Murphy's Law

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

About the Author

Other Titles

CHAPTER ONE

Some mornings you had to wonder if it was even worth getting out of bed. The sun might be shining, but the rain cloud hanging over your head was just waiting to let loose a torrential down pour. It was a day better spent with my head under the covers and the lights off; maybe with chocolate chip cookies and chocolate cake to keep me company.

My name is Alexis MacGuire, and I'm a college student. Well, mostly I'm a college student, when I'm not upholding the torch of familial obligation and taking part in the family business. You see, my mother and father feel family is important, and we must work together to make it strong. This translated into, if I wanted to go to the University of Washington to study photography—and actually be able to afford it—then I had to do my time. Just like everyone else in the family.

Don't get me wrong, I had no problem carrying my weight, or working to provide myself with the financial stability to attend college. It would be easier if I didn't have to fly clear across the world under various identities to do it. Especially when I had classes to attend.

I graduated high school when I was eighteen, just like most teenagers. Instead of going straight into college after the summer, I began training in the family business. My parents believed in order to excel in college I had to experience life. To them life meant I had to be an apprentice. Three years learning everything I needed to know about silencers, sniper rifles, poisons, aliases, and traveling under the radar. In short, everything needed to be an assassin.

Much to my father's dismay, I was not the prodigy he'd hoped I'd be when I’d began training. The only thing I had going for me was that I was a female who, though pretty in an understated way, was much more capable of looking innocent than most of the people in our line of work. By no stretch of the imagination was I a natural.

After three years of intense training, living in harsh conditions, and spending excruciatingly long periods of time with my extraordinarily precise older brother, Donovan, I was allowed to begin college.

Now, thanks to my participation in the family business, and a late flight in from Europe, I was running late for class and low on energy. Jet setting may sound fun, but when you had a nine o'clock class, and you flew in at six, it was far from fun.

I stood in line at the campus coffee hut, The Steaming Bulldog, and prayed the line would disappear so I could get caffeine into my body before it shut down. The minutes ticked away while I gnawed on my lower lip and waited for my turn.

When I reached the barista I ordered my super large, mega size iced sweetened black tea misto and hit the ground running the second the cup touched my hand. I had ten minutes to get across campus and into the lecture hall. If I was lucky the professor would have an issue with his bladder and not be standing guard at the door ready to deduct points for every minute I was late.

Sprinting across the grounds, I dodged students lounging in between classes, or otherwise enjoying the spring weather; I hopped over a bench, and barely missed knocking over a guy with a clipboard. I risked a quick look at my watch. Six minutes.

My book bag hung across my chest, and my drink was grasped in my left hand. My brother would be happy to note I’d learned something during my training—I always kept my gun-hand free. I barreled across the courtyard, the lecture hall stood in front of me. I put on a last burst of speed and a man stepped out of nowhere. Without time to change course I ran into him. My drink flew out of my hand and splashed across his face, his shirt, and his pants and I tackled him to the ground.

I'm so sorry!I rolled off his prone body, and took a moment to appreciate the man before me. A solid chest and muscular arms filled out his shirt nicely. I mentally shook my head. It so wasn’t the time. I didn't even see you there until it was too late, and I couldn't stop. I...crap.

He was 6’ 3"if he was an inch, with hair so dark it was almost black and skin the color of perfectly browned toast. My mouth went dry, and I had the urge to lick the tea off him. At least until he looked at me and my heart jumped into my throat. A tiger stared back at me. Beautiful yellow eyes with flecks of brown and green around the iris. I felt like prey.

He stood in one movement, as if pulled up by an invisible string. His eyes never left my face. It wasn't hot coffee, so we're good. My cheeks flamed. Besides, it's not every day beautiful women throw themselves at me. The barest hint of a smile twitched at his lips. He reached down and picked up the book that had escaped my bag. His eyes studied the cover before handing it back to me. Late for class?

