The HitMan:The Protectors Book 2

By: Jordan Silver

Chapter 1




DRAKE



"Fuck-fuck-fuck". I pulled out and stroked my seed into the condom while she clutched her crotch and stared up at me in awe. I hopped off and went into the bathroom to clean up, feeling the bitter taste of disgust in my throat that was always there whenever I defiled myself with her.

I flushed the rubber and got in the shower to scrub the last hour or so off of me. There was no point in beating myself up over my stupidity, there was a method to this madness, or so I’ve been telling myself for the last ten years. I flicked off the water and stepped out, in my usual hurry to get the hell out.

She came in behind me while I stood in the mirror and tried wrapping her arms around me, but the feeling was already dead and gone. After I nut I’m pretty much done with the pussy and the body attached to it.

I shrugged her off of me and pulled on my jeans. I didn’t have to look at her to know that she was scowling. Fuck I care!

"Why do you pull out if you're wearing a condom anyway? I told you I'm on the pill and I'm clean." Did I really once find that annoying whine cute? Young and dumb as a stump!

"I don't take chances with my dick, and what's in me is for my future wife." I ignored her indrawn breath and the hurt in her eyes, that shit was way too late to do her shady ass any good. I almost hated her, came closer and closer to outright detesting after each of these little dances we shared.

I left her after dropping a few rolls of twenties on the side table. She's not a working girl, in fact she was once my high school sweetheart, but she'd fucked up. Now I fucked her because I could and because I knew she would never dare turn me away; and on top of that, she was easy. Besides, I'm fucked up enough to enjoy treating her like shit. It went a long way to making up for what the fuck she'd done to my teenage heart. I stopped thinking about her the minute I cleared the door.

***

My phone rang just as I was about to hop on my bike. It was my private line so I knew it was business and not some other chick on my dick. Whenever I come back from a job I'm bombarded with pussy calls. It's like they have a lookout or some shit that tells them when I cross the county line.

"Cisco."

"Yes, you're the man I'm told I need to talk to."

"Uh huh and just who might you be?"

"I'd rather not say on the phone if we could just...." I shut the shit off on his ass. Don't have time for games and bullshit. If you don't want me knowing who the fuck you are, then we don't need to be talking to each other. In my line of work that shit'll get you killed.

I had one more stop to make before heading for home, my favorite girl. I nodded to a few people as I rode through town at a respectable rate of speed. They were all pretty much used to my going and coming by now. Most of them believed that I worked on a rig in Alaska somewhere and that's just what I wanted them to think. The less people who knew what the fuck it was I did the better.

Pretty soon they’d have to come up with something else to ponder since I will be home more often than not. The reasons for that were already playing through the mirrors of my mind.

I hate this maudlin shit, but it seems to happen more and more here of late. That noose was tightening around my neck; time was drawing near so to speak. The realization was bittersweet, as I guess was to be expected when you’d worked towards something for so long, and the end was finally in sight.

I probably had two more jobs in me before I hung up my hat. I had made enough money to do what I needed, even if I did get it by questionable means. My conscience didn’t give a fuck; that shit had a one-track mind. If I ever did develop a give a fuck gene I was up shit creek. The way life has been sticking it to me since I drew my first breath, I had no doubt that I would wake up one day and look in the mirror and see my past staring back at me. But for now I had my blinders on.

When I was very young, too young to know these things, I discovered that I had the rest of the world beat hands down with a particular skill. It was quite by accident, and not one of those things that there was a huge market for, or so I thought. As it turns out there was more than enough for me to do in this fucked up world, and more than enough money to facilitate my needs.

There are no medals and promotions in the shit I do, and the world had better never find that shit out. I'm what the media types would call number one with a gun.

I can shoot faster, farther and harder than anyone on the face of the earth with a ninety-nine point nine-nine percent accuracy rate. I can also break apart and put back together any weapon faster than most. With my particular skills you'd think there was only one place to go. The army. But at the time I realized my potential my head was in a fucked up place. The world had fucked me and I was looking for payback.

I had the taste of blood in my throat back then, but my hands were tied. Then out of sheer boredom and frustration, I’d gone on line and researched my particular skill and what could be done with it. At the time I still couldn’t see the potential, other than killing my enemies, but even then I knew death was too easy. To my surprise there was a lot I could do with my quick arm, some of it not exactly legal or moral; I gave a fuck.

Top Books