Page 140 of Himbo Hitman
We’re about an hour in when Tommy stops suddenly.
“What is it?”
Without a word, he reaches under his jacket and pulls out a gun. Then hands it to me. “Just in case.”
That makes my fear spike. “Just so you know, I’m a terrible shot.”
“Let’s hope you don’t need to use it, then.” He points at a building across from us. It’s a warehouse with large roller doors and high windows so grimy you can’t see through them. “I think I saw something in there.”
“Okay. Let’s check it out.” I’m trying to be confident, but it’s not working.
We cross the street and creep closer. Tommy finds a side door and tries it, but it’s locked tight. We keep circling the building until we find another one, and this time when he turns the handle, the door unlatches and swings open on creaky hinges.
His sweeping hand is an invitation. “After you, princess.”
The pet name is almost enough to insist he goes first, but I’m not a fucking coward, and while this might be stressful and out of the ordinary, I’m not about to show him that I’m creeped out. So I go first, stepping into the narrow, dark hallway, and when Tommy follows and closes the door behind us, the whole room goes black.
“Got a flashlight?” I ask, ignoring my hammering heart.
He flips on a tiny one and uses his palm to dim the light. His brightly unfocused eyes meet mine. “Spooky.”
“Can you focus, please?”
He cracks a smile and takes the lead. “There’s nothing to be worried about. I’m used to skulking about in the dark. It’s where I do my best work.”
I eye his shadowy profile. “I thought it would be easier to kill someone in good lighting.”
“Me? Nah, I don’t kill anyone. That’s Arlie and Ever’s job.”
“It sounds like Ever really likes it.”
“You could say that. He’s less of a hitman, though, and more of a …”
“Yeah?”
“A butcher.”
My stress levels spike. “What?”
“He’s the guy you call in when you don’t want someone dead, just mentally scarred for the rest of their lives.”
Even the idea of that turns my stomach. “And he’s alone with Perry?”
“Don’t worry, we’re all in it for the pay. Everyone who’s good at their job knows not to do it for free.”
Then what do they call this?
Somehow, that doesn’t make me any less worried. Not even a little bit. I put slightly more distance between us. “And what do they call you?”
“If I bothered to give myself an alias, it would have been Loot.”
Loot? “So you …”
“Am a thief. Priceless goods are my specialty. I know exactly how to get what I want when people least expect it.”
The momentary fake safety I feel over not being with a professional killer is hard to hang on to when he says things like that. “And what do you want?”
“Right now?” He shrugs. “To find your brother.”
