  He now understood why she didn’t want the police involved. The child probably allowed her to remain in America, but the price of admission was high. To ease her tension, he told her he wasn’t law enforcement.

  “Hey, asshole, quit speaking Spanish and get lost.”

  “I said watch your language.”

  “Yeah, I heard . . . and if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll have to wash your mouth out with soap.” Nathan motioned toward the right. “The detergent aisle’s over there. Would you prefer scented or unscented?”

  The girl stole a look from behind her mom. Nathan winked, and she turned away.

  Flintstone took a step forward. “Think you’re tough, huh?”

  Right-footed, Nathan noted. He’d also used his right hand to slap the woman. He tried English with the girl. “Don’t turn around, okay? Keep facing the shelves. Your dad and I are going to have a discussion.”

  “He’s not my dad.”

  “Hey!” said Flintstone. “You don’t talk to the kid. You talk to me.”

  Nathan scanned the far end of the aisle for cameras and didn’t see any. He looked over his shoulder in the opposite direction and got the same result.

  What happened next made Flintstone smile.

  Two more men, slightly shorter, appeared at the end of the aisle. Nathan saw the family resemblance right away. Same cheeks and chins. They also had the same noses, eyes, and hair color: swamp-water brown.

  “Hey, Tommy, this asshole just threatened me.”

  The two men hurried down the aisle. Both right-footed. Cell phones in right front pockets. One had an average build, heavy work boots, filthy jeans, and a black tank top. The other wore cargo shorts, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and flip-flops on the verge of falling apart. He looked like a homeless surfer—scrawny and lean from not eating. All the signs of a meth head. When they arrived, the stench of alcohol tripled.

  Before Flip-Flops spoke, his tongue whipped across a missing front tooth. “Who’s your friend?”

  The little girl held perfectly still.

  Nathan made a final sweep of the aisle with his eyes.

  Flintstone took a step forward. “Well, tough guy, now what?”

  Nathan held his ground. “Here’s the deal. I’m placing you under arrest for assault.”

  “Is this some kinda joke? What’re you, a cop?”

  In his 5.11 Tactical clothing, he did have the look. “Nope, just a citizen.”

  “Then you can’t arrest me.”

  “I absolutely can. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

  Flintstone offered a laugh. “I don’t see no handcuffs.”

  Nathan pointed to the rolls of duct tape. “Works fine.”

  Flip-Flops whipped his head back and forth, checking the aisle.

  “We still alone?” Flintstone asked his brother.

  “Yeah, man, but this dude’s nuts. Maybe I should get the manager.”

  “Nah, we can handle him.”

  The man in the black tank top didn’t say anything, but his expression held malevolence. Nathan put his money on the first move coming from that direction.

  “Last warning,” he said evenly. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

  He readied himself. Ninety-nine percent of Earth’s brawlers will use their right fist and try to strike their opponent’s face. Some will charge, but most muscle heads opt for the haymaker.

  Tank Top made the first move. His fist shot forward in a blurred flash.

  Nathan jerked his head to t
he left, and his opponent’s knuckles found only air.

  Off-balance from missing his jab, Tank tried to steady himself, but Nathan was already in motion. He drove his left elbow into the man’s jaw, making solid contact. Before Tank fell to his knees, Nathan yanked a twelve-inch frying pan from its hanger. It felt a little light, but it would do.

  Tank’s momentum took him headfirst into the batteries on the opposite side of the aisle. Packs of Ds, Cs, and AAs rained down on him like large hail.

  Flip-Flops said, “Whoa!” and backed up a step.

  Nathan gave it low odds the tweaker would join the fight unless it took a positive turn for the inbreds.

  Holding the girl tightly, the woman looked frightened, but she hadn’t run.

  “It’ll be okay,” he told her in Spanish. “You’re safe with me.”

  Nathan stepped back to widen the gap between himself and Flintstone, which also generated some separation from the woman and the child.

  Tank cursed, wiped his lip, and looked at the blood. Nathan could’ve made it much worse, but brain-damaging blows weren’t required yet. That changed when Flintstone grabbed a meat cleaver and pulled the protective sleeve from its blade.

  Game on.

  Nathan looked him in the eye and asked, “Are you sure?”

  In the right hands, a frying pan becomes a miniature Roman shield. And that’s how Nathan planned to use it, at least initially.

  When Tank tried to gain his feet again, Nathan stomped the guy’s forearm, felt the two bones snap clean, then issued a side kick, catching the man squarely on the chin. If the man’s jaw hadn’t been initially broken, it was now. The blow sent him into the cooking utensils. Freed from their shelves and hooks, all kinds of items pelted the guy. Spatulas. Flippers. Thermometers. Measuring cups and spoons. Basters. Tongs. Skewers. Cheese slicers and potato peelers. But perhaps most appropriately? Meat tenderizers.

  The guy waved his good arm at the falling kitchen products as if fighting off a swarm of bees. If it hadn’t been such a serious situation, it might’ve looked comical. When the falling barrage stopped, Tank plopped to his side and lay still.

  Nathan turned his attention to Flintstone. “If you attack me with that, I will hurt you.”

  The man froze in indecision. His eyes flicked between his injured brother and Nathan. Blood now flowed from Tank’s nose and mouth, and his eyes were closed. The guy had a grade-three concussion for sure.