Maya Banks - Hidden Away

THEREwere any number of men who would do any job Marcus Lattimer wanted done. He’d amassed a fortune and countless connections during his lifetime, most of which were steeped in murky shades of gray. The men directly employed by Lattimer were absolute in their loyalty—he would tolerate no less—but he never allowed himself to fully trust anyone.

Some jobs ... Some jobs demanded personal satisfaction. This one was a matter of honor. Others might argue that Marcus had none. By their definition, they’d be right. But he was bound by a fierce loyal code. His honor was what mattered.

Allen Cross was an arrogant, coattail-riding asshole. The world would be a better place without his kind of filth, and Marcus was determined that the task would be completed this day.

Marcus attached the silencer and tucked the gun into the waist of his slacks. Drawing the Armani suit coat closed, he left the confines of his car and instructed his driver to wait. He walked at an unhurried pace toward the entrance of the high-rise that housed Cross Enterprises. Around him the city lights twinkled in the darkening of dusk, and headlights from passing cars bounced along the alleyways.

The streets were mostly empty and the building barren of the weekday horde of employees who scurried in and out with regularity. He paused a short distance from the entrance and checked his watch. The security guard that manned the front entrance on the weekends was a family guy and, like most family guys, had a moderate amount of debt and stretched his budget from payday to payday.

After tonight, the guard wouldn’t have the financial worries of others in his class. Marcus had seen to that. Right now, the guard would take a strategic break from his post, and at the same moment, the surveillance cameras would go down.

Money bought many things. Loyalty. Disloyalty. A blind eye. A moment’s distraction. Fifteen minutes was all Marcus needed to rid the world of Allen Cross.

Cross was a creature of habit. He came into his offices every Saturday after seven and remained until nine P.M., when his car service collected him and drove him to the same restaurant ten blocks away. He liked the few hours of solitude to go over paperwork—but what he perhaps liked the most was the freedom to victimize a helpless woman with impunity.

Marcus’s jaw tightened in fury. Predictability killed a man. As Cross was about to find out.

Marcus rode the elevator to the twenty-first floor and stepped onto the cheap, fake Italian marble flooring, his shoes issuing a faint echo as he walked through the empty reception area.

The door to Cross’s office was ajar, and a faint light shone through the crack. Marcus pushed at the door and let it slide soundlessly open. Cross was behind his desk, kicked back in his chair, a glass of wine in one hand as he read a sheaf of papers with the other.

Marcus watched, content to wait for his prey to become aware he was hunted.

After a moment, Cross set his glass down and leaned forward. He halted in mid-motion, and his head snapped up, his gaze locked on Marcus. Cross’s eyes widened in alarm and then he recovered, a sneer rolling over his lips.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my office?”

Marcus strolled forward, his expression purposely bland as he loosened his coat. Cross rose, his hand inching toward the intercom on his desk.

“Get out or I’ll summon security.”

Marcus smiled. “I think you’ll find him unavailable.”

A flicker of unease skittered across Cross’s face when Marcus continued to smile. Marcus pulled out the gun, enjoying the slide of the stock over his palm. He thumbed the safety, and leveled the barrel at Cross’s chest.

“Would you prefer to die sitting or standing?”

Cross blanched, and he staggered, his hands slapping the polished mahogany of his executive desk. “What do you want?” he asked hoarsely. “Money? I have money. Just tell me how much. Anything. I’ll give you anything.”

A sneer twisted Marcus’s lips. “You couldn’t afford my shoes.”

His finger tightened on the trigger, and he watched the awareness in Cross’s eyes, the panicked realization that he was going to die.

Cross lunged sideways, and the sound of the bullet smacking into his chest resonated through the spacious office. Cross hit the floor, his arm outstretched in desperation. Blood seeped through the white silk shirt, growing as he gasped for breath.

As much as Marcus wanted to watch the life slowly fade from the bastard’s eyes, he had to finish this now. He raised the gun and aimed between Cross’s eyes. He saw the finality, the gray acceptance of death in his victim’s gaze. He pulled the trigger and then turned away, satisfied that justice had been served.

THEcab pulled to an abrupt halt outside the building where Sarah Daniels had worked for a period of six months. She hadn’t been back in a year. The mere thought of walking into Cross Enterprises made her physically ill.

She flung a twenty at the cabbie and ignored his offer to give her change. Clumsily opening the door, she bolted from the cab and entered the high-rise at a dead run.

The lobby was empty. Not even the security guard was at his post. Was she too late? What would she have even said to the man? That her brother was here to kill Stanley Cross?

She bolted toward the elevator and pounded on the up button, praying it would be here. She heaved a sigh of relief and threw herself through the doors as they slid open.

She jammed her thumb on the button for the twenty-first floor and then hit the close door button repeatedly.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

She had to be on time. She wouldn’t let Marcus go through with it.

Stupid. So stupid.

She should have known. She’d seen the rage in Marcus’s eyes. He’d been way too quiet. Too collected as he’d calmly told her that he was taking her away. She hadn’t argued. She’d allowed him to make all the plans. All the decisions. She hadn’t even known where they were going, only that Marcus’s private jet was fueled and waiting for them.

Finally the elevator doors slid open, and she rushed into the reception area and turned in the direction of Allen’s office. She saw Allen’s door wide open, saw Marcus’s profile and then watched as Marcus tucked the gun back into his waistband.

Her horrified gaze tracked downward to see Allen Cross lying on the floor, blood staining his pristine white shirt.

Her hand flew to her mouth and she backed hastily away.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

She was too late. She hadn’t gotten here in time.

Allen was dead. Marcus had killed him.

Oh God.

Nausea welled in her throat. She nearly tripped on her feet as she steadily backpedaled. She had to get away. The police would be here soon. Wouldn’t they? Surely someone couldn’t just walk off the streets and kill someone in an office building.