Killer vs. Kingpin: Hitman vs. Hitman, #3

By Cari Z and L. A. Witt

August Morrison and Ricardo Torralba would really like to live a quiet life—as quiet as life can be for a couple of eccentric hitmen, anyway. Unfortunately for them, they pushed their luck with the authors and demanded a second book. So now, whether they like it or not, they're getting a third installment.

Yes, this is a revenge book. Because we're the authors, that's why.

This time, August and Ricardo are in way over their heads, because there are few things more dangerous than owing a favor to the mafia. When that favor gets called in, though, it's not to kill anyone—it's to save them. Time is running out to find the source of tainted street drugs poisoning innocent people.

Now they're caught in the middle of a deadly war between rival families, all while trying to dodge suspicious police and merciless drug cartels.

Maybe this time, August and Ricardo will learn their lesson and not demand another book… assuming they survive this one.

Killer vs. Kingpin is book 3 in the Hitman vs. Hitman series that seems to have evolved from an alleged "standalone" to "yeah, we don't even know." They're just too much fun to torture! Err, write. Too much fun to write. Fans of L.J. Hayward and Alice Winters will love this assassin duo featuring a grumpy special forces veteran and the irreverently sunshine billionaire who drives him up a wall. Come for the enemies to lovers, stay for the feels. And explosions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GallagherWitt
• Release date: May 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781642301267

Book preview

Chapter 1

A ticket for overhanging shrubbery. August Morrison made an angry, sweeping arc with his hand, nearly unloading his entire glass of Petrus Bordeaux Blend all over the white linen tablecloth, not to mention Ricardo, Elodie, and Eve. Oblivious to what had almost become a Bordeaux baptism for three, he tutted. "My house is half construction zone right now, and the police—the goddamned popo—are trying to fine me for excess shrubbery. He brought the glass to his lips and added an indignant, Rude."

Ricardo sighed with equal parts amusement and exasperation. Yes. We know. It’s a miscarriage of justice, and your lawyer is already on top of things. He tapped his menu and, in the voice of a parent trying to patiently reason with a fuming child, he added, The question was, do you want to order dessert or not?

August drained his drink in a single deep swallow. It was his… fourth? Fifth? Which explained a lot. Ricardo knew better than to put August in the same room as alcohol when he was pissed off, especially when he was pissed off at law enforcement. In fact, he’d banked on tonight being the kind of evening where August would, regardless of his mood, drink conservatively. After all, they were dining with his sister at one of the classiest restaurants in the city. The kind of place where even Ricardo wore a suit (God, he hated suits). With August’s billionaire upbringing, he could be relied upon to behave in a high-class environment.

Ricardo had failed to anticipate one tiny but crucially important variable: how much August would drink while commiserating with his sister when she—also of the high-class and well-behaved upbringing—was furious at her husband in a way that could only be soothed with a three thousand dollar bottle of wine.

I am so fucking tired of this, she’d slurred through the main course. "At the hospital, he’s got energy to burn, but the second he’s home—when he actually comes home—he’s passed out cold. She’d paused for a gulp she hadn’t needed, then added, I get it, you know? His job is demanding. But so is mine, and it would be nice to see my husband’s penis once in a—"

Whoa! August had put up his hands. TMI! But oh my God, yeah. What is his problem? Then he’d poured them both some more wine.

Disaster had been pretty much inevitable at that point. There’d been nothing Ricardo could do in that moment except cross himself and exchange grimaces with his ex-wife across the table. At least Eve—who had become close to Elodie over the past few months—had accepted Elodie’s invitation to fill Paschal’s seat at their reservation for four, and the two of them had ridden in together, so Elodie would have a DD. God knew she needed it as much as August did tonight. Still, Eve was probably having some regrets about not staying home with the latest unsolved true crime series on Netflix.

They’re entertaining, she’d told him a month or so ago. I keep wondering if they’ll be looking for you!

That’s not funny, he’d growled.

Oh, yes it is, August had helpfully interjected.

Ricardo had glared at him. If I ever end up on one of those shows, it will be for strangling a certain billionaire with a tie from JC Penney.

That had earned him a delightfully horrified gasp. "How… dare you?"

You going to behave?

To his credit, August had behaved for the rest of the night.

This night, however…

I’ll have the tiramisu, please, August said, slurring badly but still polite to the server. And maybe a—do you have Louis XIII cognac?

Ricardo almost choked. He’d gotten used to breaking bread with billionaires, but the way they casually ordered booze that cost hundreds or thousands of dollars still blew his mind.

We do, the waiter said with the smile of a man who knew he was getting a hell of a good tip tonight. He and August negotiated the exact vintage and whatnot of the cognac, and Elodie ordered one too.

