The Gun Runner

By Scott Hildreth

A former marine turned gun runner plays a deadly game of passion with a mafia boss’s daughter in this sexy romantic thriller.

Former marine Michael Tripp used to take down terrorists on the front lines. Now he’s in the business of bad—selling guns on the black market to the highest bidder. The lowlifes who tread on his turf never last long. Not even the Sicilian Mafia makes him blink. But from the first time he laid eyes on Terra, he knew there was more to life than moving merchandise. As far as Tripp is concerned, the gorgeous Mafia princess is his now . . . and no one threatens what’s his.

Growing up around criminals and liars, Terra has seen plenty of trouble in her young life. Now she wants out. Unfortunately, her father has other plans. And what her father wants . . . he gets. Terra knows how dangerous Tripp is. Both his underworld reputation and her overwhelming attraction to him are reasons enough to stay away. But once her true intentions—and true identity—are known, Tripp is the only one who can save her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781460396865

Scott Hildreth

Scott Hildreth was born into this world early and plans on leaving late. Between his arrival and departure, he has written twenty-four novels and has every intention of writing many more. Despite falling in love with his wife, Jessica, late in life, Scott professes to be an authority on the subject of love, and his writing is a reflection of this belief. Biker, military hero, Mafia boss, billionaire, boxer, vigilante and tattoo artist will always be his preferred careers, but as writing has become a full-time gig, he must live vicariously through the characters in his books who share his admiration for these professions.

Book preview

Chapter One

Terra

When a relationship fails, it seems one person is always more accepting of the change than the other.

I was that person. The accepting one.

I told you about coming here, he seethed. Grab your stuff. You’re leaving.

Leave me alone, Vincent. Jesus. It’s over. Go away. People are staring.

His lips went thin. Do I look like I give a fuck if people stare?

I pulled away, yanking my wrist free from his grasp. Go. Away.

Stand up, he demanded. I don’t want to make a scene.

"Testa di cazzo. You already have. Go away."

You little bitch. Stand up, he growled.

As far as I was concerned, the coffee shop was my place of refuge. Although we had been apart for almost six months, there were times when Vincent didn’t seem to quite understand that our separation was permanent. Italian men were extremely prideful, and my ending the relationship against his will made it far more difficult for him to accept.

The muscles in his jaw went tight. I mean it. Get up. You’re fuckin’ leaving.

I turned away. Seeing him turned my stomach and having him touch me was worse. His abusive behavior and his size were the two biggest problems facing me, and my size—or lack thereof—was another.

I reached for my cup of coffee. My shaking hand was a reminder of my fear of his violent temper. I wrapped my fingers around the cup of coffee and tried to convince myself I wasn’t as scared as I really was.

I raised the cup to my lips. No. Leave me alone.

One hand firmly grabbed my jacket, and the other got a fistful of my hair. Before I had a chance to object, my cup of coffee was on the floor and I was being dragged through the door and toward the parking lot.

Fear shot through me like an electric shock. This type of thing had happened with Vincent enough that I knew what was next. During our entire relationship I used makeup and scarves to hide the bruises left on me by his fits of anger.

He dragged me along the sidewalk. You wanna disrespect me in public?

I fought to free myself from his grasp. Let me go. My purse. My purse is...

His grip on my hair tightened. Shut up.

I tried to dig my heels into the pavement and pull free of his grasp. Instead of making any progress on escaping, I simply lost one of my beloved Louboutins. Through all of the commotion and my feeble attempts to get away, my eyes caught a glimpse of the coffee shop’s glass entrance, only to see the two dozen patrons watching us wide-eyed. No one seemed willing to do anything to help.

I had no interest in being beaten by him again.

Two years of it was enough.

As he dragged me off of the sidewalk and into the parking lot, a shrill whistle caused me to shift my attention toward the sound. Vincent stopped and did the same. An extremely handsome man in a well-fitted gray suit stood twenty feet away. Very methodically, he approached us. His gait included a distinct element of confidence.

He had an undeniable swagger.

And steel-blue eyes that I couldn’t seem to pry mine away from. It seemed he could speak with his eyes, and if I was understanding him correctly—and I hoped I was—he was telling me not to worry.

The stranger continued to walk toward us, each step expressing his confidence. My mouth fell open. Not out of surprise. Or hope for that matter. It was more a strange out-of-place lustful desire.

He was so good-looking that Vincent’s abduction of me became secondary.

The handsome stranger took another step toward us, stopped, and spread his feet apart slightly.

Let. Her. Go. His voice was distinct and commanding.