No. I enjoy running obstacle courses through campus and tackling random men, spilling a drink I stood in line for and desperately need is just an added bonus. I glance at the watch on my wrist. I gotta go. So much for making it to class on time. I'm really sorry about tackling you and ruining your suit. I ran my hand through my hair and realized I was sporting a wild woman of Borneo style. Of course.

It's fine. Nothing a dry cleaner can't fix.

I turned to leave and said, I really am sorry. I hope it comes out. Then I sprinted to the lecture hall doors and prayed for a miracle.

The professor made a mark on his roster as I slipped by. A smug smile tugged at his lips. Dammit. I did a mental neck crack. I was sure my perfect brother was never late to class, even after doing a transatlantic flight.

Then again, I'm pretty sure my brother's jobs never went quite the way mine had.

CHAPTER TWO

The night before...

It had started out like any other job. I arrived in Dublin on schedule and checked into my hotel under the identity of Clair O'Connelly. It wouldn't have mattered if I was Susan Smith or Jane Doe as long as I wasn't caught, left no trace of my being there, and got the job done. I'd get in, get done, get out. Simple. Too bad nothing was ever simple.

I thought of my assignments as Murphy's Law Jobs. Anything that could go wrong would go wrong. As an assassin, the way it was supposed to work versus the way Hollywood claimed it worked was rarely the case.

The target's name was Brandon Kelly. At 6’ 2"he was built like a brick shit house with fire red hair and snarling brown eyes. Not exactly someone you'd want to meet in a dark alley, even if he wasn't an illegal arms dealer. He was known to frequent a bar known as the Lucky Charm, an unimaginative name for a bar if I'd ever seen one, and according to the Intel I was given, when he wasn't sitting at the back corner table drinking whiskey and making deals, he was chasing anything in a skirt.

In my hotel room I dressed in black leggings and a flowing green tunic that fell off my shoulder and was transparent enough to see my black lace demi bra. I placed a wide black belt over it and locked it in place with a sterling silver and emerald buckle. The stiletto black knee high boots I wore added four inches to my usual 5'5". Something I considered a nice change for me.

My hair is a mass of curls the colors of autumn. Most people would call it red, but it's so much more than that. There are so many different colors blended into my hair, that even the best hairstylist couldn't replicate it in a salon. It’s thick, and the curls tend to frizz. I've tried every magic serum on the market to manage it, but none of them have worked. My hair is a force of nature. Usually I give up and leave it natural, doing nothing more than adding gel to tame the curls some. If I really want to fight the inevitable, I will straighten it. That's a project not for the faint at heart, and most times I’m too lazy to bother. I needed to finagle it into a flesh-toned skull cap so I could place the short black wig over it.

I'd already finished my makeup; smoky hued eye shadow over dark black lashes and smudged eyeliner accented the violet of my eyes. The contacts I'd placed in earlier hid the startling emerald green that usually shines out of my face. I colored in my eyebrows with a dark brown pencil, changing the color from red to almost black. To finish the look I smoothed deep red lipstick, the color of fresh blood over my plump lips. With my pale skin the image looking back at me was striking. My own mother wouldn't recognize me.

It was nine PM when I strolled into the smoke filled room of the Lucky Charm. The smell of stale beer and liquor blended with the smoke and caught in the back of my throat. I hated bars. My plane would leave in six hours, and I would be on it.

I strolled up to the bar, catching Brandon Kelly's eye. My hips swayed a little more than normal, and I smiled at the bartender when he asked in his thick brogue, What ye havin'?

Guinness, if you don't mind, I replied, giving him a bright smile. He placed the tall glass of dark liquid in front of me, and I did a mental shudder. I don't like beer in general, but I hate Guinness. Lucky for me, I’d had more than enough experience drinking. I could drink anything and look like I enjoyed it. Point for college. Parents across the world would be so proud if they knew what their children really learned in school.

