Factory Slayer Read online

  FACTORY SLAYER

  THE FACTORY

  OLIVIA RIGAL

  LADY O PUBLISHING

  THE FACTORY

  .

  They call themselves the Foundation for an Active, Optimized and Rich Youth, we call them the F.ACT.O.R.Y.

  They took us in as broken kids, spared no expenses to put us back together.

  When they thought we were ready they sent us out to the world to live our lives.

  We were set loose but not free.

  Each of us owes them one Favor.

  And now they’ve come to collect.

  BLURB

  Roxy

  I’m a sniper and a bodyguard.

  I don’t chase after ghosts.

  When The Factory demands that I rescue a runaway kid, I’m torn.

  For sure, they must have someone more qualified for the job.

  But I owe them.

  They’ll never let me forget it, so I agree…

  Until I find out I’ve been assigned a partner, a ghost from my past – Damon Walsh.

  He’s cocky, arrogant, and thinks he’s God’s gift to women.

  I want to slap away the insolent grin carved on his face.

  But we have to work together.

  The longer I spend with him, the more he makes me squirm.

  I refuse to give into the hot friction between us.

  He’s off-limits, and the second this mission is over, I’m going to disappear.

  I just hope my heart will stay intact long enough to get away from him.

  Damon

  Roxy-freaking-Smith.

  My contact from The Factory has lost their mind.

  I want to laugh in her face.

  There’s no way in hell Roxy will work with me.

  Our past is explosive.

  She wants me.

  It’s all over her gorgeous, petulant face.

  I’d love to strip her down and show her what she’s missing, but we have a job to do.

  Rescuing a missing kid is my top priority.

  Messing around with Roxy is secondary.

  But the minute I get that kid back home, I’m going to show Roxy why she’s wrong about me.

  It might not go anywhere, but I have to know.

  Because for the last nine years, she’s the only woman I ever dreamed about.

  CONTENTS

  1. Roxy

  2. Roxy

  3. Damon

  4. Roxy

  5. Damon

  6. Roxy

  7. Damon

  8. Roxy

  9. Damon

  10. Roxy

  11. Damon

  12. Roxy

  13. Damon

  14. Roxy

  15. Damon

  16. Roxy

  17. Damon

  18. Roxy

  19. Roxy

  20. Damon

  21. Roxy

  22. Damon

  23. Roxy

  24. Damon

  25. Roxy

  26. Damon

  27. Roxy

  28. Damon

  29. Roxy

  30. Damon

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  ROXY

  The throb of the speakers pulses through me. Thankfully, I can’t hear the crummy music, my ear plugs are good. All that gets through is a dull roar. I wish it were as easily ignored as the annoying light show.

  I’m facing away from the stage where this week’s pop princess gyrates around in a skirt so short every movement shows off her panties. This means I have to look at tons of screaming teenage girls and the occasional creepy thirty-year-old dude only here for a cheap thrill.

  I reach up and adjust my glasses, then brush my fingers through my hair. I’m not being vain. The motion allows me to check on the status of my stashed goodies. The Glock in my shoulder holster is still in place, as is the backup .38 special tucked into my rear waistband. I shift my stance a little so I can feel the sheathed stiletto strapped to my calf.

  Why a stiletto? Simple. The slim blade allows it to slide under a bullet-proof vest and hit the aorta…or through ribs, in the case of an unprotected opponent.

  One of the creepo thirty-something men leans over the security railing, blatantly filming with his phone even though that’s quite prohibited. I sigh and move over to tap him on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, sir. You can’t lean on the railing, and you can’t film the performance.”

  His face screws up into a sneer. I can’t hear what he says, and I don’t give a damn. I’ve been doing this bodyguard gig long enough to know when someone’s about to do something stupid.

  I’m not surprised when he tries to jump the guardrail. I snap my leg up into an ax kick, striking him in the jaw and sending him tumbling back over the rail. My hand snaps out and catches his phone. I tuck it into my jacket. I’ll turn it over to the arena security station later. Unless I just chuck it in the trash.

  The big pink stuffed unicorn descends from the rafters on wires. This is it, the big encore. I have to get ready to escort the pop princess—what was her name? Ava something. I can’t remember—out the rear exit and to her waiting limo. I would make the effort to remember if these modern-day pop stars didn’t have such a short shelf life.

  People will be playing Metallica and the Beatles in a hundred years. People like Ava will be forgotten before the end of the decade. Such is life.

  Oh well. I don’t get paid to like her music. I get paid to make sure she makes it to her limo in one piece.

  I nod to Chet, the guy in charge of pit security. He nods back. We’ve coordinated like this so many times, I can’t be bothered to count. But tonight is the last show of Ava’s tour. I catch a glimpse of the star of the day in her short, flouncy skirt. Got to admit, I wish I had an ass like that.

  Most men think I’m too masculine. They don’t think muscles or confidence are sexy in a woman. Their loss. I don’t stress about it anymore. At least, I try not to.

