Paid to Kill - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis 2020
Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2020
All Rights Reserved
Paid to Kill is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
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Chapter One
I’m bloody knackered. Could do with sleeping for a week.
Langham pressed his foot harder on the accelerator, wanting to arrive at their holiday destination quicker. He was still below the speed limit anyway but fought the need to break the rules—using his occupation as an excuse to speed wasn’t a good idea, even though there were no other cars on the country road or cameras to catch him. He glanced over at Oliver, his psychic aide, who dozed in the passenger seat. The poor bastard was probably knackered, too.
Langham rubbed his temple, his earlier raging headache thankfully diminishing.
Marsh Vines was where they were having their much-needed break. The string of cases they’d been working on recently had taken their toll, and Langham was bordering on burnout.
Driving out of the city’s belly ten minutes ago had given him a sense of freedom. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d upped sticks and buggered off somewhere without the worry of the job on his mind.
Then again, it was still on his mind, albeit hanging around in the shadows, what with the Roulette case having been so recent. But most of his paperwork was done, and Detective Fairbrother was keeping an eye on things, so there wasn’t much Langham had to fret over. Nothing that couldn’t wait anyway.
Langham peered over at Oliver again. The man’s psychic gift had seriously evolved. He received information dumps about crimes and was able to get inside criminals’ minds, reading their thoughts and knowing things about them. It freaked Langham the fuck out. Still, without him, crimes took a damn sight longer to solve.
The countryside whooshed past. Fields stretched left and right, each bordered by lines of trees, a patchwork quilt of greenery.
He checked his rearview mirror. A car was in the distance, an indistinct shape. It was going at quite a clip, and instinct kicked in, Langham estimating how fast it was going and whether he’d pull the driver over and give them what for.
Once a copper, always a copper…
He slowed, making a mental note of his own speed so he could better judge theirs if they sailed past. Another nose in the rearview. The car was much closer now. A brief memory of the Sugar Strands case floated through his mind and how Oliver had done this very thing, keeping an eye on a vehicle behind them. Except the man tailing them had been a lunatic. A killing lunatic.
“Fucking world is shot away,” he mumbled, concentrating ahead for a second or two to navigate a slight bend.
He checked behind again. That car was right on his bumper, but at least it meant they weren’t speeding now. Langham slowed a bit more, the speedometer needle flush to the little line that showed he was doing forty. The other car veered to the right, the driver intending to overtake, and Langham got ready to have a peek at whoever was inside. Just in case.
As the vehicle drew level with his, he stared at the two men inside. The driver, about fifty, appeared hot, his cheeks ruddy, yet he was animated, as though he was telling the passenger an exciting bit of news.
Is that Sid Mondon?
Sid was suspected of being one that provided certain services Langham had yet to prove. The murdering kind of service. The links to Sid in past cases were tenuous at best, and no matter how hard Langham had tried to haul him in for questioning, he hadn’t been able to. Airtight alibis every time had seen to that.
Whoever the passenger was, he was clearly bored, staring straight at Langham. Bald head, tough as fuck to look at, a man Langham wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley without backup.
Jackson Hiscock. What the fuck are they up to out here?
Hiscock widened his eyes a little but didn’t turn away. The car overtook and didn’t speed off as Langham had suspected it would before he’d known who was inside. Hiscock would have told Sid to keep within the limit, and it’d be in their best interests if they bloody did. Langham would love an excuse to pull them over.
A side road appeared ahead, and Sid took it. Langham passed it, watching their progress for a second or two. He shrugged off the urge to reverse and follow them—couldn’t be doing with any harassment complaints he might get if he did. He wouldn’t put it past Sid to cite that he’d been minding his own business, out on a little country drive with a mate of his, and some bastard detective had stopped him with the accusation of speeding.
“Fuck it.” Langham shook his head at how he just couldn’t switch off no matter how hard he tried.
How could he switch off when what they supposedly got up to—no supposedly about it in my mind—came at him, slamming into his head and swirling around in there? Killers for hire, that was what they were. Paid to kill. Or at least Hiscock was. Mondon, well, he was apparently the mastermind behind the outfit, a man in