I was half way through the Guinness, leaned up against the bar on one hip, listening to the band that had taken the stage when I felt a hand on my back. Even though I expected it, and I knew the second someone was behind me, I had to force myself to remain still and not break the guy's arm for touching me.

The man was a little under six feet tall, with blonde hair and bloodshot blue eyes. Either he hadn't slept much or else he was working on a good drunk. His arms looked like they could drag a semi without issue, and they were covered with tattoos. He wore a tight fitting white t-shirt with the sleeves ripped out, and the veins in his neck corded in a rather impressive, if not disgusting, way. He should have laid off the steroids.

I raised my left eyebrow at him. What can I do for you?

Someone would like an introduction. His voice wasn't what I expected. It was high pitched, and he sounded like he was British.

Who?

I'd never been a huge flirt, so having assignments that made me interact with the general population were usually a test of my skills. I'm blunt to a fault and have never been big on batting my lashes to get guys to do what I wanted. My father hated that. He was always saying, Why can't you be more like your sister, Nev? Nev can smile and flirt and get the job done. She doesn't always have to act badass. Why do you? The answer to that and what always ended with my father pulling at his hair along with me stomping off was simple: it’s who I am.

Mr. Steroid looked at me and said, My Boss.

Who's your Boss, and why does he want to meet me? The guy at the table in the corner. He doesn't like to be kept waiting.

I shrugged. Well then, we mustn't keep him waiting. I finished the Guinness and walked with Mr. Steroid over to the table.

Target acquired. So far so good.

Brandon Kelly sat in the booth, his arms spread out on the back of the bench, a toothpick hanging on his bottom lip, and a three day growth of beard along his jaw. His brown eyes were bottomless pits that roamed over my body as I came towards him. A shiver ran down my spine. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then his soul was missing.

When we reached the table, Mr. Steroid stepped away and blended into the shadows against the wall, and I was left alone with Brandon Kelly. I forced a smile to my lips and hoped it looked inviting. I needed to be sexy and available, and he needed to want me in order for me to neutralize him. There are times when I really hate my job.

Aren't you a pretty one, Kelly said to me. His Irish accent was muffled by the sliver of wood His eyes were fixed on my breasts, and I pretended not to notice.

So, I've been told."

Sit down. He patted the seat cushion beside him. With a snap of his fingers a waitress scurried over. Her breasts trembled over the top of her low cut shirt. The lady wants whiskey. Bring a bottle. The waitress batted her lashes at Kelly and sashayed away, swinging her hips like she was trying to shake something loose.

I hated whiskey. More than I hated Guinness. I still had bad memories of the only wild party I’d attended when I’d first started college. The hangover was a misery I suffered through for three days.

His hand slid up my leg and caressed my thigh. Vomit threatened to bubble up my throat, and I forced it back. I would rather have been doing something else; like getting a root canal. Without Novocain. Or maybe a lobotomy. I heard those could be fun.

I pressed myself against him. What's your name?

Anything you want it to be, Beautiful. His hand slid up another inch, and I wondered why I'd been chosen for this assignment over my sister, Nev. This was her type of specialty. I'm better with the cold neutralization. Long range sniper rifle from a roof top. That's something I could get warm about. I preferred to keep the slime from actually touching me.

Well, how about for tonight I just call you, I dropped my voice to a throaty whisper. Mine? I reached out and ran my hand up his thigh, stopping just below his crotch and hoped the look in my eye was suitably sexual.

Beautiful, that's fine with me. He poured whiskey into two shot glasses and handed me one. To your beauty, he said, and all the things you will do with your lips before tonight is over.

I paused with the shot part way to my lips. I had a sudden visual of roasting his nuts over an open fire. While he watched. I brought the shot the rest of the way to my mouth and tossed back the liquid. The whiskey burned a trail down my throat, warming my stomach. This guy definitely needed to be neutralized.