  I wait patiently by the left side stage exit as Ava finishes up her set. I remember to throw my hand over my eyes as the final, dazzling pyro display goes off. I take out the earplugs and prepare to receive my charge.

  “Thank you, I love you all! Good night!”

  The crowd roars as the light dims. Ava walks off stage, and her hangers-on immediately rush into the fray.

  “Great set, Ava,” says her weasel of an agent.

  “Your water, Miss Ava,” says her personal assistant.

  Ava takes the water as she slips a coat over her stage outfit. I smile politely and gesture.

  “Right this way, Miss Ava.”

  I’ll give Ava this, at the age of nineteen, she’s a seasoned pro. She had her own kid show when she was ten. She doesn’t argue with me. She knows I’m there to keep her safe, and given the creeptastic things men say about her, text her, and post on her Instagram account, I’m sure she’s glad I’m here.

  A blast of cold wintery air hits my face as another guard pulls the doors open for our egress. My wingman, Joe, and I cut through the crowd of press clustered outside the arena like a living wedge, clearing the way for the pop princess.

  Her white, stretched limo awaits, the rear door already open. Even though I’m just twelve feet away from completing my task, I don’t relax. If anything, my senses explode into new awareness. I take in the sights and sounds in an instant. No threats stand out, but I still feel that sensation on the back of my neck that tells me something’s off.

  I’m not sure why, but I look up. My Factory trainers told me that human beings rely on more than just their five senses to perceive the world. Maybe I used some kind of extra sensory perception, but I very much doubt it. All I am sure of is, when I look up toward the roof of an adjacent building, I see a man standing with a long rifle, aiming down at the street.

  I don’t know if his target is Ava or if he’s a mass shooter just intent on the crowd. I don’t have time to even think about it. I shove Ava’s ponytail-bobbing head down and shield her with my own body while drawing my Glock with the opposite hand.

  Time seems to slow down, and I carefully aim and fire between my own heartbeats. The shooter squeezes off a round, and Joe’s shoulder explodes in a spurt of crimson. A split second later, my round hits.

  Contrary to popular belief, people don’t fly backward when they’re hit by a bullet. No matter how big the round. The shooter’s head snaps back, and he collapses out of my sight.

  I shove Ava into the back of the limo. She looks up at me from under glittery eyelids with utter gratitude.

  “I’ll never forget this,” she says earnestly.

  “Yeah, sure.” I shut the door and go check on Joe. He’s laying on the ground, writhing around and crying. A dark stain on his trousers indicates he’s pissed himself.

  I don’t cuddle. Teasing is more my thing.

  “Jeez, Joe, be a man, will you? You act like you’ve never been shot before.”

  “I have never been shot before,” he groans.

  Despite the hard time I give him verbally, I whip off my coat and use it to staunch the bleeding. The wound is nasty, with white bone showing through the visceral bloody bits. He’s going to need reconstructive surgery, the poor bastard, but he’ll live.

  I keep the pressure on, just like I was taught, until the medical professionals arrive to take over. I beg some peroxide off them so I can wash the blood from my hands. I like Joe just fine, but I’m not about to catch a disease from him.

 
The cops show up, and I go through the familiar song and dance. They don’t grill me too hard. As far as they’re concerned, I’m a hero. They don’t even have to waste time with a trial of the shooter.

  “A hundred feet up, thirty feet down the street, and you still nailed the perp right in the head,” one of them says, shaking his head. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

  “Call of Duty, of course. Are we done?”

  “Yeah, we’re done. Nice work.”

  I head back toward the arena. No way I’m wearing that bloody coat, and it’s freezing out here. I’m about ten steps from the back door, and warmth, when I see a very mature, but still stunning, woman cut through the crowd like magic.

  My face screws up into a sneer as she approaches.

  “Veronica Talbot. Let me guess, the Factory wants to collect its Favor.”

  She’s taken aback. Agents like her are used to people pissing their pants when they show up.

  “Very astute,” she says. Her eyes swim with anxiety and fear, but I don’t think it’s because of me. “Come with me.”

  “No.”

  Veronica blanches. Her eyes narrow to slits. “Do you know what happens when you deny the Foundation for an Active, Optimized and Rich Youth their well-earned Favor?”

  “I’m not scared of the Factory.” I say, making a point of using the nickname all of us adopted while being in the care of the Foundation. “Quite frankly, given the fact you indoctrinated me as a teen and not an adult, I feel like I owe you two things: Jack and shit. And look…”

  I make a big show of peering out across the city.

  “Jack just left town.”

  Veronica wilts, the anger melting from her face. “I know that you have no love for the Foundation, but I need your help. Desperately.”

  Now, if she’d stood there and been all like How dare you deny the Foundation! Bad things will happen to you if you say no, bad things, do you hear me? I’d have laughed in her face. Desperate people begging me for help instills a different reaction.

  “You’ve got three minutes to explain yourself before I go inside and have myself a nice, hot coffee.”

