Kiss of a Killer

By Ryan Ramoutar

Ryan Ramoutar comes again with a gripping story, taking the reader in a breathless sprint to the shocking end of the story.
Well depicted characters and sharp detail are again in the author's side for another success.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blacklight Design
• Release date: Oct 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301283514

Ryan Ramoutar

Ryan Ramoutar is a published Author who resides in Trinidad and Tobago. At just twenty five years of age he has already written two books, Breakable Moments and Kiss Of A Killer, more short stories and a book of poetry.Ryan recently received an appreciation award from the National Library for the book Breakable Moments. Ryan is an expert in creating cynical, realistic stories from the intricacies of his mind and looks forward to a long future career in writing.

Book preview

Kiss of a Killer

A novel by Ryan Ramoutar

Copyright © 2012 Blacklight Design®

Smashwords edition rev. 1.0

This eBook is copyrighted material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable to law accordingly.

Blacklight Publishers© is a division of Blacklight Design®

8 Belleplaine ♦ Quartier d’Orleans ♦ Saint Martin ♦ 97150

www.blacklightpublishers.webs.com

Contents:

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

The Author

Blacklight Publishers

CHAPTER ONE

Romario Conor stooped, unhesitating hands clasped expertly on a mounted carbine rifle which was aimed directly at the right temple on the bodyguard’s head. He has a rather large head, thought Romario, but it comes with his six foot heavily muscled frame. Nothing was in the way of his shot. He scoped out the bodyguard’s employer for a brief moment through the rifle’s high-powered telescopic lens. The employer was small, calm-looking individual, and appeared to be in his early fifties. Both men were dressed expensively.

They were making their way abreast each other, after exiting from a deep blue Mercedes Benz towards a heavily-tinted glass entrance door of a Business Association building, about one hundred feet opposite from where Romario had perched himself to make the shot.

Romario closed his eyes and visualized the next few minutes, then he opened them and aimed. Three… Two... He squeezed the trigger. The one-and-a-half inch hollow point bullet bore into the bodyguard’s head just as he was about to pull open the door. He slumped lifeless to the ground, his skull cracked open, oozing blood and white tissues onto the white-tiled walkway.

Romario quickly unmounted the rifle from its stand, folded the device in two and placed both items into his already open black leather guitar case. With agility he made his way down from the bat-dung smelling attic of the Holy Mother Church in Port-Of-Spain. He swung the strap of the case around his neck and left shoulder, leaving his right hand available just in case he needed the help of a smaller friend which was tucked in his waistband.

If he had waited to see the fate of the employer he would have seen the black BMW motorcar that raced to a stop in front the Building Associated building, the two South American looking men that had alighted from it and, with pistols drawn, forced the terrified man into the back seat. One thing he was sure about was that no one saw him at the attic’s cross-shaped window nor did they even turn his direction when the shot went off. Romario ran down the church staircase. He could hear the growing cacophony of pedestrians and sidewalk vendors outside. Trinidadians always had a way of adding a foot to an inch but he never minded that, it actually colluded with his kind of job.

There wasn’t a soul in the varnished painted eighteenth century building. Who visited the church at five in the afternoon, first day of the week? Not even the pastor or the cleaners did. He slowed his pace and strode now, down the isle of the church and exited through a side door into another street as if he had nothing else to worry about in this abused world.

Romario Conor was six feet two and a finely chiseled, slim built body structure, military projected. Not now though. Now his hair was fake; a shoulder length black wavy wig. He was wearing a snug fitted faded blue denim jeans and a black T-shirt with silvery prints of skeletal hands and skulls, a shiny brown zipped up boots, a silver spiked doglike chain around his neck and a smaller one around his hand along with a black wristwatch. The case was strapped across sagging shoulders. As much as his adrenaline was sky high he made himself all punk. He was a professional.

There was chaos on the main Chacon Street as Romario strode along with the shaken pedestrians that moved away from the murder scene after taking their peek. On the sidewalk everyone had their part to say, he mused.

