MY PEN IS HUGE Read online

  Second, Gisselle found out that I tried to have her barred from flying. I should have remembered that her brother works for Homeland Security because Gisselle got the last laugh. Now I’m the one who can’t fly, train, or so much as take a shit without being watched—all perks of being placed on a terrorist watch list.

  My mum’s birthday is next week, you vengeful but crafty woman! I had planned to fly in before the party and surprise her with a little mum-son time. Anyway, Gisselle still showed up in Miami, delivered some choice words, informed me that I was banned—“Here’s some goose to go with your gander, Merrick!”—and I had to drive home. Twenty long, horrible hours that gave me nothing but time to think about how much I miss her.

  I have to get out of this work arrangement. Retire. I don’t see another way if I’m ever going to have a real shot at being with her. Not that she’ll have me, but I won’t ever find out if I’m not free from this. Then there’s the question of whether or not Gisselle’s willing to compromise on her own career goals. I know how thrilling chasing some of the stories can be—the adrenaline, the secrecy, putting your neck on the line to make a difference. But I can’t see being in a relationship with Gisselle if she’s running off to every hot spot in the world. I’d be compelled to go with her and call in favors to keep her safe, which would mean I’d be on the hook to reciprocate the favors. Back to square one.

  Bottom line, I need to see her and lay all my cards on the table. I’m willing to try to find a way out if she’s willing to choose a safer career path. If she doesn’t want that or me, then there it is.

  First, however, I’ve got to get my own travel ban lifted. Very funny, Gisselle! Ha. Ha.

  I dial my primary contact, Mr. Green, and tell him about my situation.

  “You must’ve pissed off the wrong person,” he says. “Because your name is flagged in every major database: CIA, British Intelligence, FBI, NRA, ASPCA. You’re not getting anywhere near a plane, gun, or puppy for the next year. Maybe longer.”

  “Don’t you have a way around this?”

  “We’ll see what we can do, but it won’t be easy, even for us.”

  I groan. “Fine. Thanks. Keep me posted.” I’ll have to send my mum an outrageously expensive stripper, maybe two, to get her to forgive me for missing her birthday. She’s throwing a bash at her house in London, and I’m supposed to give the toast.

  “There’s more. We have a job for you. An urgent one you’re not going to like. Remember that story you were digging around on involving Kristoff Bones?”

  My chest starts thumping like a war drum. Before he says it, I know. “He escaped.”

  “That information isn’t public yet. How did you find out?”

  “Because Kristoff has never been caught until now.” He’s the master of disguise, but in a very non-funny, non-Inspector Clouseau sort of way. He has his own network that allows him to acquire fake identities and passports. Which means he has powerful connections. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that those connections probably don’t want Kristoff sitting in an Australian jail, where he might be offered some very tempting deals from Interpol to hand over information. “Any idea where he is?”

  “Not exactly, but they just caught the person who contracted Kristoff. He broke into Mitch Hofer’s house and tried to finish the job himself.”

  I shift to the edge of my desk chair, wondering which member of the Kemmler family did it. “Who?”

  “It was Mitch Hofer’s sponsor, the owner of Weeno Swimwear. The idiot didn’t want to pay the three-million-dollar bonus in Hofer’s contract, so he offered a million to Kristoff Bones.”

  So Augusto Kemmler was right. His family had nothing to do with it. It also means that Kristoff killed the wrong guy. “The bullet was meant for Mitch, not his uncle Albert?”

  “Yes, and now that Norton Weeno is in custody with the Houston police—”

  “Here? He’s in custody here in Texas?” My blood suddenly feels ice cold.

  “Yes. And it presents us with a very good opportunity to catch Kristoff.”

  I get it now. They’re not worried about finding Kristoff because they’re about to ask me to publish an article.

  “I’m sending you some information,” Mr. Green says. “It needs to be a breaking story within the hour.”

  And there it is.

  Green continues, “The information will include the details of Weeno’s confession, implicating Kristoff. Meanwhile, another story is going to break, later today, telling everyone that Kristoff has escaped and is on the loose in Australia, a massive manhunt underway.”

