Broken Promises

Chapter 1

            A pair of blue eyes darted around the room, scanning quickly. The owner of the eyes had heard something, but wasn't really sure yet where it had originated, or what had caused it. A shrug of the shoulders, and another quick glance over a slim shoulder. A few seconds later, a lock was popped, and a thin, catlike figure moved slowly through the door. A light was burning, making Blue Eyes squint, wincing slightly. A flick of the wrist and sunglasses were drawn down. Less likely of being recognized, just in case there were tapes running somewhere. Less painful as well, even though those eyes had always been sensitive to light. Lighter eyes were always more sensitive to light – less pigment to reflect it away. Silently, a slide was pulled back, one round entering the chamber. No need for a scope on this one. That would be overkill, no pun intended. No, plain sight was all Blue Eyes needed, and god damn that light. A foot hit a weak spot in the ancient flooring. A quiet creak, and a startled pause. The intruder heard him start, could feel him looking up.

            "Marcy, I told you to go home. The account's fine. I'll fucking handle it myself. Just go home to your kid," came a voice. Blue Eyes could hear the slight twinge of nervousness in the doomed man's tone. A slight smirk. "Marcy?" I'm not Marcy, Blue Eyes thought, the smirk widening into a smile. A shake of the head. Time for work.

            His back was flat against the wall once he realized the creak he'd heard wasn't his secretary. The masked figure shook its head, and he noted the reflection off the barrel of the 380 auto held in a gloved hand.

            "Please," he begged, his eyes welling up with tears as his fate hit him in the gut. He bent forward slightly, the dread turning into physical pain. "Please, I'll give you anything you want. Money, car… whatever. Just please don't kill me." His pleas got more insistent as the gun was slowly raised. The silencer worked well, but if anyone was in the building, they heard the thud and would come looking. The gun was replaced, and Blue Eyes was back in the ventilation system, making a closely calculated escape. No tires screeched in the exodus – that would be a dead give away. Instead, a sleek black Dodge Dakota exited the parking garage, and with the swipe of a parking card, was on the street, completely inconspicuous.

***

            Cassidy Hodge stared into the depths of the Jack and Coke sitting in front of her, reaching out with long, slender fingers to grasp the tumbler and swirl the liquid around. She had good taste, and her wallet suffered for it. Jack Daniels had been around for millennia, and that meant it cost a pretty penny. She didn't mind. And besides, she could afford it. She'd worked hard over the past few years to stash away enough credits to live on a whim if she really wanted to. She rarely did, but it was comforting to know she could.

            He didn't know she knew he was watching her. He did, however, know that she couldn't possibly make out his features, and that made him less hesitant to stare. She hadn't changed, from what he could tell. Every now and again, she'd glance in his direction, making his hair stand up on end. He never understood why or how she had such an effect on him, but there was no denying it – to himself, at least. He watched her stand, tossing a few credit slips on the table and walking away, her eyes locked in his general vicinity, as though she knew exactly where that feeling was coming from.

            She walked briskly down the street, her combat boots thudding quietly on the pavement. Her hand was clenched around the object in the pocket of her black leather trench coat, careful not to squeeze. You didn't want to do that with a hair trigger, unless you were willing to lose at least a few toes.

            She took the long way home, doubling back a few times, hoping to catch whoever was following her. That was an instinct that couldn't be denied – she had a sixth sense. Several, actually. After a half hour of avoiding her small apartment, she tired of the game and figured if someone wanted to follow her, they could either decide to leave her alone or die a slow and painful death. She'd had a rough life, and a few years previously, she swore no one would ever fuck with her again. Few did, and those never lived.

            Still, she locked the door behind her – all four – and slid her coat from her shoulders with a nonchalant shrug. Her lips parted and sucked in a breath, but she caught herself. With a slight chuckle, she shook her head. Fuck the lights. She kept forgetting about that.

