Kissing the Hitman Read Online Ella Goode

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Crime, Insta-Love, Novella, Virgin Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 139(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)

I’m Finn. No last name. My job requires secrecy and information is handed out on a need to know basis. You don’t need to know it. Here’s the situation, though, there’s a blonde. I think she’s made me. I’ve seen her at the airport in Puerto Rico, Japan, and Helsinki. The last one is extra suspicious since it was November and cold as hell in Helsinki. Now she’s on the same flight as me to Paris. I know I need to take care of her but something inside of me is staying my hand. Instead of taking her out, I’m taking her in—to my hotel room, to my bed, to my heart. I’m in danger but if this is the way I go, then so be it. I’m Georgia, a travel blogger. For some reason people enjoy my photos and films and summaries of my little jaunts all over the world. I didn’t plan on being influential and I’m still surprised that anyone is interested in comping a trip for me but I’m not about to say no to a Paris vacation. The hotel I’m staying at is really posh, but they made a mistake in the reservations. There’s only one room and two travelers. I know I shouldn’t agree to rooming with a strange man, but I find myself drawn to Finn despite his secretiveness and his odd paranoia. He acts like there’s danger around every corner and is very protective. I like that about him, maybe too much. Vacations are temporary so I can’t give my heart to someone like him.

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A flicker of familiar wheat-colored hair flashes in the corner of my eye. My normally steady, unshakeable nerves start to spark. Her again. I click my earpiece in, and my handler picks up.

“What’s cooking, good looking?” Mercy has never been anything less than cheerful. I’ve always wondered if it’s an act or if she just really loves logistics. I’ll never know because in our line of work, the less you ask, the more days you’ll live. We function on a need-to-know basis. Mercy tells me the mark and how it needs to be done such as poison, headshot, or my choice. I literally execute the plans, she deposits money, and we both go our separate ways. I don’t even know if Mercy is her real name. It’s really a perfect relationship. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

“I think I’ve been made.”

“By whom?” Her tone is completely changed. It’s serious business now.

“The blond girl from Atlanta is here.” And Puerto Rico, Japan, and Helsinki. The last one is extra suspicious since it was November and cold as hell in Helsinki.

Her fingers fly over the keyboard as, I assume, she attempts to match the woman in my line of vision with an extensive and illegal database. “The number one selling hair dye in the world is blond. Are you sure it’s the same one?”

“Are you really doubting my memory?” Attention to detail is the number one skill for someone in my line of work.

“No.” A heavy sigh follows. She’s probably rubbing her eyes in irritation. Mercy likes a well-oiled machine with no hiccups. This is a major hiccup. “I’m not. I want you to be wrong, but since you’re not, you’d better fix it.”

“Not gonna fix it here at the airport. There are too many cameras around. Too many people.” It’s not that a job can’t be pulled in a crowded place. I’ve done that before, but it takes planning and I don’t have time to set it up.

“Right. Why don’t you try to find out what flight she’s on and I’ll track her down. When you’re done with your Paris job, I’ll have all the details for you so you can take care of her.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem because she’s at my gate.” The blonde tucks something into a large keep-all and then sweeps her hair out of her face. My heart starts pumping a little faster. I look down at my chest and frown. Why am I reacting to her? I’m not afraid. There’s no mark I haven’t taken care of in the ten years I’ve been doing this work. I’ve been made before on a handful of occasions and easily tidied up my messes. I’m the best in the business. My heart rate should not be increasing.

“She’s at your gate? You need to take care of her before you land.”

My gut clenches. It doesn’t like that idea. “I am not taking care of her on the plane or in the airport. I’ll wait till we land and take care of her in Paris. Big city, lots of dark alleys. It’ll be easy there. I’ll get you her seat number, and you can look her up on the passenger manifest.”

“If she’s made you, she’s going to do you before you can do her,” Mercy warns.

“She’d be stupid to kill me on the plane. It’s a closed space, and you can’t get rid of a body easily. Since this is the fourth time she’s traveled with me, she’s not in a hurry to off me. I want to know who her handler is.”

“Maybe she’s trying to recruit you.”

“I’m an independent contractor.”

“Does she know that?”

“Everyone knows that.” The blonde lifts a phone to her ear. That’s clever. It makes her look normal and can even act as a cover as she talks to her handler. I just generally lean against the wall and try not to move my lips much when I communicate with Mercy via my in-ear headset.

“But no one really knows who you are. They just know of you. That you are the fixer.”

“And everyone knows that the fixer takes whatever jobs that he wants and then he’s not aligned with anybody.” The blonde moves to the ticket counter. They talk for some time, and then a piece of paper—likely a ticket—is exchanged. The counter attendant moves over to the ticket reader while another flight crew attendant announces that the first-class passengers will be boarding soon. The blonde gets into the Skypass lane. She must’ve gotten an upgrade. That’s normal, I guess, but a little odd if you’re a contract killer. You want to leave as few traces behind as possible, and she’s interacting with staff that might remember her.

“If she has made you and she’s followed you to four different jobs but she’s not killing you, the only other option is that she wants to recruit you. She’s probably a honey pot.” Mercy sounds like I’m going to hand over my dick—and head—on a silver platter.