  Fuck. They’re going to try to trap Kristoff again. Only this time, Norton Weeno is bait. You never sell out a hit man. Ever. Ever. Ever. Didn’t the sod read the handbook? It’s doing business with assassins 101. Anyway, once the article is published, Kristoff is likely going to make his way here, but they don’t want to alarm him. They want him to think they’re searching for him in Australia.

  “Wonderful.” I sigh. “How long ago did Kristoff escape?”

  “A few days ago.”

  Christ. “Is he already in the US?”

  “If he’s not, he will be soon. Get the article published.” The call ends, and the only thought in my mind is that I’ve got to warn Gisselle. Don’t want her poking around while all this is about to go down.

  I dial her number, and her sweet voice is music to my ears. I really do miss her.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Leland Merrick. Calling to thank me for the gift?”

  “Which one? Putting my name on the terrorist watch list or the giant pen you sent to my office with the words ‘suck it’ written on the side?” It just arrived this morning.

  She chuckles. “Both.”

  “While I give you an A plus for creativity, I’m calling because I need to see you.”

  “I’m not taking your name off the list. Besides, I can’t. My brother did it as a favor, and he’s off on some work thing for a few days. Guess you’ll have to write a piece about the local weather. I hear rain’s in the forecast.”

  “Gisselle, love. I’m not fucking around. I need to see you. It’s important. Inn. Three hours.”

  She laughs. “A booty call? Seriously, Merrick?”

  “Love, in the last few weeks I have very literally thought of nothing but you and our fantastic shag, but I would never order you to a hotel room for sex.” I pause. “All right, I probably would if we were in a relationship, but we’re not.”

  “Look, Merrick. Whatever it is you have to say, I don’t care. We’re done. I’m done. Okay? So just scooch, scooch off to whatever story you’ve got cooking and leave me alone.”

  “Bloody hell, woman! Then I’m coming to your house.”

  “Uh. No. You’re not.”

  “You going to stop me?” I growl.

  “No. But I’m already at the airport. I’m flying out in a few minutes, so it’ll have to wait. Gotta go. The flight’s boarding.”

  She ends the call, and I’m about to ring her back, but if she’s leaving, that’s perfect. The other relationship stuff will have to wait. Just as long as she’s safe.

  I open my laptop and download the secured file just sent by Mr. Green. There are no surprises in it. Full confession by Norton Weeno, who contracted a known killer, Kristoff Bones, for one million dollars. Weeno is being held without bond in the jail in downtown Houston. Mitch Hofer and his bodyguard Abi Carter were unharmed during the murder attempt in Hofer’s Houston home.

  Wow. So Norton Weeno really tried to finish the job himself. I still can’t believe the sod would do that. Kristoff won’t appreciate being made a fool of, given he’s the type of lunatic who prides himself on finishing the job, which means he’ll probably go after Weeno and then Mitch. No loose ends.

  I continue reading the sound bites for the story, one of which is a quote from Mitch Hofer: “My girlfriend and I are looking forward to putting this behind us and having some quiet time alone.”

  It’s lovely
that they’re finally together, but… I stare at my phone, the guilt nagging away at me. I should call Abi Carter and warn her in person—too many ears listening in on our phones. I don’t have a lot of time, but I could go meet her after publishing this article.

  I ring Abi, but it goes to voicemail, so I leave a message for her to call me back. Urgently.

  I get to typing, and a few minutes later, my phone rings.

  It’s Abi. “So nice of you to ring me back. I wanted to ask if you might have a moment to meet up and talk—”

  “Yeah, forget that. I know I’m probably making an enemy forever, but I got the strangest call from Gisselle Walters about five minutes ago.”

  That would be before I spoke to her.

  Abi continues, “She said that Kristoff is free. Is that true?”

  “Errr…I can’t say.” Anything I’m told by Mr. Green and/or his team is strictly classified. When I issue a story, it has to be done per their exact written instructions.

