I find the target in a rusted-out bar on the outskirts of the Warrens.
He’s loud, drunk, boasting to anyone who’ll listen about his “deal of a lifetime.” Probably selling weapons to the wrong side.
Doesn’t matter.
What matters is he’s marked.
What matters is he breathes in and out, and someone out there’s paying good credits to make sure he stops.
I step inside, letting the door creak shut behind me.
A few heads turn. Then turn away fast.
Smart.
I cross the room slow, deliberate. Every stride calculated. Every muscle ready.
The guy sees me too late.
Recognition flares in his bloodshot eyes, and he fumbles for the blaster at his hip.
Amateur move.
I shoot him in the kneecap before he clears the holster.
He screams. Collapses hard against the filthy floor.
The bar goes silent.
Good.
I crouch down beside him, pressing the muzzle of my pistol against his sweat-slick temple.
“This is how it ends,” I say low, deadly.
“N-no—please—” he babbles.
I pull the trigger.
One shot. Clean. Final.
The body twitches once. Then stills.
I stand, holster the pistol, and walk out the door without looking back.
Another ghost for the streets to swallow.
Another job done.
Another few minutes I don't have to think about her.
But I do.
Every time.
No matter how many bodies hit the ground.
No matter how much blood soaks my hands.