Eve cocked a brow at Ricardo. He just rolled his eyes, and she smothered a laugh. Neither of them had to say it—wonder which sibling is going to pass out first.

As long as neither of them threw up. Because if they did, Ricardo might have to make an emergency trip to the JC Penney menswear department for a murder weapon.

Eve and Ricardo both ordered desserts with coffee, and the server left. August continued ranting, ping-ponging as only a pissed-off drunk could between outrage over Paschal’s recent weirdness and the cops’ horticultural overreach. Elodie followed along effortlessly, either because she was equally inebriated or because she’d known her younger brother long enough to navigate his flailing path, and she alternately suggested revenge in the forms of (depending upon the offender) cop-eating carnivorous plants or horse laxatives laced with something to induce violent sneezing. There was something in there about spiking hemorrhoid cream with poison ivy, but Ricardo didn’t catch who the recipient of that delightful torment would be.

Mercifully, dinner ended, and when the check came, Elodie grabbed it, slapped down a black American Express card, and shoved everything at the server. To everyone at the table, she said, If Paschal’s gonna bail on dinner again, he can fucking pay for it. Tip and all.

She wasn’t kidding. In the end, she left the server a more than generous tip even by her standards. An are-you-sure-this-is-correct-because-it-seems-like-way- too-much? tip.

Oh, I’m sure, she told the server as she staggered to her feet. You earned it, unlike my—

Okay, okay. Eve took Elodie’s shoulders and steered her toward the door. I think it’s time to take you home.

Elodie continued ranting, but Ricardo couldn’t hear what she said. August had started to simmer down, and now he was just leaning most of his weight on Ricardo. As much as Ricardo appreciated his boyfriend’s more subdued demeanor, he felt bad about it too—it was probably less because August was sobering up or trying to behave, and more that his feet hurt. Trying to walk while drunk was a struggle for anyone, but for someone with pins and missing toes in both feet, it was literally a pain for August.

Outside the restaurant, Ricardo poured August onto a bench and told him not to move. With the way August was wincing and flexing his ankles, he didn’t need to be told twice, though Ricardo would keep an eye on him.

While the valets went to retrieve August’s Maserati and Eve’s Porsche, Eve said, You going to be okay to get him home?

Ricardo nodded. He’ll be fine. Can you handle her?

She huffed a laugh. I’ve handled you when you’re drunk.

Uh-huh. Likewise.

She chuckled, but then glanced at Elodie (who was leaning against her) and back at Ricardo. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she asked, Has Paschal always been like this?

Ricardo sobered too, shaking his head. No. He’s a workaholic just like she is, but August and I have noticed him acting weird lately, too.

Do you think… Eve hesitated, then mouthed, "Cheating?"

Dear God, I hope not, he said on a sigh. Because if she doesn’t kill him, her brother will.

She scowled, but they both let the subject drop. He wasn’t worried about anyone overhearing them and suspecting that August’s was an actual assassin. For all they knew, Ricardo was speaking metaphorically about how Elodie’s brother would valiantly defend her honor against the man who’d scorned her.

But, no, Ricardo was certain August would literally murder Paschal and not feel a little bit bad about it.

The valets pulled up with the cars. Ricardo helped Eve get Elodie into the Porsche’s passenger seat, exchanged a quick hug with his ex-wife, and asked her to text him when she was home safely. As the ladies left, Ricardo guided August into the passenger seat of the Maserati, then went around to the driver’s side.

While August dozed, Ricardo drove away from the restaurant, his mind whirring over the conversation at the dinner table. The drunkenness had been annoying, and yes, he was annoyed over the shrubbery ticket too, but it was the part about Paschal that kept needling him.

The thing was, Paschal wasn’t stupid. He was a well-respected trauma surgeon, and Ricardo knew firsthand how good he was at his job. After all, it was Paschal’s skills that had kept Ricardo himself alive after a bullet hole had been determined to kill him.

So the man was smart, and he was smart enough to understand how two important facts related to each other:

One, that his brother-in-law was (and was cohabitating with) a bona fide assassin.

Two, said brother-in-law was murderously protective of the only sibling he had left on this earth.

With those things in mind, Ricardo hoped the dumbass had a legitimate reason for acting the way he had been lately, and that he hadn’t abandoned all sense of self-preservation by putting his dick where it didn’t belong. Because if he had, August probably would put Paschal’s dick where it didn’t belong. Likely into some kind of landscaping equipment.

Cheating on Elodie had one outcome and one outcome only: widowhood for Elodie.

And that bothered Ricardo. Not because he had any inclination to stop August, but because he was worried that whatever was making Paschal act shady was somehow worse than cheating.

