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Chapter 1
TIERNEY
“Fuck!” I screamed, cold fire flaring through me as the jagged glass sliced across my stomach. Yet another thing that didn’t go to plan tonight.
“They sent a woman!” he exclaimed, freezing for a split second.
It was quick, but it created enough of an opening for me to counter, swinging my foot into his chest, knocking him into the dining table behind him, still elaborately laid out for a romantic dinner for two, one he would not be attending.
I quickly reached for the dinner plate on my right, slamming it against the table and smashing it into several pieces.
I could easily have reached for one of the daggers sheathed on my thigh, but this felt poetic, if not a little petty.
With one swift motion, I sliced the jagged edge across his throat, my left hand clamped over his mouth was more to hold him in place than anything else. The cut was deep, his death quicker than he deserved.
My nose wrinkled as the coppery tang filled the air. Blood sprayed across my face and I reveled in the victory of its warmth.
I pulled my black long-sleeved shirt off, using what clean bits I could find to wipe the blood from my face.
“Shit,” I murmured to the empty room.
This was exactly why I preferred a clean, quick kill. Not that I minded violence or even blood for that matter, but the clean-up was a bitch.
I stepped into the small bathroom, rolling my eyes at the sight of the colorless room. White walls, cabinets, white towels, not a speck of color in the room. On the bright side, that would make it easier to see any blood I missed.
I turned the water on slowly, avoiding the harsh spray that would send red splattering over the pristine surface. I washed my face, chest, and hands, wincing as I cleaned the gash in my stomach. It wasn’t as deep as I first thought, but the fact it happened at all was still a problem.
Another second, half a heartbeat and it would have been another of my trademarked clean kills. My hand had already been on my thigh, reaching for the dagger when he turned. That split second derailed everything.
He stumbled and fell, spilling his drink, his glass striking the table’s edge, breaking it. He lunged for me, slicing me with the broken edge.Bastard.
Pulling the straps of my tank top down over my shoulders, I pushed the fabric down until it bunched around my waist, twisting it into a small knot, pulling the rest of it taut and putting as much pressure onthe open wound as I could stand. That would have to do until I got home.
I looked in the mirror, searching for a speck of blood, for anything that appeared out of place. Black pants and a matching black sports bra looked fine; the tank tied into a makeshift bandage looked almost cute if not a bit dorky; but not suspicious.
Stepping back into the room, I picked up the pieces of glass stained with my blood, wrapping them in my blood-soaked shirt, careful not to cut myself and did a quick sweep for any other traces I had been here.
I pulled the tiny vial of pink liquid from my pocket and sprayed over the few areas I was certain the blood droplets were mine; the enzymes would degrade the blood and rapidly break it down. Even if the authorities took the sample, they wouldn’t be able to get my DNA from it.
Satisfied with my clean-up efforts, I walked through the kitchen, hearing a key turn in the front door as I opened the back door. I had timed this night to the second, planning to be gone a good ten minutes before the lady of the house returned.
Well, that fucking sucked. I grumbled internally, not at all happy about the interruption to my perfectly planned schedule.
Tonight had been a comedy of errors, each more ridiculous than the last. I had half a mind to find out who ordered this kill and end them out of spite.
A piercing scream rent the air, my footsteps quickening in response. I hurried through the copse of trees that lined the adjacent empty lot, cutting down a narrow alleyway before turning onto the main road.
I finally released my captive breath as I slung my leg over the seat and settled onto my motorcycle, wincing as the sudden movement pulledat the gash across my stomach. The ride home was going to suck. The iron horse roared to life as it eased into traffic.
Despite the ache in my side, I took the scenic route home, driving the extra eight miles out of my way to cross the Skyway Bridge. People traveled from all over the world to photograph this local landmark, but my only interest was the deep churning waters of the bay beneath.
As I reached the midpoint of the span, I flung my arm out, sending my ruined shirt and the shards of glass sailing over the edge towards their watery resting place.
Both my bike and my racing heart finally slowed as I turned onto the long, winding driveway that led home. Tucked up in the hills overlooking the lake, this house was my sanctuary.
I didn’t have any family, and I didn’t want any friends; attachments were nothing more than a nuisance, a way to weaken me and I didn’t do “weakness”.
Pulling into the garage, I rolled to a stop and dragged myself from the bike, groaning, when I noticed the drops of blood dotting the gas tank. Swiping my hand across, I removed the visible blood, but made a mental note to scrub the bike in the morning.