Page 4 of Targeted By Love

My other phone purred.

It didn’t ding or ping or make any loud noises. It sounded as I moved and worked, and humans might say I was cat-like.

No way. We’re wolf all the way.My beast wasn’t impressed by cats and glared at any who crossed his path.

That’s because humans are more familiar with kitties than wolves.

I scanned the message. Another hit. At a wedding. I almost dropped the phone as I laughed hysterically. Most guys in my profession would refuse a job that was so public and supposed to be joyful. But they weren’t me. I’d never declined a hit, and my bank balance stashed away in a place far from home reflected that.

There were no names; there rarely were, though the last guy on the bike was an exception. I had the time and the location, and the target was the best man. The human tradition of a “best man” was from ancient times when a groom kidnappeda potential spouse and the best man helped and protected said spouse-to-be, making sure no one prevented their marriage.

Many shifters recognized their true mate instantly by their scent, and the ones who didn’t, often mated in the way humans dated; by getting to know one another over days, weeks, and months.

The scenting ability in some shifters peaked at puberty, but for wolves, we weren’t able to recognize a fated mate until our mid to late twenties. The universe understood we weren’t ready to take on a lifetime commitment until then.

My profession—not the outward-facing one but my other job—didn’t lend itself to having a mate. If I was fated, I might reject that destiny because some guy who wasn’t part of our wider “family” could never understand my work and stand by while I did it.

It would be less complicated if there wasn’t one person for me. I could choose who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. But that wouldn’t happen until I’d reached my financial goal and had enough to look after my folks. In the back of my mind, I wondered if the thrill of the hit would have me rejecting retirement because it was addictive.

Probably. My wolf understood my craving for danger.

That was years away. I was in my mid-thirties and my lifestyle wasn’t cheap.

As I’d reached this age without meeting my fated, I was certain the universe had smiled on me and agreed to my wish of allowing me to choose my mate. If I were human, I could date and fall in love, not worry about what lay ahead.

My mind wandered back to boarding school, when life was simpler and everything was about the now and the future was far away. I’d allowed myself to get close to someone because I wanted to and didn’t worry whether they were human or shifter, mafia or civilian, and my focus was on young love and lust. Looking back, it had been irresponsible, he could never be the one. But at the time, I thought it would be him and me against the world, and that maybe I could pick my mate instead of waiting for fate to do it for me.

I pushed the thought of mating out of my head and planned the hit.

Even I couldn’t walk up the church aisle or into the registry office and pull a gun on the best man and expect to get away with it. I had balls of steel, but I couldn’t shift and have the authorities treat it as a murder. The shifter community would be under threat, not to mention our wild cousins would be the target of anyone with a weapon.

Nah. The reception was a possibility when everyone had too much to drink. Perhaps toward the end after the grooms had departed and couples were slow dancing and others were having sex in the cloak room.

Or I could do it during the preparation. The wedding itself was in a private chapel in the grounds of a luxurious country estate, followed by the reception inside the manor house. The wedding party had the run of the estate for twenty-four hours. People would be bustling from room to room, they’d be shouting, asking about the cake and a missing bow tie. Some would be drinking a pre-wedding toast.

But the part of me that wanted to take life by the scruff of the throat and shake it said I had to perform the hit just as the grooms said their I-dos.

With the computer on my lap, I researched the estate. It’d been originally built by a family who had cozy relations with the church, hence the chapel nestled in a grove of trees in the substantial grounds. The name chapel didn’t do it justice. It was huge and possessed a choir balcony.

Perfect.

I’d wear a tux so I wasn’t out of place. Using a silencer would give me additional seconds, maybe minutes to get out of there. And once I was in the trees, I’d shift and my wolf would bound into the nearby forest. But instead of a backpack, my clothes would go into a huge gift bag that my beast would carry away.

Unlike most of my hits, the body would remain, front and center, as an additional warning to someone in the church. My client had stipulated that.

I loved when a plan came together, and I got out my suit, still in the dry-cleaning bag. I’d worn it a few months ago for a large family celebration.

Now that everything was in place, I longed to put the plan into action. I had the first half of my fee, and I relished adding to my bounty once I’d completed the job.

But thanks to market volatility, my day job needed all my concentration and skill, and when Saturday dawned, I was still tapping on the keyboard and staring at the multiple screens on my desk.

Instead of an evening wedding, this was late morning, and I stood in front of my mirror adjusting my bow tie until it was straight. I’d bought a gift, but not having access to the gift registry, I placed hundred dollar bills in an envelope. While it might raise brows, no one was going to say no to a chunk of cash.

The gun and silencer were in my inner coat pocket, as I couldn’t chance someone snatching the gift bag from me to put it wherever the heck presents were placed. If that happened, I also had a tightly folded cloth bag in my pocket, as I couldn’t risk leaving the clothes and weapon behind. My wolf would carry the evidence to safety.

I was wearing sunglasses, a wig, beard, and mustache from my large collection. Not the same ones I’d had on for the last hit in the country park. This hair was brown with a reddish tinge.

Strolling to a coffee shop a few blocks from my place, I ordered a ride share using a prepaid credit card in the name of a guy who died years ago. Again, I had a ton of these. They were a one-use deal, shredded and tossed after the hit. I preferred to use a taxi and pay cash because the authorities couldn’t trace it, but the taxis were in service and passed me by.