Page 15 of Himbo Hitman
Are police supposed to give the heads-up about stuff like that? I don’t fucking know.
I tip my head back, looking toward the sky that’s nothing more than deep black, melting into the shadows of the alley. The streetlamp here is blown. The noise from outside muffled. The stench of decay enough to keep any sane person from coming down here.
Something in my chest twinges, and it takes me a second to place the feeling.
I miss Colin.
My annoying, overachieving, always right older brother.
He’d give me the most enjoyable lecture about self-preservation if he could see me now. I can picture the exact way his neck would go an angry red, and concern would pinch the skin between his eyebrows.
Logically, I know I need to head back to Saint Clare’s. Beinghere is a reach, and if they really did have something to do with Colin after all, I’m asking for trouble by being here.
Not-so-logically, my feet refuse to move, and this nagging instinct holds strong, telling me to get answers. Making decisions when I’m frustrated is futile, but at least I’m being consistent.
That prickly feeling kicks back up, stronger this time, and I know it’s time to move.
But as I have that thought, a shadowed figure steps into the alleyway with me.
CHAPTER FIVE
PERRY
The factI’ve already been set free to fly solo feels like some kind of work insurance breach, but here I am, name in my pocket, research done, with a whole few hours of training from Arlie under my belt.
When Luther handed the name over today, just like the other two times, it was with a muttered “quick and easy one for you.” If all my hits are quick and easy, I might have this thing made.
I bet if contract killers had a union, there’s no way I’d be let loose already. Good for me though, I guess. Arlie said I’m a good shot; she’s given me a laundry list of tips that I’ve remembered at least three of, and tucked into the back of my jeans, under my fake leather jacket—I really,reallyneed to do something nice for Elle after all these supplies—is a ghost gun similar to Arlie’s.
No fingerprints, no serial numbers, no worries.
I pull out my bright pink flip phone, whack it twice with the heel of my palm to get the display to work, and check the time. I’m lurking in the shadows outside of this nightclub, and I won’t be able to hang around too much longer before I’m spotted.
With any luck, this won’t take more than one bullet, considering how impressed Arlie was by my aim. The first few shots went fucking haywire, but once I got used to the weight and the movement, there wasn’t a single thing I couldn’t hit.
I’m killer with a pew pew.
There’s one problem though.
The last two jobs I went on, I ended up with cold feet. Worse, even.Frozenfeet. I’d lifted the gun, looked my mark in the eyes, and all the fear and panic that flashed through them hit me right in the chest like they’d fired their own weapon.
I couldn’t do it.
So with an apology and a pinky swear, I sent them both into hiding.
It felt like a win-win-win. They get to live, I get paid, and Luther trusts I’m a capable hitman and gives me more jobs.
Unfortunately, there are only so many times I can get away with that, and tonight, I’ve made myself the promise that I’ll do it. I’ll fire my gun for the first time. And I’ll kill a guy.
I’ll kill St. Clare.
He owns a hotshot nightclub—the same nightclub I’m watching—in downtown Seattle, and lucky for me, he’s recently had a feature written up on him, so I know exactly who I’m after. Conventionally good-looking with that blond hair, smoldering eyes combo, and then add to that, he’s probably rolling in money. It’s ninety-nine percent likely that he trades drugs and kicks puppies and cheats on his wife.
And yes, my statistics come from mafia movies, but the whole art imitating life must have started somewhere, and I swear when I tilt my head just right, the photos of him have red eyes. Which means he’s evil. I don’t make the rules, but if he’s evil and I kill him, I’m arguably a hero.
Now,thatwould have to make Margot proud of me.
And if I can’t kill him, then I’m out. No more wasting my time or dishing out pinky swears. I’ll be paid for the first two jobs any day now, and then I’ll be paida lotfor this one, and that should be enough to get me by for a bit. No one can maintain a hit-a-night average anyway, and having three hundred and sixty-five deaths on my conscience wasn’t one of my resolutions this year.