            Her apartment didn't look lived in. A leather couch and a coffee table where all that adorned the living room. The refrigerator was near empty, as were the cabinets, and only a small toaster and a two-cup coffee maker were all that occupied the kitchen counter. The bedroom held only a double mattress, on the floor, and a few pillows. Still the place was immaculate. The sheets were crisp, folded around the mattress tightly, military-esque. Three magazines lay on the coffee table, fanned out as though they belonged in a psychiatrist's office. The bathroom was spotless – towels folded neatly and hung on the towel bars evenly spaced from the ends, the floor was clean, the shower doors sparkled, every toiletry laid with care, and the slight fragrance of jasmine floated through the air. All over the apartment, actually – it was her favorite smell. It fascinated her that the smell of a plant that had gone extinct hundreds of years previously could be regenerated with nothing but DNA and a little creativity. It was all so sterile – no photos, no clutter… not even a throw blanket tossed over the side of the couch. She couldn't live any other way.

            She padded down the hallway and stopped in front of the closet, pulling the door ajar and stepping inside. Another door was hidden to the right, and she pulled it open silently. She removed the 380 auto from her ankle holster and hung it on a hook, facing the same direction as the other assorted guns hanging there. The silencer remained in place. A shiv was removed from her other boot and placed in a drawer. Her favorite shiv remained in a special sheath on her back. Just in case. The door was closed, and the backpack that had been slung over her shoulder was placed carefully in front of it. Just where it belonged. Accessible, but inconspicuous. She turned slightly, and a lazy smile slid across her face.

            "Richard B. Riddick," she said quietly. "How nice to know it was you following me all that time." She heard his throaty snicker and her eyes met his. She saw the glint of silver as she moved. As she walked away from the closet, the door swung shut and beeped. He should have known. Electronic lock. Passcode. No access to her collection of toys.

            She felt his eyes on her as he followed her down the hallway. He stood behind her in the bathroom doorway, watching her fingers go to her eyes and remove a pair of contacts. One glint of silver and then two, shining back at him in the mirror. An affectionate smile.

            "Don't even think it, Riddick," she warned, her voice suddenly low and warning. He held up his hands in mock surrender. She leaned back against the counter, her arms crossed against her chest. His eyes flickered over her quickly, then met with hers again.

            "Hey Blue Eyes," he said quietly. Her eyes narrowed, and she shoved past him.

            "You call me that again, and it's your dick," she promised. He grinned at her back, knowing she couldn't see him, but she would know. "And wipe that smartass grin off your face." She always had. He followed her to the entryway and watched her unlock the door, swinging it open and standing here, waiting for him to leave. His eyebrow arched involuntarily. She made a motion for him to walk through it, an exasperated expression filling her features.

            "That's it?" he asked. No response. "You're not going to ask if I want a drink?" She snickered, and he took that as a no. He motioned toward the kitchen. "I saw you had some peppermint Schnapps."

            "Nostalgia," she retorted. "Get the fuck out." Her words dripped with hatred, and the unfamiliar feeling returned. Guilt. He hadn't ever felt that until Carolyn. But fuck Carolyn. She was dead, plain and simple. Nothing he could do about it now, or could have done about it then. He paused, mere inches away from her.

            "I'll see you later," he whispered, leaning toward her.

            "I'm still packing, so rethink your future actions," she warned, her eyes never wavering from his. He paused, his eyes flitting back over her slim body. Still, he leaned in and his lips pressed to her forehead. Her hand slid behind her back, but he caught it, restraining her. Through his peripheral vision, he could see her other hand still gripping the side of the door, her finger twitching slightly. She would, too, he thought quickly. The gesture lasted only a fraction of a moment, and then he was gone. She stared out the door for a second before slamming it, twisting the locks so hard her knuckles popped. She willed herself not to lose it, barely winning. She knew he was out there somewhere, somehow knowing she was breaking into that damned bottle of peppermint Schnapps with shaky fingers. Her glass was refilled until her nose no longer detected his scent, and that was quite a feat.

***

            She looked up at the door upon hearing a soft rapping, staring at the carpet until a manila envelope slid across the floor. Her feet moved slowly across the room, and the envelope was caught between two of her fingers. She reached across the table and grabbed the knife lying there. It had been waiting for just this moment to be used. Two photos slid onto the coffee table and she cleared her throat, her eyes flashing up to the door and back down.

