I stretch my back when I finally climb out of my front seat and bite down on the groan I want to let out.
Six hours of sitting in the car after the brief adrenaline jolt of nearly being found by my neighbor means my muscles are tight.
My neck protests as I roll it one way, then the other, before I walk around to the back of my truck.
The bar’s parking lot is packed, but only a few people are outside the building, and none are close enough to watch me as I lower the tailgate.
Under the light of a yellowing streetlamp, I use my thumbnail to flick up a tiny hidden door in the bed, then press my thumb pad to the small black square beneath.
Nero Security makes some pretty good locks. And thanks to having plenty of time and money on my hands, I was able to utilize these fingerprint locks to secure several hidden chambers in my truck bed. The compartments conceal a multitude of weapons that would see me in prison for the rest of my lifetime if anyone were clever enough to find them.
But I have a fail-safe for that.
The lock clicks, and after I press down on the nearest section of the bed, a four-foot-wide piece pops open on a spring hinge.
This is my most used selection. And it’s a selection.
Handguns, knives of varying lengths, a grenade… the usual.
My lower back twinges as I reach for one of the knives, and I decide that tonight is a night for ease.
I still take the knife, tucking it into the sheath at my side, but then I reach for the Glock. And the silencer. And three prefilled clips of ammo.
Pressing the lid closed, I make sure to hear the lock reengage, then I lower the tiny door to hide the thumbprint reader and flip the tailgate back up.
The summer air is thick with humidity, but the temperature has dropped to tolerable degrees, meaning no one will look twice at me in my black jeans and the nondescript dark flannel I put on over my T-shirt.
The flannel is unbuttoned, the open edges flapping a little as I stride across the parking lot, but my lowered arms keep the fabric from pulling too far back and revealing the shoulder holster I have on beneath.
I cut through the handful of intoxicated people standing near the bar entrance and smoking cigarettes, and enter the poorly lit building behind them.
The bouncer at the door slides a bored gaze my way, but I look every one of my thirty-nine years, probably more, so he doesn’t ask for ID.
But if he did, I have one on me. It’s not my photo or my name, but it’s close enough to work.
Country music blares through speakers mounted to the ceiling, and I do my best to tune it out as I slant my body between groups of people, making my way to the back corner, toward the hall that disappears into the dark.
I enter the hallway.
And I move past the bathrooms, past the storage room, past the locked walk-in cooler. And I end up at the very end of the hall. And the final door, hiding the final room.
It’s a room saved for private parties. Ones that are little more than coke fests and excuses to hire strippers and treat them like shit.
It’s a room with another bouncer, this one looking slightly more alert than the man out front.
It’s a room I know about but have never been in.
Until tonight.
My steps slow until I stop in front of the man guarding the door.
Inside that room, three men are waiting for another man to arrive with instructions. Because they have a bag of money, and the man they’re expecting has a cargo shipment, and they need to know where to go pick up that cargo.
Except I’m not the man they’re expecting.
And humans aren’t cargo.
So they’re about to die.
“Password?” the bouncer asks me.
“Candy cane,” I reply.
It’s the right answer, even if it’s a stupid one. But I know it’s right because Karmine texted it to me an hour ago after she got it out of the real seller.
And people don’t lie to Karmine.
The bouncer reaches behind himself to twist the door handle. He only opens the door a crack, then he steps aside to let me pass.
I nod to him, unsure how much he knows about tonight’s dealings and, therefore, unsure if I should kill him too or not.
Time will tell.
I push the door open with my left hand, gripping the edge of it as I do, and as soon as I’ve stepped through, I swing it shut behind me.
The music is still audible through the closed door, but not so loud I need to raise my voice.
“Gentlemen.” I greet the three men who are certainly not.
Their heads turn at the same time, looking up at me from their seated positions around a beat-to-hell poker table in the center of the room.
“You the guy?” one of them asks.
“I’m the guy,” I reply.
The man on the right moves his eyes up to my shoulder-length blond hair.
He starts to slide his chair back.
“What’s your name?” the first guy asks.
But I keep my eyes on the man to my right when I answer. “Hans.”
His face pales, even as he reaches down to his side.
He knows my name.
He knows he needs a weapon.
But he’s not a professional.
I am.
My firearm, silencer and all, clears my holster before his fingers can even close around the gun tucked into his waistband.
Too slow.
The first bullet goes through his forehead.
The second goes through his heart.
The third—I shift my arm to the left—goes through the neck of the man straight across from me as he tries to duck down beneath the table.
