Page 1 of Grit & Glamour
Chapter One
Good girls don't hire assassins, luckily I was raised by the worst.
I stare hard at the eyes of my reflection as they look back at me from the dark screen of my laptop filled with accusation. Well, it’s my—bought cheap with cash—leave no paper trail—to be destroyed as soon as I finish here—laptop. My real laptop is safely tucked away at home, with no messy search history on ways to get rid of people.
I swallow past the lump in my throat and switch the laptop on. I've already prepared everything on the device, ready for this moment. All I need to do is go through with it. I have to do this. It's the only way. I pull up the site using the instructions I'd gained from a trusted source. Well, mostly trusted anyway. The site loads, flickering to life on my screen. It's clean, really quite professional looking, honestly. Problem solvers they like to call themselves. Efficient, priced high, but they have the team, background, and quality to match it. They’re the best. Or so they claim.
The kind of people to boast about their skill at killing others are now my only hope for survival. Why did I have to be born into a life this steeped in shit?
I click to open up an email—the untraceable kind—and slowly type in the message, giving them all the possible information they may need to complete the job. Schedules, when they'd be alone, their car registration number. I make sure to attach photos, too. Luckily, I have access to plenty of them. I decide to send the payment using the cryptocurrency first, getting that out of the way, before switching back to the email draft page. The price of a life is lower than I expected, though thank god I'm not trying to take out a political target. The cost on those go so much higher.
Fuck. Am I really doing this?
My breathing is hard, and I struggle to keep my composure. I can feel the cold sweat beginning to bead all over my skin, my hands trembling above the keypad in front of me. I have to stop this. I can't show any outward sign of nervousness or cause suspicion; nobody can suspect me. At the mental reminder, I take a few deep breaths and try to calm myself. I hover the mouse over the button and will myself to press send.
The second I click that button, I won't be able to take this back. Without this information, they can't perform the hit. This is the last chance to back out. My last chance to quit. My thoughts flicker to him, and I know there's no other choice. Freewill in this situation is only an illusion. It’s live or die. Kill or be killed.
I click the button to hit send and watch as the email whooshes away, and with it, a piece of me that I know I'll never get back.
And there’s no question it’s worth it.
For him.