            "Wow," she breathed, reaching out to take a photo into her hand. It was pre-shine job. The mark obviously knew he wasn't being photographed, but she could tell from the expression on his face that he was a cautious human. "Hire the second best to kill the best?" she asked out loud. The empty apartment offered no answer. An uneasy feeling crept over her. Something wasn't right. And damn it to hell, this was a bad time to get hungry. Chinese it was. She grabbed her bag and left the apartment, locking the door behind her. It was already dark outside, and she was grateful. Those contacts did nothing for glare, but hid the mercury appearance well. Few people knew about liquid metal eyes, much less where they came from. Figured it was genetic, maybe. Still. No chances.

            Her favorite Chinese restaurant was a dive, but they had damn good food. She bent over her noodles, her thoughts returning to the job at hand. It was definitely a step above the slime buckets she'd been dealing with recently. Most of them were stationary – same office, same hours, no problem. This was different. She didn't know how she was going to pull it off, but there was no turning down a mark. You lost business that way.

            The stroll home was a leisurely one, her thoughts consuming her. Cassidy Hodge was a calculating, meticulous, flawless killer. And the best thing was that no one ever suspected her. With her slim figure, tall stature, and natural good looks, plus the clothes she indulged in, everyone assumed she was born into money, and left with the rest of it when her ancestors passed. They couldn't have been more wrong. She'd only been caught once, and only got out of Slam City on a technicality. They didn't care. She was forbidden to return to Torvalis again, and had no intentions of returning. Her mistakes had been a learning process, and were never made again. Hence, the new planet, the old lifestyle with moderate changes, and complete anonymity. No one knew her, no one bothered her, and she just did her job. Her contractors knew where her "office" was, but they didn't know it was her apartment. They didn't know she was a woman, either, and it was going to stay that way. Completely clueless. The way it should be.

            Her confidence returned, fleeing only for a millisecond, and she ducked into a bar. Scotch. On the rocks. The burn regenerated her energy. Couples danced a few yards away, and she watched with a careful eye. She felt his eyes on her again, and caught his scent as he strolled into the bar. No one else noticed him. He sat next to her, and didn't notice her tense. Not yet.

            "Fuck off," she said, biting her tongue before she spilled his name. That would draw attention, something she wanted to avoid as much as he.

            "We have to talk," he said quietly.

            "You heard me," she returned, her eyes never leaving the couples on the dance floor. It had to be a string of slow songs.

            "Dance with me, Cass." Damn. "I have to talk to you." Her eyes slid over to his. Her face reflected back to her in his sunglasses. It wasn't uncommon. Most times there were cameras or mirrors hidden. Streets were not safe here.

            "You heard me the first time," she repeated, her eyes warning him. He blinked a few times. The contacts didn't hide the expression in her eyes.

            "I'll make a fucking scene if you make me," he warned. She sighed and placed her hand in his, letting him lead her to the floor. His arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her full against him. Just as he thought. Her breathing was even and her pulse slow. Damn, that woman has control, he thought. When she was sure he couldn't see her face, her eyes fluttered shut. With every intake of breath, her senses were filled with the smell of him. Exactly the same. "I've missed you," he admitted, his breath hot in her ear. She snickered, unable to keep it in.

            "You're the one that left." Point Cassidy. "Left me there while you broke out. Fuck you, Riddick." Shit. Name in public. Not good. Her eyes flitted around, but no one had seemed to notice.

            "You were on your way out, Cass," he whispered. "I didn't want my life for you."

            "Well, I inherited it anyway." She could have sworn he shrunk and inch at that statement. "What the fuck is with you?" she demanded, pulling away to stare into his… sunglasses. "Gone soft?" His cheek twitched. Point Cassidy. She shook her head.

            "Ten thousand credits," he growled quietly, directly into her ear. Her eyebrow rose.

            "Come again?"

            "Ten thousand credits." She shook her head, still not following. "A hit." He paused and glanced around. "On you." Both of her eyebrows shot up, and she pulled back even more, but he shook his head, his hand firmly planted against her back. The shock wore off quickly. She knew it would have come eventually, but how did he…?

