Page 16 of Himbo Hitman
Though neither was being poor as fuck, so here we are.
The back gate into Saint Clare’s courtyard suddenly opens, andI jolt to life. I’d been expecting to wait out here for hours, but when St. Clare himself steps out into the street and closes the gate behind him, I straighten.
This is too easy. There’s no fucking way I’m beinghandedmy mark.
I know I’m not going to get a better chance than this, but I don’t reach for my gun because, as weird as it sounds, I almost feel like I’m looking at a celebrity. Not, like, the famous kind. But the kind where you see them on TV or social media enough, and then you see them in real life, and it takes you a second to adjust. Plus, he’s taller than I thought he’d be. Maybe my height, and I don’t know why that catches my interest, but it does.
He walks off, and it suddenly occurs to me that memorizing details is pointless when those details won’t exist soon enough. The bastard doesn’t turn around, just heads for the road, and as much as I want to get it over with, I can’t shoot the guy in the back. There has to be some kind of code about that, right?
Backstabbing totally fine.
Back banging is a no-no.
Ah, unless we’re talking sex. Then the rules are completely different.
I pick up my pace, but he exits the quiet street before I can catch him. I’m not about to shoot him in the middle of all these people either, so I keep following, hoping I get the chance again. It needs to be exactly right.
Where it’s quiet.
Not in the back.
But also not close enough to make out his expression.
Gah. My hands are getting sweaty, and this hoodie is feeling way too hot. It doesn’t help that I have my mask and hood up either, but there are for sure cameras out here, and I’m not going to give them anything. Despite Arlie’s advice, I kept my leering skeleton. I’m not sure why. But this guy was with me for that first hit, and I was okay there, so now it feels sort of like betrayal to ditch it.
We reach another nightclub, and I eye the long line. If St. Claregoes in here, there’s no way I’ll be able to talk my way past the bouncer. Saying “Oh, yeah, hi, I won’t stay long. Only need to put a bullet in the head of the guy you just let in” would sound like I’m making shit up.
Before I can settle in for a long wait, St. Clare turns and walks into the alleyway beside it instead.
Well, fuck.
Again, this iskindaperfect for me. A quick look after him shows it’s deserted and so dark I can barely make him out down there, but that’s part of the problem.
Either he knows I’m following him, and this could be a trap, or he’s looking to get killed, and that raises concerns about his mental health.
There’s no guidebook for this, but surely you can’t kill people with mental health issues either. It has to be some kind of unspoken rule. Maybe I should check him in to therapy first and come back later?
I really should have asked Luther more questions about this guy. Lethal Poison isn’t that far away—I could pop in there and circle back in two to five business days?
Instead of going in through the back of the club, the barely visible form stops. I creep closer to the alleyway entrance and squint into the dark. It looks like he’s leaning against the wall and … looking at the sky.
Jesus. This guy has less self-preservation than I do. At least I have being desperate and pathetic as my excuse. What’s this guy’s deal?
He’s almostbeggingme to shoot him in the head with no witnesses.
Fuck. Okay. I just need to do it.
The drugs and cheating spouse and puppy thing. Yes. Bad. Very bad. I trust Luther, and Luther gave me his name, and really, this is nothing personal. I have no actual beef with this St. Clare guy; I just need to, you know, eat. Make rent. Stop having my sister worry so fucking much.
Okay, new plan. I will kill him,thenwalk away.
I’ll be at the top of my game. Ending on a high. One person debrained and one more hitman off the streets. That’s a fair trade. His life for the lives of all the others I could potentially end. St. Clare is doing Seattle a favor when you think about it.
I try to work myself through some of those child-birthing breathing exercises I’ve seen on TV, but if anything, it only makes my heart race faster.
For the love of Judge Judy, I can do this. She doesn’t take stupidity from anyone, and hesitating here, with my hand tucked under my jacket and gripping my gun, is pretty fucking stupid.
I can do it. For her.