At the curb, Romario crossed the street and jumped casually into his blue Civic that was illegally parked there. He could hear already the constant wails of several police and ambulance sirens, racing towards the heart of the congested country’s capital.

He started up the car and drove toward Woodbrook, Trinidad’s own mini Las Vegas. He pulled his Civic into an open driveway, got out the vehicle and entered the dismal apartment he rented using a fake name. Apartment 02 was quiet except for the low humming from the air conditioning unit. His right hand clasped the butt of his magnum in the hollow of his back, his left hand removing the strap of the guitar case from around his shoulder.

As he made his way into the toilet and bathroom and switched on the overhead light-bulb, he then removed the lid of the ceramic toilet tank. In place of water inside, the tank contained two plane tickets and two identification cards. Both cards had a passport-sized photo of Romario but the names on them were strange. Along with that was half-a-million Trinidad and Tobago currency, all in hundred dollar bills.

Romario removed the contents from the tank, opened his guitar case, unclipped the interior and took out the rifle. He broke down the rifle and its stand until it was a pile of useless metal pieces. Switching contents, he put the magnum into the tank along with the other metal jetsam together with his clothing and disguise. Flipping the case, he unclipped the opposite interior and pulled on the gray neuro suit that was neatly folded inside.

He then replaced the lid of the tank and left with his guitar case containing his newly earned cash. Both pair of tickets and false Identification Cards was placed into separate jacket pockets.

It had taken Romario two hours exactly to drive down south using the highway, to a two room rented apartment at Pelican Drive, San Fernando, and then back north to Trinidad’s Piarco International Airport.

He abandoned the blue car in the airport’s parking and made his way to the check-in. A short, chubby young female flashed her ‘may-I-help-you?’ smile as Romario approached. He handed her one ticket to Tobago and an I.D.

Name, please? the female asked boisterously.

Ray Edwards.

Romario flashed her a smile this time.

The young woman looked at the image on the card as she typed something on her desktop computer. She passed back both items and pointed out to him gate number eight.

Striding casually towards the entryway, Romario checked the time and noted that he had approximately fifteen minutes before his eight P.M flight. On reaching the departure section he was stopped to be searched by the airport security.

May we have a look into your case as you step through to the other side sir? It was one of two security guards, trying his best to sound like a macho cop.

Romario opened the guitar case and handed it over to them as he went over to the other side of the lounge. Romario smirked and pretended that he was irritated by them. The officer removed the varnished box guitar and inspected it. Being pleased that there was nothing contraband or illegal in the guitar neither in the case the officer handed it back over the counter-top to Romario and bellowed: You may proceed, Sir.

Yeah, thanks! Romario said sarcastically, as if they had just done a great deed. He walked up and handed over his plane ticket to the ticket collector at the gate eight and was directed to the airplane where he was shown his seat.

This was always the tension part of it; he sat back and awaited the takeoff.

Anything you would like, sir?" asked a beautifully shaped young air hostess.

Sure, some water will be fine.

The hostess left and returned immediately with a tall glass of cold water. It tasted like spring water; he drank it all down.

The aircraft began its ascension and Romario began to relax a little now. Everything was going as planned. Just to occupy his mind elsewhere, he started thinking of his parents at home. If wasn’t for his ‘jobs,’ he would have been with them; stayed with them, other than having to stay all alone, so close to them yet still so far. He wondered what they were doing at eight in the night. He assumed that their routine hadn’t changed; they were having dinner.

His thoughts slipped and he started to negotiate with himself of what car he would buy next, after he sells the Civic. An Evolution maybe. That was a nice car. He mulled over the thought, visualizing himself behind the fast wheels. He agreed with himself to buy it soon but not too soon though: being on the low was always better than showing off.

In Tobago, Trinidad’s sister isle, Romario took a taxi to the Greens Hotel in Roxborough. Before going to sleep that night, Romario flushed down the toilet one of the IDs after ripping it up in several pieces.

The following morning he awoke before the