It was doubtful he was involved with something like gambling or loan sharks; he was married to a billionaire who was heiress to even wealthier billionaires. Money was not a problem for him. Hell, maybe he was cheating, and the oh shit factor would be who he was cheating with. A politician? A business rival of Elodie’s? One of her exes?

Or maybe Ricardo had just spent too much time in society’s underbelly, seeing the ugliest of the ugly, so he expected the worst. Maybe he was hearing hoofbeats and thinking exotic zebras with shady double lives and mob ties instead of stupid cheating horses.

Well, it would keep. Once August had sobered up, they could talk about it, and hopefully Ricardo could keep him from murdering—

Blue lights in the rearview caught his eye.

Ricardo’s stomach flipped like it always did when he had a cop’s attention.

He eased off the gas, but before he did, he glanced at the speedometer. The freeway speed was sixty-five. At most, he’d been going sixty-eight. Were they really going to hassle him over three miles an hour?

Eh, it wouldn’t be the strangest thing a cop had ever hassled him over. He suspected it had more to do with driving while not white. Particularly in a car with a six-figure price tag.

He indulged in an eyeroll as he eased the Maserati off the road. The tires went over the rumble strips, and August stirred beside him.

Huh? Wha? He sat up and looked around, and he stiffened, so he must have noticed the flashing blue. Voice still tinged with alcohol, but clearer than it should have been, he said, What’s going on?

Cops.

Oh. Gee. Really? I thought we were being abducted by aliens.

Great. He was sobering up but still drunk enough to be belligerent.

Just shut up and let me deal with it, Ricardo groused.

August huffed.

And just Ricardo’s luck, the officer came up to the passenger side window. Because of course he did.

As the window came down, it occurred to Ricardo that August probably reeked of alcohol, but it was too late. The pug-faced officer was already peering inside, practically sticking his head and blinding flashlight into the vehicle.

Evening, gentlemen. His nose twitched. Smells like someone’s been drinking tonight.

Me, August said, sweet as could be. But I’m not driving, so I can drink as much as I want. The words were faintly clipped—still pleasant, but with an edge of impatience that meant he was on a hair trigger to blow a gasket if someone didn’t explain at once why they’d been pulled over.

Ricardo gritted his teeth, wishing he could put a hand on August’s leg or telepathically inform him that it was time to close his mouth. Unfortunately, August was both drunk and displeased with law enforcement, and Ricardo didn’t dare take his hands off the wheel, sooo this was going to end in disaster.

Whatever. August could pay whatever fine he incurred on Ricardo’s behalf.

Just don’t get me arrested, all right?

The officer eyed August, then looked at Ricardo. Sir, I’m gonna need to see your license, registration, and proof of insurance.

Ricardo nodded and reached for his wallet, moving slowly because he wasn’t stupid. Between him and the officer, August gave a petulant sigh, opened the glove compartment with an irritated flourish, and produced the registration and proof of insurance, which he shoved at the officer. Ricardo more politely surrendered his license and his own insurance card.

Thank you, gentlemen. The officer took the documents, gave them a cursory glance, then handed them back. Well, I pulled you over because you’ve got a taillight out. He produced his clipboard from under his arm, wrote something, and handed it all over to Ricardo.

A taillight? August protested. "Are you kidding me? I had this car serviced at the dealership last month. There’s no way the light is out already."

Well, sir. The cop smiled blandly. It’s out. Just fix it and bring proof of repair to the station, and the fine will be waived.

August kept snarling and bitching, but Ricardo just rolled his eyes, signed the ticket, and handed back the clipboard. The sooner they got the hell out of here, the less likely his booze-marinated boyfriend’s mouth was to land him in a holding cell for the night. Or worse, get the car impounded, which would probably result in August going nuclear.

Mental note—don’t let him drink when he’s angry again. Especially when Elodie is pissed off too.

The officer tore off Ricardo’s copy and gave it back. August snatched it, and before the cop had even finished telling them to have a nice evening, the window was rolling up right in his face.

Ricardo pulled back onto the freeway, accelerated, and continued toward home. Next time, would you keep your mouth shut? You’re lucky he didn’t fine us for lacking a litter bag or going a mile over the speed limit. He elbowed August. "Or had one of us—especially the one who isn’t rich and white—arrested."

Pssh. August gestured clumsily and let the ticket flutter to the floorboards. My lawyer would’ve sprung you before they’d even put you in the backseat of the squad car.

Ricardo huffed. He was not going to try to reason with August when he was still drunk, still mad, and was now incensed by his second dust-up with law enforcement in under twelve hours.