  So how did Gisselle find out so fast about Kristoff escaping? Like Mr. Green said, that information is still classified until the public announcement. She really is quite good.

  “Whatever. She seems to think he’s escaped from jail, and she said she’d share what she knows so I can keep Mitch safe, in exchange for a favor. She asked me to feed you some phony information—said something about wanting to throw you off her track so she can get the story.”

  “Bloody hell.” What’s the woman up to now? I swear to God, she’s going to be the death of me, because I know she’s about to do something incredibly dangerous. “I can’t go after her. She’s got me banned from every airport in the US and then some.”

  “Really?” Abi sounds thoroughly confused. “Because she specifically said she knew where Kristoff was, but wanted me to give you a fake lead. I assumed to get you on a plane and out of the way so you wouldn’t scoop her.”

  “She’s going after him?” My stomach rolls and goes into a sickening tailspin.

  “That’s why I called. I know you two are more than competitors—the sexual tension is through the roof.”

  She only saw us together once, but she’s right. “Did Gisselle say where she was going?”

  “She said to tell you that she was going to Warsaw.”

  I nearly drop the phone. The blood rushes out of my head, heart, and pools in my feet. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I can’t breathe.

  “Leland? You still there?”

  I swallow hard. “Get in your car. Head north. Or south. Just go anywhere.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  Fuck the classified rules. I don’t care anymore. “Because Kristoff is already here.” And he has Gisselle. Warsaw was a joke, the one I texted her the day I promised to take off the gloves and let her chase the story. I told her I wouldn’t try to protect her anymore. She knows I would never take the “Warsaw” lead seriously. It’s a warning.

  “I have to go. Good luck, love.” I end the call.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Gisselle

  “All right, it’s done. Can my parents go now?” I look across the dining room table at the thin, extremely agitated man, with a light blond crew cut. His pale face is etched with deep frown lines and is the same one I saw in Sydney in front of Albert Hofer’s house, although he looks much thinner now. I’m guessing that jail has not been kind to Kristoff Bones. Just like he’s not going to be kind to us.

  Turns out, Kristoff did see my face that morning. “I saw you behind the tree,” he said when he first showed up in our kitchen, having just popped in for a little murderous visit.

  “Then why did you go through with the murder?” I asked.

  “You think I’d let one witness get in the way of my job?” Then Kristoff elaborated, explaining that he assumed I was one of the paparazzi who showed up to the Hofer house several times a week to catch photos of Mitch—aka “the Bulge,” as he’s called in the tabloids. He’s just as famous for swimming fast as he is for his tiny Weeno swim trunks and large package. Anyway, Kristoff took my picture and planned to wrap up loose ends after. What he didn’t plan on was getting arrested or that he’d kill the wrong Hofer. Mitch always came out of the house first for his morning swims.

  Anyway, Kristoff suspects that the authorities, who’ve been tracking him for years, are anticipating he’ll come here after Mitch. “I always finish my jobs. My reputation is very important,” he told us.

  “So what’s the plan now?” I ask, squirming in my chair, staring at my parents seated at the head of our long dining room table. It’s a nice sunny day outside, but the curtains are closed and the crystal chandelier is on, giving the room a very awkward vibe, like we’re going to have a fancy murder.

  “You are going to get on a plane to Berlin. Then to Amsterdam,” he says.

  “Ooh.” I make a face. “Are you paying?”

  “No,” he replies.

  “Well, I’m broke, so…new plan?”

  He looks at my mother.

  She then looks at me. “Fine. You can use the credit card, but you know the rules,” my mother says.

  “Seriously, Mom? You’re worried right now about me paying you back?”

  “We work hard for our money, Gisselle,” my father piles on, sitting next to my mom. “And it’s not our fault you got mixed up with this whole thing. You have to take ownership.”

  I narrow my eyes at them. There’s an international assassin, dressed in a Baskin-Robbins uniform—don’t want to know how he got it—in our dining room with a gun pointed at us, and they want to take this moment to lecture me?

