Kim & The Hitman, Sandie Baldry [red novels txt] 📗

on a trolley, an ambulance behind me, and a pair of concerned eyes assessing the wound on my arm. I could hear Jenna sobbing close by, a soothing male voice trying to calm her.

In my head, I was screaming, ‘Tell the police about the hitman.’

‘Just lay back. You’re on your way to the hospital.’

’Hospital?’ I mouthed. My head dropped back in shock. Had I been shot?

‘She knows him.’ I heard Jenna say. ‘Ask her.’

I opened my mouth to deny all knowledge. A female paramedic pushed my head down, telling me everything would be all right. Then slid me into the back of an ambulance, the door closed behind me, drowning out the sound of Jenna’s cries.

Detective Inspector Hampton walked into the cubicle where a nurse was dressing my arm an hour later. It turned out a slither of glass from the back window had sliced it. Five stitches later and now being dressed, I was told I could leave once completed. I stared at my beautiful jacket draped over a chair, ruined. Even if I could have got the blood out, the glass had sliced through it. And anyway, the sleeve had been cut off from my arm by the nurse. No coming back from that.

‘I need to talk to the patient?’ said the detective, his eyes flickered over me.

‘She’ll be free to leave in a minute. If you’d like to wait in the waiting room down the hall,’ said the nurse glancing at him like he was an annoyance. Reluctant to go, his rather nice brown eyes were assessing me. I say, ‘Nice.’ They were an incredible brown. But the way they looked at me gave me the shivers. I felt under pressure as if I’d done something wrong. Did my silence make me look guilty? I pointed to my mouth to let him know I couldn’t speak. He had already turned, muttering under his breath about not leaving until he had spoken to me. And something about a statement.

‘There, all done,’ said the nurse, looking pleased with her handy work. I flashed her a brief smile as I just noticed three of my acrylic nails were missing. When did that happen? I knew I should have been in shock, trembling all over, traumatised and stuff. And maybe I would be later. Just then, I wanted to clean up, have a shower and find my phone and bag, still somewhere in that car park.

‘The waiting room is down the corridor, can’t miss the signs,’ said the nurse as she stood, waiting for me to do the same. I mouthed my thanks.

‘Hope you feel better soon. Are you taking something for it?’ She asked, pointing to my throat.

‘Lozenges,’ I struggled to get out.

‘Good, but rest it, and it will heal faster.’

I nodded and left the cubicle, stepping out into a long, brightly lit corridor. I waited as two elderly ladies with walking frames hobbled past me, followed by three nurses, discussing what they were going to have for lunch. The smell of coffee drifted under my nose. But still not allowed. Needed to find the waiting room. Where did the nurse say it was? Standing just to the left of me was a uniformed officer. He had been caught by the three nurses that had just passed me, being chatted up. Everyone loved a uniform.

The officer distracted, I decided I needed a wee before seeing the detective. Not to mention making myself look respectable. The toilets were further along in the opposite direction. I moved through the ambling visitors and staff, headed for the ladies. Even though the nurse had placed plasters on my heels, they still hurt, causing me to limp.

In front of a mirror in the toilets, I did the best I could, flattening my hair with my hands. And using the loo roll cleaned off the lipstick smudged on my chin. Once I had wiped the mascara from under my eyes and looking less of a mess, I braced myself for the detective. I needed to tell him I didn’t know the guy with the gun. It was all a coincidence, springing from a conversation I’d overheard in the men’s loo. That sounded so bad. I needed to get my head straight. Practise what I would say, write, since I couldn’t talk. I wanted to come across as confident, not embarrassed, mad, or impulsive. After all, I saved the woman, so why did I feel uncomfortable?

I opened the door, determined to look the detective in the eye to explain he needed to protect Jenna from a paid killer still out there. And I didn’t make a habit of using the men’s toilets. With that straight in my head, I was ready.

***

Vincent watched as the ambulance carried off the girl with red bits in her hair. What the fuck had happened? Who the hell was she? A competitor, she wanted the kill. Had the stupid husband hired two of them? His gut was saying no. What self-respecting assassin would turn up dressed the way she did to kill in a car park? Yes, she might if about to seduce a target. She looked more like a sex worker than an assassin. Useful, he supposed, if lulling the target into a force sense of security. Yes, he could see how that might work.

On the other hand, perhaps the husband changed his mind and sent her to stop him? No, he had only spoken to the man less than an hour before. Then what? He needed answers. He must find out who she was. His reputation was at stake. He lived or could end up dying on the strength of that. It wasn’t so much he wouldn’t get another commission. He had enough to retire on if he desired. The problem sprung from being a liability to the agency even working on private contracts, which this was. As a