I open the office door and walk down the hallway, not hiding the sound of my footsteps. I walk toward the living room where I find them making out on the couch like horny teenagers. The kisses are sloppy, and from the way he’s manhandling the poor woman, there is no way she’s going to get off tonight from him.
I step into the light, but he still doesn’t notice me. However, the woman’s eyes shoot up to me. She shrieks out of surprise, but then her eyes are running up my body appreciatively. She’d rather I be fucking her than the schmuck she’s straddling.
“Get up,” I say calmly and firmly, keeping the anger I feel out of my voice.
The woman scampers off, listening obediently. The man only slowly turns his head.
“I said. Get. Up.”
He swallows, and I know the options he’s considering in his head. But he’s an amateur, and I’m a skilled assassin.
He reaches for his gun, but I grab it, empty the magazine, and toss it to the floor.
His eyes grow big, his pupils dilate, his pulse beats rapidly in his throat as the fear spreads. He’s defenseless. He has nothing to match my skill. Basically, he’s my bitch, and he knows it.
His bottom lip trembles as he considers his next words, but none come out. I’m surprised the man hasn’t pissed himself yet.
“Who are you?” the woman asks, licking her bottom lip. Apparently, I’m not scary enough to her. She thinks she can seduce me with her good looks. But she’s as fake as this apartment—her curves don’t come naturally. Neither does her bleach blonde hair or her pointed fingernails.
I turn my attention to her. My heated gaze ponders all the ways I could fuck her. She might be good in bed, but there are a million reasons I won’t fuck her. The main one being that I’m in love with another woman.
“Go to the bedroom,” I say to her.
Her smile curves up, revealing her wine-stained teeth and lips. Her breath catches as I stare at her before she obediently walks toward the bedroom.
With her gone, I can focus on my main task.
“What—what do you want?” the man asks, his voice trembling as he speaks. He knows exactly what I want.
I take my time strolling around the sofa between us as I casually sit in the single chair facing him, acting like I’m about to negotiate with him. There is no way that’s going to happen, though. I’m in control, not him, and I know exactly how his story ends.
“I—I have money. You can have whatever you want.”
“I don’t want your money.”
I adjust my watch, completely bored with this conversation, this task, this world.
I was hired to kill this man. For months now, I’ve been taking odd jobs like this to soothe my killer instinct. To get a little thrill, a little bit of danger in my life. Something I used to get working for Enzo Black, but the Black empire has grown so big, so powerful that no one dares to stand up to him. No one has threatened them in months. The job has become boring and unsatisfying.
But I’m finding that these jobs, hunting and killing killers, is even less exciting.
“Mr. Reynolds, thank you for helping me realize something,” I say, standing like I’m about to end a business meeting.
His eyes fill with hope, and I can see the relief filled smile stretch over his lips.
“What’s that?”
I crack my neck casually. His life means nothing to me. This is what I do. I hunt, I protect, I kill.
I pull out my gun and aim it at his heart.
“I’ve realized that you are going to be my last job.” And then I squeeze the trigger, watching him drop to a puddle of blood on the floor as his heart squirts out blood.
I walk out the door before his date for the night comes out and realizes what happened. I’m not worried that she’s going to report me to the police. I don’t care that my prints are all over the condo. The police are no threat to me.
I take the elevator down, walk out to my motorcycle and start it up. This is definitely my last job. I don’t need the money, I only do it for the thrill, and the thrill is gone.
My phone buzzes, most likely Adrian, the man who got me this job. I pull it out to answer him when I see the message come through. I’m already getting sent another job because I’m the best hitman. That’s all this town sees me as.
They don’t know that killing people doesn’t even touch the depths of my capabilities.
They don’t know exactly how evil my heart is.
They don’t know what I’ve done, what I’m about to do.
I consider just deleting the message without reading it, but the way it starts catches my attention.
Hitman Needed.
I don’t need you to find the man who made a death threat. I’ll find him.
I don’t need you to kidnap him. I can do that too.
I don’t even need you to actually kill him.
All I need you to do is say that you killed him if the need should arise. Just be there so I can say I didn’t kill him.
You have to have a record. And you have to have killed before.
I’ll pay one hundred thousand.
—Huntress
I read the message three times before I accept that I’m not dreaming. This is my chance for payback, for redemption, for revenge.
Huntress.
It’s been years since I’ve called her huntress. I don’t think I’ve called her that since we were teenagers. And yet, she’s using it here to hide her identity.
Or she’s calling out to me? Hoping I’ll be the one to answer her ad?
Not likely, since she hates my guts.
But this is too good an opportunity to pass up.
I kick my foot down, starting up my motorcycle as I text back: Accepted.
Then I slip the phone into my pocket, instead of deleting the message like I should. I keep it, knowing I’ll want to reread the message over and over again as a plan forms in my head.
I shouldn’t have accepted. I should stay far away from my huntress. She’s destroyed me before, and there is a good chance she’ll do it again.
But this time, things are different. This time, I won’t give her my heart. This time, I plan on being the one who wins.
3
Liesel
Only one man responded to my message—unusual.
As shocking as it may seem to some people, this isn’t my first time hiring a hitman. And only getting one response isn’t typical, not in a town like this.
We are supposed to meet for coffee in SoHo. It’s a trendy third-wave coffee shop that is almost always standing room only, so plenty of people to ensure neither of us is in any danger.
I’m not worried about being in any danger regardless. We could be meeting in a back alley alone, and I still wouldn’t be afraid to meet him, whoever he is.
Fear is something that I no longer feel. My fear was taken from me years ago.
We are supposed to meet at ten o’clock.
I purposefully show up ten minutes late. I don’t like to wait; I’m not a patient woman. And if he’s not willing to wait ten minutes, then he’s not the man for the job.
My heels click on the tile floor as I walk to order my drink—a coffee, black. I have no need for extra calories in the form of sugar or milk. Only once I have my coffee in hand do I turn to look for the man I’m meeting.