Vincent released my hair and slid his arm around my waist. Mind your own business.

The stranger reached up and loosened his tie. "I watched you drag her across the parking lot. Hell, one of her shoes is over there on the sidewalk. It is my business. I’m not going to tell you again. Let. Her. Go."

Vincent loosened his grip slightly and cleared his throat. Do you know who I am?

The stranger chuckled. I don’t give a thimbleful of fucks who you are. But you damned well need to understand who I am.

Vincent’s Philadelphia Italian accent was thick. Who the fuck are you?

The man’s eyes thinned to slits. "I’m that guy. The one you’re going to wish later that you listened to."

Oh my.

All he had done was speak, and I was already melted into a puddle of desire.

With his eyes locked on Vincent, the stranger took a few steps to the side and removed his jacket and tie. Apparently he wasn’t joking. I may have been afraid of Vincent, but it was obvious the stranger wasn’t. He tossed the clothes on the trunk of what I assumed was his car and reached for his collar.

He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and walked toward us.

The distance between us vanished, and Vincent’s grip on me tightened. It was so like him to attempt to use me for a shield. He was the type of person who wouldn’t hesitate to abuse a woman, but when it came to standing up for one—or challenging a man—he was all tongue and no tactics.

At least that was what my father said about him.

When the stranger was so close that I could smell him, he lowered his chin. The muscles in his jaw flared. I had no idea of what he had planned, but his focus was unquestionable. His chiseled facial features, strong jaw and high cheekbones only added to the intensity of his narrow-eyed stare.

He stood close enough to reach out and touch me. A lump rose in my throat. I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and attempted to swallow, but a combination of fear and the unknown prevented it. Vincent held me so close I could feel his heart beating against my back. I desperately wanted to be free of his clutch, but at that moment I saw no way this could, or would, end.

And then it happened.

I didn’t see it. At least not immediately. A few seconds later, I realized what took place.

The stranger’s hands were that fast.

I was in front of Vincent, with my back against his chest. Being six inches shorter than him left enough of an opening between my shoulder and his neck for the stranger to throat-punch him, causing him to release me in reflex. The instant he let me go, another lightning-fast hand shot past me and smashed into Vincent’s face.

After it happened, I realized he didn’t do it with closed fists. He had done it with his flattened hands.

He stood in front of Vincent in a fighting stance that would scare any reasonable man away.

Vincent fought to breathe.

I stood in awe.

Who are you?

Instead of running or screaming, I stood and stared with my mouth agape. Uhhm...

He gestured toward the coffee shop. You better go get your shoe.

I hobbled across the parking lot and picked up my shoe, checking over my shoulder every few steps. I then retrieved my purse and gave the coffee-drinking yuppies a fine-tuned fuck-you glare.

I turned toward the parking lot. The stranger’s raised hands, bent knees, and laser-sharp glare made his objective clear. He was ready to continue the fight. Vincent, on the other hand, appeared to be having a difficult time breathing.

I probably shouldn’t have, but I hoped the fabled throat-punch crushed Vincent’s windpipe or something more permanently damaging. If he collapsed dead right then and there, it would have been the beginning of a very good day. Not knowing what to do next, but feeling drawn to my handsome new protector, I held my head high and walked to his side.

Vincent was bent over with his hands pressed to his knees, fighting to catch his breath. Be it genuine or an act to keep the stranger from continuing, I had no idea, and it really didn’t matter.

Feeling confident that the well-dressed street fighter would keep me from harm, I reached down and removed my shoes.

"Che cavolo?" I raised my right foot and swung it into Vincent’s crotch with all my might.

A muffled grunt passed his lips.

Don’t you ever. I inhaled a deep breath and kicked him again. Come near me again. I’ll have my father cut you in pieces and throw you in the Missouri River.

Vincent fell forward, groaning and holding his crotch. I glared down at him and shook my head. "Testa di cazzo!"

The stranger stepped back and coughed out a laugh. You done?

I am now. I slipped on my shoes and turned toward my new friend I can’t thank you enough. I’m Terra.

No worries, he said with a lighthearted shrug. My name’s Michael.

No worries?

Maybe not for you.

We shook hands. He looked at Vincent, scoffed, and retrieved his tie and jacket. His grayish-blue eyes commanded my focus. His handsome looks kept it.

You know him?

I hated to admit it, but I nodded anyway. Angry ex.

I glanced at his car. The license plate said TRIPP. I made a mental note of it and smiled to myself.

I motioned toward the car. Your last name?

Yeah, long story. Listen, he said. You better get going.