  “They are right, you know,” says Kristoff, who’s actually younger than I’d thought, now that I see him up close. Maybe forty? “Kids today are so entitled.”

  “Oh, do you have children, Mr. Bones?” my mother asks.

  “Five. And you know, not one of them appreciates what I go through to put a roof over their heads. Don’t even get me started about the cell phone bills and car insurance for my two oldest.”

  “I could’ve bought a second home and a yacht with what Gisselle costs us every month,” my father adds.

  “You guys are seriously unbelievable,” I protest. “I’ve been paying my own way since college.”

  “We still pay your health and car insurance,” my mother throws out.

  “Fine. Okay. Thank you. I’m expensive and ungrateful,” I huff.

  Kristoff tsks. “Yes, you are, young lady.” He sighs and looks at my dad. “They never learn though, do they, Bob?”

  Bob is my dad. I can’t even with this first-name basis sitch.

  I roll my eyes. “So I’m getting on a plane. What next?”

  “You write some stories—interview pieces with me,” Kristoff replies. “I’ll provide details that not many know so the authorities buy we’re really together in Europe. I want them thinking I’m hiding out. You make it look like you’re tagging along to get the story of your life.”

  Interesting how his eyes lit up just then. I think he secretly likes the idea of his story being told.

  “So they’ll think you’re there, and then you can kill Mitch Hofer here,” I conclude.

  Kristoff shakes his gun at me. “I always finish my jobs. I’m a man of principle.”

  “Oh, but Mitch Hofer seems like such a nice young man, trying to save the dolphins and donating so much of his time,” says my mother. “And you’ve already put him through so much—with his uncle dying and all. I read he was the closest thing to a father he ever had. Couldn’t you let him go?”

  “Madeline, we already talked about this,” Kristoff says to my mom. “I mean, you wouldn’t take on a case to defend someone for murder and then just walk away because things didn’t go as planned or got difficult, would you?”

  “He has a point, honey,” says my father. “He did make a commitment to do the work, even if it’s not appreciated by his children. He’s a man of his word.”

  They’re all crazy. On the other hand, maybe not. As defense attor
neys, my parents are used to dealing with criminals. Oops. I mean people who are innocent until proven guilty. Either way, I’m sure they’re just trying to connect with the nice assassin man so we all have a better chance of staying alive.

  Suddenly, I’m thinking of Merrick. I hope to god Abi called him and told him I’m off to Warsaw. Kristoff was listening and had a gun to my head, so it was the best I could do in terms of tipping him off. The irony is that Kristoff has no clue who Merrick is—thought he was just some passerby who tackled me when the shooting started. But Kristoff sure as hell tracked me down. He said he really liked my piece about the “dirty SOBs” who were terrorizing my old neighborhood. Apparently, he’s against stealing. But killing is an honest day’s work. Nutjob!

  “All right, that’s enough chitchat. Time to buy some tickets.” Kristoff waves his gun at me. I open my laptop and get to work, looking at flights, while he watches over my shoulder. About thirty minutes later, I’m booked on an evening flight to Berlin. My parents will stay behind as insurance. In a few days, when Kristoff thinks the coast is clear, he’ll go after Mitch.

  A news alert pops up on my laptop. I have a ton of keywords saved, and one is definitely Kristoff Bones.

  “Click on it. Click on it!” Kristoff barks.

  “Okay. Clicking.” I do as he says, and it’s a story about Norton Weeno.

  I quickly scan everything. Uh-oh. Uh-oh. I look at Kristoff and hold my breath. The article talks about how Norton Weeno, the owner of Weeno Swimwear, has been arrested for the attempted murder of Mitch Hofer and how Weeno paid Kristoff a million dollars for, and I quote, “the biggest pussy in the hit man world to fuck up the easiest job in the world.” It goes on to read that Norton Weeno wants his money back since he had to try to finish the job himself.

  Kristoff looks like he’s going to murder someone. Of course, he probably looks like that all the time.

  The doorbell rings and Kristoff looks at my mom, but points the gun at my head. “You answer.”