The fourth—I move my feet, stepping to the right and angling toward the last man standing, changing the target I present in case he has a gun on me; but the barrel of his gun is still rising as I squeeze my trigger—bores through the bridge of his nose, passing through his brain, before exiting out the back of his skull.
Five seconds after stating my name, all three men are dead.
There’s a gurgle from the man I shot in the neck.
Okay, dead or dying.
I move my position again, striding to the other side of the door, and press my back to the wall.
Silencers don’t actually silence anything. The muted pops won’t be audible out in the main bar, but the bouncer on the other side of the door will have heard them.
I stand still. Eyes on the door, waiting to see if he opens it. If he’s on the side of the dead men.
But the door doesn’t open. The handle doesn’t turn. And there’s no sound of fleeing footsteps.
Huh.
I slide my pistol into my holster and stride across the room. Reaching the table, I lift the duffel bag from below it.
These idiots don’t usually have tracers in their money, but I do a quick sweep of the bag to make sure.
No visible tracers, but a pair of cheap, probably dirty handguns on top of the pile of cash. Would’ve done more good in their hands than in a fucking bag.
I strip all three of their guns, drop the firing pins into the duffel, then drop the rest of the pieces on the floor.
I’m not concerned about fingerprints. If I’m ever brought in by law enforcement, I’ll just blackmail my way out. I have plenty on plenty of officials. Or I’ll die at another assassin’s hands. Either way, it’s not worth the hassle of constantly cleaning up after myself.
Plus, letting people know it’s me is kind of my thing.
Like my name.
Ever since I started down this path, I’ve used my real first name. Because I wanted people to know who they were afraid of. And if she ever heard the whispers, I wanted my sister to know I was coming. That I was trying.
She had the same hair color as me. And wore it the same length. So it stays.
It will always stay.
Because she’s the reason I am what I am.
And she’s the reason there are three fewer worthless souls on this planet tonight.
After taking one stack of bills out, I zip up the duffel and hold the handle at my side.
With silent steps, I approach the door and quickly pull it open.
The bouncer is still there, but he’s moved a few steps up the hallway so his back is no longer directly in front of the door—probably hoping to avoid a stray bullet.
His hands are open and empty at his sides, a smart way to show me he’s not a threat.
He gives me a wary look before glancing past me into the room.
He works down a swallow before speaking. “Looks like they had some sort of argument.”
“Seems so.” I nod. “Probably time for a new coat of paint.”
I toss the stack of bills, and he catches it against his chest.
Then I walk past him. Back down the hall, through the still rowdy bar, and back out the front door.
No one pays attention to the duffel bag low at my side. No one pays attention to the single dude walking out of the bar. No one follows me.
When I’ve passed the first row of vehicles, I push all of the lingering air out of my lungs, dispelling the taste of being in a small room with a discharged firearm. Then I fill my chest with fresh air.
I’m not desensitized to death.
I know each life is important.
But I also know it’s important to end some of them.
I’m not special. I’m just a man. But I’m a man with the means and the will to do what has to be done.
I’m aware the argument could be made that, based on my headcount, I also deserve to die. And I’m not hypocritical enough to argue against that justification. But until I find an opponent capable of ending my life before I can steal theirs, I’m not going to worry about it.
Ahead of me, a figure steps away from the shadows at the base of the streetlamp.
Her hair is pulled up into a messy knot on the top of her head, but even in the dull light, I recognize the violent red color.
She’s dressed to work in black cargo pants and a tight black tank top. And I know if I’d seen her twenty minutes ago, she’d have been sporting several weapons as well.
“That was quick.” Karmine smirks, stopping on the far side of my pickup.
“No comment,” I reply, moving to the tailgate.
She rests her elbows on the raised side of the bed as I lower the tailgate and retrace the steps to put my weapons back in their places.
She raises her brow at my silenced Glock, but she already answered her curiosity.
I wanted to be quick.
Before closing the tailgate, I drop the duffel into the truck bed and shove it so it slides to a stop in front of Karmine.
Moving so I’m opposite her, I lean against my truck the same way. Just two friends chatting in the parking lot after a night at the bar.
But there are three dead bodies inside the bar, so we shouldn’t chat long.
“There’s something…” She taps a blood-red nail against my truck, and it’s like I can see her thinking. “Who’s the girl?”
I blink once. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “How are you such a bad liar?”
I clench my jaw, then huff out my exhale. “She’s my neighbor.”
Karmine’s eyes widen. My answer catches her off guard.
The reaction makes my mouth pull into a half smile. “Nice to see I can still surprise you.”