Two hours later we were at his home. He had a private conversation with Mr. Steroid, and dismissed him for the night. That was one less thing I would have to worry about. All I needed to do was slip him the poison, and I could get to the car placed earlier and drive off. Job finished.

He poured wine into crystal flutes while I looked out the window at the view he surrounded himself with. It was a beautiful sight, full of the lights of the city. Why a guy who walked through life with a tooth pick stuck in his mouth would want a view like that blew my mind. Then again, I never pictured an Irish arms dealer being quite so redneck. He was just one trailer park away from being white trash.

His arms wrapped around my waist, and he presented me with my glass of wine. It was time to move this little production along. I turned around in his arms and smiled up at him. The whiskey had made me warm, so I hoped the look I gave him at least passed for drunk if not longing. I could work with drunk.

I removed the toothpick from his lips and did a mental grimace before I slid it into my left pocket. My lips brushed across his. Mmmm, I moaned against his lips and rubbed my chest against his. Yum. I slowly withdrew from him. Suddenly I was up against the windows that overlooked the city, and he was pressed against me, trying to force his tongue into my mouth. I had to draw the line somewhere, and swapping spit with the Irish redneck was over that line.

I forced a giggle. Leaning away from him I slid my hand into my right pocket and removed the special toothpick I'd brought along with me. With one hand on his chest, I caressed his lips with mine. I’d need a hot shower and to scrub myself in bleach when I was done with the job. Popping the toothpick into his mouth I asked, Where's your restroom? I need to freshen up.

Straight down the hall, last door on the right.

I'll be right back, don't go anywhere. Tossing a smile over my shoulder I headed to the bathroom, gnashing my teeth when I felt his hand grab my ass.

I locked the bathroom door and took a deep breath, it should all be over in five minutes. Once the poison mixed with the saliva in his big redneck mouth it would be adios.

I looked down at my watch. Three minutes.

What the hell! Oh, man... I heard him stumble around in the living room, running into things. Glass shattered, and he shouted, What the fuck did you do to me you stupid bitch?

Well, damn. That didn't sound good. I told myself to stay calm. I could hear him mumbling, and I realized he was on the phone. The bathroom door shuddered, and I backed away afraid it would give out. It quivered again as he threw his body against it.

The door trembled once more, and I heard another crash. Then...silence. I wanted to wait longer to make sure he was well and truly dead, but I had a feeling that he'd called Mr. Steroid, and I really didn't want to still be around when he arrived.

Kelly was lying dead on the floor at my feet when I opened the door. The tooth pick was still in his mouth. I removed the toothpick and placed it inside my pocket along with the other one and stepped over his prone body. I wiped down places I might have touched and replaced the cloth in my bag.

Then I heard it. The locks on the front door tumbled. I looked around for another exit and didn't see one. There was only one exit and it was currently blocked by Mr. Big, Blonde, And Deadly. He had a flame thrower strapped to his back and a sadistic smile on his face. Not good. Really not good.

I watched in horror as he pulled the trigger and a flame shot out the end. My inner coward shrieked. I dashed through the house looking for another way out. I forced myself to remain calm every time I heard the distinct sound of the flame thrower. I didn't care if I had to jump through the glass window. Anything was better than getting fried to a crisp by a flame thrower. I liked barbeque as much as the next American, but I had no desire to be part of the menu.

Running into the kitchen, I climbed onto the counter and used it to leverage myself onto the open topped wall. The lights were off in the kitchen, and I held myself still in the opening, waiting and watching for the flame thrower. I said a silent prayer and prepared to do the only thing I could do in this situation.

Here pussy, pussy. Come to Papa.

Another flame shot from the tip of the flame thrower. A few more steps, and he'd be where I needed him to be. He took one step, then another. Scanning from side to side, but never looking up. When he took another step I launched myself at his back. My legs wrapped around him like a spider monkey. I grabbed his head, and he reared back slamming me into a wall. There was a bright light as a flame shot out of the thrower, and the curtains caught on fire. My head slammed into