The Santas Who Stole Me (Stolen #1)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

KEEPER

A bead of sweat rolls down my face, and I swipe at it with the back of my hand. “Why the fuck did I agree to this?” I mumble into the coms, pushing the dangling white poof ball back from my line of sight once again. I’m sitting here in a goddamn Santa suit. It’s seventy degrees, and the sun is piercing my back, the itchy polyester blend sticks to me.

Calum’s voice fills my ear. “Keep, we’ve been trying to get him for weeks, this is the closest we’ve come. Plus, you need an exciting job to break up the monotony of day-to-day life.”

“Putting on a Santa suit doesn’t add excitement.”

“You better not cry, you better not pout …” Calum sings in my ear.

“I do not pout,” I say and suck my lip in. Alright, I might have been pouting but no one’s around to see, and I’ll never admit it. I’m a badass killer after all, even if I’m dressed in red velvet with a white beard.

“Keeper, are you having a midlife crisis? I’ve never heard you complain this much. Especially at work. It’s a city councilman for Christ’s sake. You would normally be foaming at the mouth right now with a hard-on. I saw that pamphlet in your room. We need to talk this out, bro,” Calum adds, his voice going in and out with his breaths during stretches.

Am I having a midlife crisis? I’m twenty-seven. I’ve been detached lately. My heart used to beat for this job. The planning and calculating moves, seeking out the exact moment to end someone’s life, waiting for them to take that final breath. Dead eyes used to be my sunshine on a rainy day. And the joys of leaving that moment once I completed a job without a trace. That fucking feeling of being untouchable humming through my body is what I live for. Or is it lived now? Shit, I’m not sure. Looking through my scope today, it’s not doing it for me. No sunshine and rainbows here. Sure, this is a high-profile case that took weeks of planning and could easily be the riskiest job we’ve ever taken. Fuck, maybe we should have passed on this bid. I don’t give a fuck about my consequences, but I would never put my brothers in danger. Have I already done that by agreeing to end someone in such an elaborate way? Worry gnaws at me. Again, something I’m not used to on a job, so I force myself to focus and prep for this kill. I send a word to the devil, making him promises in exchange for this to run smoothly.

“Fuck off, Calum, this isn’t a three-man job. You could have done it yourself,” I tell him, which is a lie. I wouldn’t have let him do it alone.

“Fine, we can avoid talking about the pamphlet and the correlating Google searches Zee found on your computer history. Maybe you just need to get fa la la laid.”

Zee and I groan at the same time. Of course they shared and discussed my browser history.

“I don’t need to get laid.” I might. I most definitely do, but I don’t need to admit that to him.

“And what fun would that be doing this solo? Seeing you and Zeke in a red suit is fucking hilarious, and it’s a great photo op for the annual Christmas card photo. Last year was truly awful. We can’t have a repeat.”

“It was awful because you took it with Zeke and photoshopped me in because I wouldn’t wear that ugly fucking Christmas sweater. Of all your talents, photoshop is not one, brother. Grams noticed right away, and she’s eighty years old,” I remind him, thinking of the green fuzzy material with the thick white stitching of two reindeer humping behind a present. Some obscene saying about delivering the package written in red underneath. I stood for the picture next to Zee and Calum with my arms crossed like a child, displaying my disdain for the occasion. I hate this time of year. My pose made the editing difficult for Calum, since he hates when he does anything less than perfect, so that card gets under his skin.

“Tone down the bah-humbug vibes. If you want we can hit up the club and try to find someone to jingle your balls. At least you can end your dry spell and try to ward off the start of your midlife crisis.”

“Calum, your brother isn’t old enough for a midlife crisis. The average age for that is forty-five. But Calum’s right. Keep, this is an exciting job. Act like it. We are about to make history in Santa suits,” Zeke adds into the coms, always the diplomatic peacemaker.

I survey the area, not wanting to partake in Calum’s forced therapy session. He knows he has me trapped with the com in my ear for the next fifteen minutes until things get started. This is the perfect set up. There are over a thousand Santas ready to race for the annual Santa’s run downtown. The run is tradition for the area, and it provides charity for the local toy drive. The councilman has a big presence for this platform, pretending he gives fuck all about kids. He doesn’t. I’ve been watching him for weeks.

The cover is perfect: everyone is dressed the same, and we have beards and hats covering our faces. I have Lee scrambling the city feeds and the local business cameras to add an extra layer of precaution. We don’t have much protection from runners with their own cells, but our plan is solid. This is the second time we’ve tried to get him. I hear the tune of Jingle Bells through the guys’ coms, grit my teeth with a huff, and pull out the scope, setting up my gear.

“The target just arrived,” Zee adds.

I see Calum stretching and giving some girl flirty smiles like a true dick. I don’t have a visual on Zee, but that’s typical during a job. He’s quiet, invisible, a ghost. If Calum could hear my thoughts he would add some type of Christmas reference to the ghost of Christmas future, but luckily for me he has to shut up, so I can pretend to focus. I rest my finger on the trigger and peer at them from the roof. The marathon runs through the city. This building gives me access at the start and third mile of the race based on the winding route. Again, perfect.

“Time to start the reindeer games,” Calum says, and Zee grunts in acknowledgement.