We met a decade ago. I was ten years into my quest for murderous vengeance, and she was only months into her journey of finding what to do with herself after surviving.
We were both at the same place for the same reason. It was personal for her. Every time is. Just like every kill is for me.
It’s all so fucking personal.
The next time I ran into Karmine at a hit, she had four other women with her. And they were out for blood. So I introduced them to my arms dealer.
And the third time I saw her, she was running a crew fifteen deep. All bad-as-hell women who’d clawed their way to freedom. So when Karmine asked if I’d like to share intel and take on some hits for her, I said yes.
I’d been on my own for so long that it was nice to have someone else do the hunting. Nice to not have to do every damn step on my own. Only they did more than I ever could. They gave the women they found safety. They gave them options.
I was always so focused on destruction, knew I was only ever good for killing.
Karmine’s army is so much more.
And I’m happy to be a weapon for them to wield.
“Can’t say I was expecting the girl next door.” My friend breaks her stunned silence.
“It’s not like that,” I admit, sure she’s jumping to all sorts of wrong conclusions.
“Right.” She drags the word out.
“It’s not. I don’t even talk to her.”
Karmine narrows her eyes, and I press my lips together.
“You were whispering when I called you earlier…” I watch uncomfortably as she puts it together. “Hans, tell me you weren’t in her house.”
“Look,” I start, and I already know I’m gonna sound like a fucking creep. “I’m not doing it to perv on her or anything. I’m just making sure she’s safe.”
“By skulking through her house in the middle of the day? While she’s there?”
“When you say it like that.”
Karmine snorts. “Man, I know you’re not like these assholes.” She gestures her hand toward the bar. “But maybe you should try to spend some more time with normal people. Because you can’t be doing that. You’re good, but she’s gonna catch you. And that’ll go down real bad.”
“I don’t—She doesn’t…” I scrub a hand down my face. “She wasn’t there before. I fell asleep…”
Karmine drowns out my words with her full-body laugh.
After several long seconds, she finally takes a breath, and I level her with a bored look. “You done?”
She brushes a tear away from her eye. “Christ, Hans. You can’t just Goldilocks this girl and expect a happily ever after.”
“Goldi—” I shake my head. “I might be fucked in the head, but I’m not delusional. I know that’s not where my story goes.”
“What? Happiness?” The sad look she gives me makes my stomach hurt.
She knows my past just like I know hers. She knows what weighs on my shoulders. She knows I was too late.
Karmine’s expression softens. “You’ve more than leveled the scales of justice. Shit, you’ve ended enough bad guys to single-handedly populate one of the circles of hell.”
“And that means I win a white picket fence?”
She sighs, having no patience for my self-pity. “It means you can think about, I dunno, maybe not being such a fucking loser. Retire. Get a life. Try talking to the girl you’re stalking. Ask her out.”
“I’m not stalk—” I cut myself off because, by the definition of stalking, I think I probably am. So I change the topic. “Did you just tell me to retire?”
“I mean, not entirely. I still need you around on occasion. But why not go call up The Alliance bros? Throw hands with those fancy fucks. Change up the scenery a bit. You didn’t have us help you save that mafia asshole for nothing. I know you always have a plan.”
I lift a shoulder.
There wasn’t really a grand plan other than wanting to help out those who have helped me. True, The Alliance hadn’t realized they were helping me, considering they were hunting me, but they still helped to dispel human trafficking deals in their territory. And that was helpful to me.
Getting a life debt from Dominic Gonzalez was just a perk.
“You gonna retire?” I ask, deflecting the attention.
Karmine scoffs. “Fuck no. But I’m not as old as you. And, unlike you, I’m still getting some.”
“Bravo,” I say sarcastically.
“Don’t be a dick because you’re jealous. Human interaction is good for mental well-being. I don’t care about your fucked-up backstory; any girl would be lucky to end up with you.” She loosely flaps her hand in my direction. “Assuming they like the ruggedly handsome bad boy type.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime, sport,” she snarks back, then pauses. “I’ve heard some chatter. People looking for you.”
“People are always looking for me.”
“Yeah, but not like this. This sounds close.” Karmine’s voice is serious.
“Noted.”
She’s right, of course. This newest ring of assholes has been more active than ever. And that means they have someone with lots of money funding them.
And it’s all the more reason to leave Cassandra alone. If someone’s after me, I can’t have anyone else around me to catch the shrapnel.
“Alright.” Karmine straightens from the side of the truck, hand on the duffel bag. “You want a cut?” she asks, like she always does.
“I’m good,” I answer the way I always do.
I don’t need it. I already have more money than I could ever spend.