            "Did you take it?" He paused, and it was all the answer she needed. "Yours is eleven." She swallowed. That's it, she scolded herself, show your hand.

            "Someone's playing us."

            "Us?" she questioned. He ignored that.

            "Hire the second best to kill the best, I guess," he muttered. His words struck her, and her cheek almost stung. Point Riddick.

            "Gee, thanks." Her voice was laden with sarcasm. She took it the wrong way – he meant himself as second best to her. He didn't correct her. It didn't matter. She'd come up with a smartass reply anyway. "Why are you telling me this?"

            "We've got history." He paused, her confession finally sinking in. "Only eleven? Damn."

            "Don't flatter yourself," she spat. Point Cassidy. "You were telling me why you showed your hand. Something, by the way, you taught me not to do."

            "You showed yours, so I guess neither of us learned." She sighed. This was going absolutely nowhere, and fast. He felt the change in her mood. The place was starting to thin out already.

            "Can we go somewhere?" She nodded against his shoulder. He handed a couple of credit slips to the bartender and followed her out the door. Mistake. The gentle sway of her hips, the dance of her auburn hair against her back, the scent trail. Big mistake.

            "My place. Don't follow me," she instructed. He nodded and broke away, letting her get there first. He needed to buy some time to think anyway. She was clouding his head at a very inconvenient point in time.

            The moment she walked in the doorway, a string of colorful words floated off her lips. This definitely wasn't a good position to be in. She wasn't afraid of him, but she didn't trust him either. Granted, he'd told her she was his fucking mark, but still. He was nothing but games. She puked and brushed her teeth as quickly as she could. Two next-to-silent taps on the door. His mercury eyes flashed in the peephole and she unlocked the door, closing it quickly behind him. All four locks were fastened. An awkward silence settled over them as they both sank into the couch.

            "You're a freak," he chuckled. She stared at him, her hatred shining through those damn contacts. He wanted to see those eyes. "I've never seen anyone's home this clean."

            "Slam will do that to you," she admitted, letting the insult slide. She knew she was no match for his strength. It wasn't worth it. "Fucking shithole."

            "You got that right."

            "Where'd the hit come from?" she demanded, the course of the conversation returning to the pressing issue. He sighed and leaned back, rubbing his eyes.

            "I don't know." Her eyebrow rose. He heard the slide of her gun click and his eyes slammed open, refocusing on the end of the barrel mere inches from his nose. Point Cassidy. "Where the fuck do you hide that shit?" he demanded, seeming unsurprised at her brandishing a weapon.

            "Where did the hit come from?" she demanded again, her voice unfaltering. Her hand was steady, as always. Any questions he had about her control were gone. She would kill him.

            "Cassidy, I don't know," he said firmly. "And don't forget you have a fucking hair trigger." He nodded at her hand, satisfied when her finger moved away from the trigger and rested against the side of the gun. Safe, for now. Relatively. "Whoever it is knows we have a past, and probably has a past with us." He shook his head. That sounded completely stupid. "Someone we both know that has a problem with both of us," he corrected. "Don't get all pissy on me. You took the hit on me, so you're just as fucking guilty right now," he pointed out. She sighed and replaced the gun, flipping the safety lever as she did so. No worries about her foot. Her head fell into her hands.

            "Ten thousand credits." He sighed. "Less than you." She was too hard on herself.

            "Let me see your eyes," he demanded gently. She shook her head.

            "It doesn't look any different, Riddick," she said quietly. "The same as everyone else to us, but completely different when everyone else sees them."

            "You're just not looking hard enough," he stated plainly. She sighed and stood, returning a few moments later after grudgingly removing the contacts. He was right. She hadn't noticed it before, but he was right. Only a slight difference from others, but a difference all the same. "We have a past, Cassidy, and we can't change it. It was rough, yeah," he said with a sigh, "but history's history."

            "Why are you pointing out the obvious?" she demanded, her voice stronger than he expected. She really was a bad-ass.

            "Are you scared of me?"

            "No," came the quick reply. Truth, he noticed.