Tomorrow, though? Oh, he’d have some words for him tomorrow.

Hopefully while he was still hungover and miserable.

When did he write the ticket?

The thought made Ricardo’s eyes snap open in the darkness. He’d been stewing over the incident on the freeway while he should’ve been sleeping, and as he’d replayed it all for the forty-seventh time, it had dawned on him that the cop had done little more than sign the citation and hand it over.

Even for a broken taillight, there was still a procedure. A cursory check for warrants or to see if the car was hot. Writing or typing out all of Ricardo’s information and details about the vehicle. The cop had barely glanced at the documents, and he sure as hell hadn’t run the plate, checked Ricardo’s ID, or spent enough time looking or writing to have Ricardo’s address and such on the ticket.

Right?

Or was Ricardo just squinting at everything because he’d been, in the moments before he’d been pulled over, trying to conjure up a scenario in which August’s brother-in-law wasn’t suicidal enough to cheat on Elodie?

Well, one thing was for sure—Ricardo wasn’t going to sleep until he satisfied his curiosity.

He carefully slid his arm out from under August, who was out cold. Then he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, double-checked his boyfriend hadn’t stirred, and slipped out of the room.

Navigating the house right now was more of a nightmare than usual thanks to the renovations. The last battle royale to take place here hadn’t done as much damage as the first, but August had decided that since someone had made it past all his Indiana Jones-style defenses, that meant he needed more defenses. So floors and walls were being ripped up, and the house was a mess of plastic sheeting, piles of furniture shoved aside, and toolboxes. The air in the whole place smelled and tasted like drywall these days, too. August lovingly called it parfum de renovation.

At least Ricardo could use his cell phone light to guide him past the debris and keep him from tripping over a hole or something. He didn’t need August waking up to the sound of a crash and coming to investigate with a loaded gun and an elevated blood alcohol content. One bullet hole in his hide was more than enough for one lifetime, thank you very much.

He keyed in the code to open the door from the kitchen to the garage, then walked in and turned on the light. The brightness made him wince, especially with all the shiny metal and glass on all of the various cars and motorcycles. Once his eyes had adjusted, he walked barefoot across the cool concrete to the Maserati.

The crumpled ticket was still on the passenger side floorboards, right where August had left it.

Ricardo picked it up. Leaning his elbows on the car’s roof and open door, he smoothed out the citation and read it over.

The information had been completely filled in. Ricardo’s full name and address. His driver’s license number, including the expiration. And it wasn’t handwritten—it was typed.

What the fuck?

Then he reached the type of violation, which had also been filled in, and his blood turned cold. There was no mention of a broken taillight (and August had flipped his drunken lid for twenty minutes after they’d arrived at home and confirmed that every light was functional).

Instead, the description of the violation read:

Other—Ricardo Garcia and August Morrison owe me a favor.

Ricardo’s heart jumped into his throat. Oh, fuck.

This wasn’t a ticket. It was a summons from a powerful man who’d put his neck on the line to help August and Ricardo after they’d blown open a rival mob organization’s human trafficking ring. While August had been recovering in the hospital, the man had come to tell them what he’d done—what the cops had done under his orders—and that in return, August and Ricardo owed him a favor.

This wrinkled citation wasn’t from the cops.

It had been delivered by a cop, but it had come from Pedro Silva, the face of the Cavalcante crime family.

Ricardo swallowed. There were few things more dangerous than owing a favor to the mafia.

And there was almost nothing scarier than when they came to collect.

Chapter 2

August dreamed about dismemberment.

It wasn’t the first time, but it still wasn’t pleasant no matter how often it rotated through his nightmares. He wasn’t quite sure when he woke up whether he’d been dreaming about losing his own limbs or sawing off someone else’s, but when he shifted in the bed, groggy, and hissed as his swollen feet pressed against each other, he figured it had been real life infiltrating his subconscious. He lay flat on his back, careful to keep the blanket off his feet, and glanced disconsolately at Ricardo’s half of the bed, which was empty.

Shit. Why was it empty? Where was he? Ricardo was a military man through and through, always early to rise, but August didn’t like waking up alone. Ricardo knew that, and usually after he finished his workout he came back with coffee and his phone and hung out in the room until August woke up. Why hadn’t he this time?

Maybe he has better things to do than listen to your drunk ass snore all night.

August rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes so hard he saw stars, trying to jog his memory. They’d gone out in the Maserati…had dinner with Elodie and Eve…then there was the thing with the cop, then Ricardo had driven them home and poured him into bed.

Dinner. Fuck. August smacked his lips and grimaced. It felt like he’d been six-drinks drunk, which meant that he probably hadn’t taken