My eyes fell to Vincent, who was either being theatrical or still in pain. You’re right. I can’t thank you enough.

He grinned. Two slight dimples and a mouthful of white teeth were all I saw.

I’ll stick around and make sure he gets up, he said.

You come here often?

After I said it, I felt like a fool. It sounded so cliché.

I will. Just moved to the neighborhood, so this is my new place, he said. It’s on my way to the office.

Again, thank you. I didn’t want to, but I tore my eyes from him and turned away.

Well, Michael, my handsome ass-kicking friend, this won’t be the last you see of me.

If my father thought for an instant that I was interested in someone who wasn’t both Italian and Catholic, he would come apart at the seams. Italian fathers are known to be protective of their daughters, but mine was even worse. He was much more than my father.

He was the Godfather.

Chapter Two

Michael

I didn’t need to look up from my desk to know it was Cap who was coming down the hallway, I could tell by the distinct sound of his footsteps. He stepped into my office and stopped ten feet in front of my desk. I wanted his stay to be short and his concerns to be about anything but business.

He didn’t need to know it, but my mind was still focused on the girl from the coffee shop. Her attitude, spunk and gorgeous looks made her difficult to dismiss as just another woman. Without shifting my eyes up from my mountain of paperwork, I acknowledged his presence.

Good evening, Cap, I said flatly.

Alarm wasn’t set.

Door sensors are broken. I need to call it in.

He cleared his throat. Might wanna do that. Hope your day went good.

I met his gaze. What?

I hope your day went good.

It’s still going, and what the hell does that mean? You hope it went good?

Means I hope your day went good. Mine’s been a shit sandwich.

I waved my hand over the top of my desk. Typically organized, it was covered in piles of paperwork. Sorry yours was hell, but I’m nowhere near done, so it’s too early to call it. Delivery went well?

Kind of.

Kind of? Did you drop off the weapons?

He nodded. Yep.

Were they pleased with the quality?

Yep.

His shit sandwich remark made me feel slightly uneasy. Knowing all of my customers paid in advance prior to receiving a shipment of weapons left very little to go wrong.

I’m not interested in playing guessing games, Cap. The AK-47s we were supposed to get from Virginia are coming in late, and when they get here, we’ll be fifty short. I’m going to have some mad Bulgarians on my hands if I can’t find out a way to fix it. I pushed my chair away from the desk. So, enlighten me on why you’re here telling me about your shit day.

I was plannin’ on it. He drew a long deep breath and folded his arms in front of his chest. Some fucker came up to the truck and knocked on the window. After I figured out what was goin’ on, I rolled down the window, and he starts sayin’ how we’re done sellin’ weapons in Kansas City. Said somethin’ about makin’ money, too.

Anyone attempting to interfere with my business would be met by force, and Cap’s words fell on wary ears and a retaliatory mind. I glared back at him. Done selling weapons? What?

"He said you’re done sellin’ guns in Kansas City. I couldn’t really hear him over the music, so I got out. Then he started lookin’ at me all crazy and talkin’ shit, so I just started smackin’ him."

Who the hell was he? And what did he say about money?

Dunno who he was, and I couldn’t really tell what all he was sayin’, I was too busy hittin’ him while he was tryin’ to talk.

Goddamn it, Cap. What else did he say?

I don’t remember what all he said, I was pretty fuckin’ mad.

You don’t remember? I walked around the corner of my desk. Why don’t you give it a good goddamned try? Where, specifically, were you? And who was she? A fed? A cop? Did you get a name?

He shot back a look of confusion. She? He was a him, not a her.

What? I no more than spoke, and realized I had said she instead of he. It seemed odd during all of the excitement and confusion, thoughts of Terra were still lingering.

Goddamn it; you know what I meant. Answer the question.

I was at I-435 and Metcalf at the gas station gettin’ gas, he said. And he wasn’t a cop or a fed, that much I know. He just got out his Cadillac and walked up to me and started bumpin’ his gums and talkin’ shit, so I busted him in the mouth.

I clenched my teeth and attempted to maintain my composure. Where is he now?

He shrugged. I stomped the hell out of him and left him in the parkin’ lot beside his car. Figured someone was bound to call the cops or start askin’ questions, so I just beat feet. You know, came right here to tell you what happened.

I wondered how the problem could be solved if I had no idea who the mystery man was. I believed Cap would have found his ID if he had one, but felt compelled to ask anyway. He have an ID on him?

Nope, he said. No nothin’. Well, nothing but a piece stuck in the waist of his pants. Oh, and the fucker was dressed like you.