            "Do you trust me?"

            "No." Same quality as the previous negative. He nodded. Point Cassidy.

            "I must admit, Cass," he paused, searching for the right way to form his words. Her eyebrow arched. Irresistible. "You're more cold-hearted and well-suited to this job than I expected you would be." Good. It came out the way he intended. Point Riddick.

            "You can take full credit for both." Fuck. Point Cassidy. He sighed. What the hell was happening to him?

            "I'm sorry." She took a step back, her face registering confusion. "I never wanted my life for you. You're too good for this."

            "Who are you, and what the hell happened to Riddick?" He laughed in spite of himself, a deep, throaty laugh. The corners of her lips tugged upward. His laugh always inspired that smile.

            "He died, I guess." He leaned back on the couch and eyed her warily. "Still armed?" A nod. Of course.

            "Still shiv-happy?" He shrugged, watching her turn and walk into the kitchen. She returned a few seconds later with two glasses, handing him one. She sat on the coffee table in front of him. Peppermint Schnapps. His turn to arch an eyebrow. She shrugged. "Nostalgia." His smile was genuine, but she didn't reflect it, and it fell from his lips quickly. "I hate you, Riddick."

            "I know you do." A twinge. That feeling again. Damn it. "Can I change that?"

            "Probably not." Point Cassidy. He knew he'd always had a soft spot for women – that became clear on that damned planet, first with Carolyn and then with Jack. He stood up to Johns for Carolyn, and then killed him for Jack. Several, actually, had he killed for a woman, and not necessarily for a woman he knew. Her voice was calm, but quiet. "You left me there after you promised you'd take care of me." She could have sworn he cringed. "After you promised you'd protect me." Definitely a cringe. "The few good parts of history were a lie, and you know it as well as I do." That pissed him off. His eyes flashed at her angrily, but she didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't waver.

            "I left because I wanted to protect you."

            "From what?" He paused, his eyes leaving hers. He said something, but she couldn't make it out, so she repeated the question. His answer was firmer than either of them expected.

            "From me." She swallowed. And here she turned into a female version of him anyway. No emotions, she told herself. None at all. Weakness. He can smell it.

            "This isn't getting us anywhere." She was right. He nodded, watching her reach for a manila envelope on the table. She emptied its contents, and sure enough, two photos of him flitted onto the table. He picked one up, trying to figure out when it had been taken. Not recently. Before his trip to the Slam. Pre-shine job. Might as well, he thought, reaching into his back pocket and producing a picture of her. She took it from him, her eyebrows furling as she stared at it, mouth ajar only slightly. All that was on the slip of paper in her envelope was a contact number, which was always used only to report that the mark was extinguished and to set up payment arrangements. He grunted.

            "This is the same number as my contact." She nodded.

            "I think we've already established that it's the same contact," she said quietly. "So what do we do about it?" He sighed, running a hand over his stubbly head. He needed to shave.

            "Flush him out. Find out who it is." He paused, glancing down at the photo again. She was beautiful. He closed his eyes and took a silent breath. The apartment smelled of jasmine and her. Shampoo, soap, and woman. He opened his eyes and nodded at the slip of paper with the contact number scrawled on it. "Do you call and confirm the hit, or do you just take every hit that comes your way?" She smirked.

            "I have bills to pay." He nodded. Every hit it was. No surprise there. Their eyes met and held for a moment. He dropped his gaze first, instantly kicking himself for it. She wouldn't ask again what was wrong with him – why he'd changed – and he wouldn't volunteer anything.

            "I take it you have a voice-altering attachment on your phone?" He smirked, and she knew he was referring to her hiding her gender. She nodded, her eyes glinting as he shifted on the couch. For some unknown reason, it really made him uncomfortable being caught in her gaze. He didn't know why, and he didn't like it.

            "I can't lose business," she said calmly, gently. He bit his lip and nodded. She was going to try to kill him anyway. She assumed the same about him, even though he had made an effort to warn her.

            "How fast can you pack?" he asked quickly, glancing around the room, trying to avoid her hard stare.

            "What?"