  “I only need one. A young girl ran off with a man she met online, and now she’s disappeared. She must be found.”

  “So hire a private dick. Or better yet, call the cops.”

  “The police think she’s just another runaway and aren’t sympathetic. I need someone with your particular set of skills.”

  “My purview lies in two things: Protecting bodies, and busting them up or putting holes in them.”

  “Please.” Veronica grabs my hand suddenly, her grip strong with desperation. “You’re this girl’s only hope. And you’ll pay your Favor to the Foundation in full.”

  I roll my eyes, and she squeezes my hand tighter.

  “I’ll see to it you’re well compensated for your time.”

  “How well compensated?”

  “More than you can imagine.”

  I laugh. “I have a very active imagination.”

  “Will you help me?”

  My eyes narrow. Will you help me? Not the Foundation. She wants me to help her. Interesting. I shrug it off for the moment.

  “All right, I’ll do it. But this compensation had better be worth it.”

  “It will be, I assure you. And you won’t be going into the field alone. I’ve arranged for backup.”

  “Backup? I don’t need some amateur cramping my style…”

  A man melts out of the crowd, which startles me because I’m trained to notice things and he didn’t exist until he moved. I take one look at the cocky smile on his devilishly handsome face and realize this is no stranger.

  It’s Damon Walsh. The bane of my existence when I attended the Factory school.

  “Swell.”

  ROXY

  Damon. Fucking. Walsh. Is Veronica out of her fucked up mind?

  I remember him from our days at the Factory school—and not fondly. Back then, I was young and stupid and naïve, and, like most of the girls of my group, I fell for his considerable charm. I mistook his arrogance for confidence, and I paid the price.

  “Veronica,” I say in a tight voice, struggling to keep my anger at bay. “There’s no way in hell I’m working with Damon Walsh.”

  Veronica shivers, hugging her slim body and rubbing her arms as her breath comes in white puffs. “Can we discuss this somewhere warmer? Please?”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I’m not working with this reject, period.”

  Damon doesn’t seem troubled by my declaration. If anything, his smug smile grows even wider. More confident than God, that’s Damon.

  I haven’t seen him in nine years, and maturity has only increased his appeal. His strong jaw tapers into a strong chin, like an old-school game-show host. Hazel eyes dazzle beneath his slightly arched brows, piercing me to the core, undressing me without being too obvious about it. His clean-cut black hair straddles the fence between fashionable and casual, which fits in perfectly with his purview.

  While I trained in the arts of combat and urban warfare at the Factory school, Damon was groomed to be the ultimate confidence man. Like a chameleon, he can blend into any type of crowd. He’s equally at home rubbing shoulders with a board room full of business tycoons as he is with the lowest outlaws in a dive bar.

  His training bolsters a natural talent for blending in and even disappearing. By subtly changing his body language, posture, and movement speed, Damon can vanish into a crowd even when you’re staring right at him.

  There are only two other people I know who can do that. One of my sisters, Victoria, and Andrew, the man who taught us a lot of weird tricks. He never bothered to teach that specific skill to me.

  That’s the worst thing about Damon Walsh. It’s not the fact he’s so insufferably arrogant…it’s the fact his arrogance is backed up by considerable ability.

  Damn him. Even though I know him for what he is, my body can’t help but respond to his presence. I’d forgotten the effect he had on me…

  “Please,” Veronica says, shaking like a leaf in the wind. I take a good look at her face. Under her expertly applied cosmetics, I notice dark circles lurking under her eyes which makeup can’t quite conceal. Something has her upset on a deeply personal level, which may, or may not, have something to do with the Factory. I’m betting it does involve the Factory, though.

  “Fine.” I point across the street at a small diner catering to hipsters and those who like free Wi-Fi. “You’ve got until I finish exactly one caramel macchiato to say your piece.”

  “As long as it’s warm.”

  I walk several steps ahead of Veronica and Damon, so I don’t have to look at him. It almost makes things worse, though, because I can still sense his presence. My imagination runs wild. Is he staring at me, thinking about our past? I think he is, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to look.

  I push open the door to the café, and a warm blast of air envelops me. I pick a spot at the end of the counter, a booth near enough to the kitchen entrance that most patrons would never pick it.

  I settle into the booth, followed by Veronica, who sits across the table from me. Damon tries to slip in beside me, but I plant my foot on the seat and glare at him.

  Damon’s eyes glitter as he smiles. Damn him, he knows how much he’s getting to me. Let’s just hope he doesn’t know how many levels his influence extends.

  Damon sits next to Veronica and folds his hands together on the table. The waitress comes by and takes our order. Damon is polite, not quite flirting with her, as he places his order. Veronica barely glances at the menu before ordering a black coffee.

  I order my caramel macchiato as intended. As soon as the waitress leaves, I look at Veronica, ignoring Damon as best I can. Or at least, I try to give the appearance of such. In spite of myself, there’s no ignoring him.