I narrowed my eyes. Like me?

Yep. Had on a suit. Looked expensive. No tie though. Had his shirt unbuttoned and was wearin’ a big gold chain around his neck. Oh, yeah, and a gold bracelet.

I’m guessing you took his weapon?

Yep. Cheap fucker. Ruger P-85. It’s in the truck.

I recognized the weapon to be an inexpensive 9mm recalled for safety issues in the mid-1980s. I was surprised that anyone wearing an expensive suit and gold chains would have such an unreliable weapon.

I began to attempt assembling the pieces to the puzzle. Think, Cap. Did anything stand out about this guy?

After a moment’s thought, his shoulders raised slowly, all but dismissing his final bit of information as unnecessary or possibly useless. Sounded like he was from New York or something. You know, he had that east coast accent thing going on. Maybe Boston. Definitely from somewhere back east.

Go get the Ruger. I’ll have Trace run the numbers on it.

Got it, Boss.

In a short moment, Cap walked in with the weapon, using a rag to prevent his fingerprints from coming in contact with the gun. Holding it at arm’s length pinched between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a disease, he carefully placed it at the corner of my desk.

Jesus, Cap. It’s not a fucking bomb.

I ain’t lookin’ to leave my fingerprints on some throwaway piece. And, you never know with these junk fuckers. They’ll go off if you drop ’em.

He was right. They were that cheap. I reached for the gun. Covered in scratches and with half the finish worn off, it appeared to have been run over by a truck.

Was it like this when you got it?

Yep.

I studied the weapon and pieced together what I knew for sure.

Kansas side of the river. Expensive suit. East coast accent. Cadillac. Gold chains. Inexpensive throwaway pistol. No identification.

I sighed heavily. Fuck.

What?

"I think I’ve got an idea of who this might be. Or who they might be."

Who?

Agrioli, I said. Sooner or later I knew he’d stick his nose in my business. We’re moving too damned many weapons.

After spending ten years in the US Marine Corps, I’d opted for a discharge as soon as they were no longer able to deploy me into combat. Immediately following my release, I started a gray-market weapons business in Kansas City of all places.

The gun laws in Kansas allowed me to distribute as many used guns as I wanted without any of the normal formalities associated with new gun sales. I walked along a razor’s edge regarding legality, but had the freedom to sell what I wanted to whoever I wanted without intervention. The lack of involvement from any faction of the government was nice, but it caused me to be a prime target of the mafia and their system of paying taxes.

So far, I had been fortunate.

His eyes grew wide. "The godfather of the fuckin’ mafia? That Agrioli?"

Think about it. Expensive suit. Carrying a throwaway. Driving a Cadillac. Wearing gold chains. East coast accent. I shrugged. Who else wears gold chains?

He laughed. Pimps and Italians.

Pimps and Italians. It wasn’t that funny. I chuckled nonetheless.

So what now? he asked.

How bad did you tune this guy up?

His mouth twisted into a guilty smirk. Beat him like he owed me money.

I winced at the response. If it was one of Agrioli’s men, he’d undoubtedly try to get payback for what happened. Although I wouldn’t change how Cap reacted if I was able, being at war with the Italian mafia definitely wasn’t on my bucket list.

Bad? I asked.

Pretty damned bad. Hadn’t had my coffee yet, and I was up late watchin’ Netflix, so I wasn’t in the mood for someone to be all up in my face.

Cap was a former Force RECON marine and a trained assassin. With the body of a weight lifter and a face that appeared to be chiseled of stone, he was an intimidating man. His comedic behavior and random ridiculous comments often made it difficult for me to take him seriously.

I fought against my urge to laugh, and wrote down the serial number of the pistol. After removing $2,000 from the drawer, I tossed the money on top of my desk and shook my head. You and that fucking Netflix.

"New Girl. You seen that shit?"

Mentally, I rolled my eyes. No.

Try it. That guy Schmidt is funnier than fuck.

I work until eight, get coffee, eat and work out until eleven. When do you suggest I watch Netflix?

He reached for the money. That’s the good thing about Netflix. You can watch that fucker whenever you want. You can watch a whole year of shit in one weekend. Start, stop, pause, fast-forward, rewind, you got it all right there at your fuckin’ fingertips.

Don’t think so.

He ran his thumb along the edge of the bills. Hey, there’s two here.

It was the least I could do considering the trouble he went through. One for the delivery, and one for defending my best interests. Keep this between you and me. I’ll try to look into it without raising too many eyebrows.

Appreciate the extra, he said.

I appreciate your devotion, Cap.

He