            "How fast can you pack?" His voice was slightly more demanding this time.

            "I'm not leaving, Riddick. If that's your big plan, you can leave with your tail between your legs and I'll just hunt you down anyway." He grimaced. Yeah, she was definitely going to follow through on the hit.

            "Look, I don't want to kill you, and you really don't want to kill me, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise," he said, standing.

            "You don't know me as well as you think you do." Her words cut through him, sending a shiver down his spine. Shit. She was armed, and he was vulnerable right now, standing there right in front of her. Before he knew it, she had tackled him. Her thighs straddled his hips, and a shiv was placed a little to close to his throat. Fuck. Point Cassidy. He lay there for just a moment, waiting, willing his reflexes to die down under her weight. It was a familiar position, and he fought for control over his body. No such luck. Her arm quivered slightly against his throat, pushing the shiv closer as the tension bore down on her. Definitely too close for comfort. She felt his hand slide up her leg, but didn't move. The other hand slid up her other arm, which was stabilizing her over him, her hand planted just beside his head. She'd known there was no use in pinning his arms down – she knew she couldn't win that way. This was just making a point anyway. His hand on her arm slid further up, following her neck up the side of her face and coming to rest on her cheek.

            "What a predicament I've gotten myself into," he said quietly. She blinked, unwavering.

            "Quit fucking with me, Riddick. Is this checkmate or just check?" He smiled. They used to play chess in Slam. But his smile didn't linger, his face growing serious. His thumb slid across her lips, and her eyes narrowed down at him. He pulled her face down toward his, feeling the shiv press against him. As long as it didn't slide to the side, he would be fine. Her hair fell around his head as their lips touched. The shiv fell from her hand, emotion taking over. What a reaction for a hitman. Point Riddick. His fingers tangled in her hair as he deepened the kiss. She groaned, trying to break free before it turned into even more of a mistake, but his hold on her was too strong. The shiv fell to the floor as he rolled her over onto her back, planting kisses down her neck. She tried to wriggle out from under him, but the hand that had slid across her leg to the small of her back held her firmly against him, so she stopped fighting and gave in. The memories flooded back, ending in a stream of tears running down her cheeks. He pulled away, leaning forward to kiss each tear as it slid down her cheek. "I hate you," she whispered. The flesh just below her ear was captured between his teeth, and her eyes slammed shut, her bottom lip pressed between her teeth to suppress the moan threatening to break.

            "No you don't," he returned, his voice rumbling in her ear. She felt the vibrations transfer from his chest to hers, the empty pit growing in her stomach. His mouth claimed hers again, and she could feel the possessiveness in the kiss, responding to it. He was just as much hers as she was his, damn it. His fingers tightened on the back of her neck, his moan shattering the silence as she bit his lower lip, almost hard enough to draw blood. He pulled away, his forehead resting against hers. "I took the hit so I would have an excuse to find you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Tears shone in her eyes still, and she blinked to release them. This was the first time he'd seen her cry. Not even in Slam.

            "I took the hit because I didn't think I could find you," she said quietly, her voice quivering only a fraction. His brow furled, his fingers tracing the outline of her face. She snickered, and his eyebrow rose. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind when I tackled you," she laughed. His smile reflected hers as he leaned down to kiss her again, gently and quickly. He stood, pulling her up with him, her legs still wrapped around his waist. His eyes fluttered closed as they slid down the back of his legs so she could stand on her own. "Now what?" she asked quietly, still clinging to him. He wasn't sure if her legs had gone numb under him or she just didn't want to let go again.

            "I don't know." He brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead. "I'll think of something," he promised. She nodded. He paused, searching her eyes. "Do you want me to stay?" She blinked and took a breath, pausing before speaking.

            "Yeah," she admitted. He nodded. "So you should go." His face registered confusion. "You took a hit on me and I took a hit on you. We shouldn't trust each other until after this thing's over." Fair enough. His lips brushed hers again, and he was gone. She ran a hand through her tousled hair and flopped on the couch, reaching out to take a drink from her glass. She fell asleep quickly, his scent lingering on her and around her.

Cassidy, eight; Riddick three.