Free Viper: A Hitman Romance by Zahra Girard Page A

then, why give it all up?  Why retire?  Especially since he seems tailor-made to be the perfect hitman.
    That's what I can't understand.  It's like death deciding to hang up the scythe so he can go farm sunflowers in Kansas or something.  It just doesn't make sense.
    As I'm watching him sleep, I know I need to find out more.  There's a reason I work evidence analysis for the FBI — I'm good at figuring out these kind of questions.
    I head upstairs.  I take each step super slow.  Partly because making noise would mean waking up Ryker, and partly because my legs still feel like they're made out of half-formed jello.
    The office door is unlocked.  It opens quietly.
    Inside is the perfect picture of military organization.  It's a drill-sergeant's wet dream.  There's a bookshelf of combat field manuals, language books, and other non-fiction pieces, all organized alphabetically and by subject.
    The desktop is empty.  Dust-free, spotless, and solid — its metal and seriously heavy-duty.  It could probably even take a few gunshots and still hold onto its secrets.
    Fortunately for me, it's not locked.
    The first drawer is empty except for a few pens, paper clips, and some rubber bands.  There's a wicked-sharp letter-opener in there as well.
    The second drawer is full of files, manila folders, and dossiers on people ranging from war criminals to CEOs to heads-of-state.  And all of their dirty secrets.  I flip through a few of them, some of which have handwritten notes about everything from their taste in prostitutes to what brand of cigar they prefer.
    A few famous names have X's over them.
    Victims, maybe?
    "Holy shit," I whisper.
    Some of these names are real high-level.  I recognize a couple drug lords and a few other names that are still riding high on the FBI's most wanted list.  Bad men who've met a bad end.
    We think these guys are still alive.  He's knocked them off and made them fucking disappear and the FBI doesn't even know it.
    Suddenly, I feel like I'm in illustrious company.
    The third drawer has only two things in it.  A photo of a man and a woman on a beach, both with surf boards.  The man in the photo is definitely Ryker, though quite a few years and many miles younger.  And he looks… happy .  Almost carefree.  It's weird.  There's a smile on his face that just seems impossible to picture coming from the Ryker I know.
    It's like that man who had that twinkle in his eye while he sang to me.  Only many times over.
    The picture itself is old.  It's seen a lot of days in the sun, a lot of wrinkles, and a lot of time spent locked in this drawer.
    The second picture is newer.  It's taken from a distance, but I can pick out a Hello Kitty backpack, pigtails, a pink jacket, and purple moon boots.
    "You really should have stayed in bed, Jessica."
    The voice snaps me back to earth.  I feel like I've been struck, physically.  There's a warning in there that's just barely hidden. 
    Be careful, Jessica, things will turn very nasty if you don't watch yourself .
    I stand up, still holding both pictures.  And I disregard the warning.  There's a reason I work so well in analysis: I don't stop asking questions.
    "Who are these?"
    "Put them back."
    I hold my ground.
    "What?  Why? Do you think I'm going to put them in danger?  I'm not a hitman.  I'm a normal person.  I'm no danger to anybody.  All I do is work for the FBI pushing papers and writing memos."
    Well, not really.  I do way more than that, but now is not the time to break out my resume.  Or my glowing performance reviews, thank-you-very-much.
    Ryker sighs.  He's probably just as spent as I am and, right now, real arguments seem exhausting .
    To my surprise, he sits down on the floor in front of me and holds out his hand.
    I pass him the first picture.  There's a long moment while he looks at it, and for a second, there's a hint of a smile on his face that reminds me of the younger man in that photograph.
    "This is Eleanor and me.