Hector's laugh emerged cold, mirthless. "I trained you perfectly. Broke you down and rebuilt you exactly as ordered. You remember those early days, mijo? When you'd cry yourself to sleep every night?"
My jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. "Fuck you."
"You stopped crying eventually," Hector continued, pride in his voice making my skin crawl. "That was when I knew we were getting somewhere. When the tears stopped and the real work began."
I remembered. God, I remembered. Hector waking me at all hours, throwing me into training scenarios without warning. Hector holding my head underwater until my lungs burned, teaching me to "embrace the panic." Hector making me memorize every bone in the human body by breaking each one on a medical skeleton, over and over until I could recite them in my sleep.
Hector had been the architect of my evolution from traumatized child to perfect killer.
"Lucky for both of us, I'm a quick study," I said.
"Quicker than most. But I'm starting to wonder if you're slipping. Getting sentimental in your old age."
"I'm thirty-two."
"Ancient in our business," Hector replied. "Most don't live past thirty."
We lapsed into silence as Hector parked two blocks from Vincent's building. Dawn broke, sky transitioning from black to deep blue. Vincent would be up soon, starting his morning routine with the plants.
My chest tightened at the thought of Vincent's morning ritual playing out with Hector watching. It crawled under my skin, invasive in a way my own surveillance never had. Like I was betraying Vincent by letting someone else witness those private moments.
Which was completely fucked up. I was supposed to kill the man, not protect his conversations with houseplants.
"Here," Hector said, handing me a rifle case. "We'll set up on the east roof. Good sightline to the target's kitchen and bedroom."
My usual spot. He'd done his homework.
"I have a better location," I lied. "Northwest corner building. Less exposed."
Hector studied me. "Show me."
The northwest building was actually decent, just not my preferred one. The angle was slightly off, making precision shots more challenging, but it would do while I figured out how to escape this nightmare.
I assembled my rifle, hyper-aware of Hector's critical gaze.
"Still using the Remington?" he asked, setting up his own weapon.
"It works for me," I replied, adjusting my scope.
Hector snorted. "Sentimental. Didn't I teach you better?"
"It's reliable," I said flatly.
Hector made a noncommittal sound, peering through his scope. "Target's apartment is still dark."
"He gets up at six." The words tumbled out automatically before I could stop them. I clamped my mouth shut, cursing internally. Too familiar. Too invested.
Hector's sideways glance burned cold, packed with judgment. "You've certainly memorized his schedule."
"It's called being fucking thorough," I countered, jaw tightening. "Something you pounded into me for twenty years."
Hector lowered his rifle. "And is that why you've been seeing him for therapy? Thoroughness?"
Ice slid down my spine. "Frankie told you."
"Frankie didn't have to tell me anything. I do my own research. Interesting approach, getting him to psychoanalyze you. What's the endgame? Stockholm syndrome?"
"It's called building trust," I said, the lie tasting weak on my tongue. "Getting close to assess potential complications."
