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CHAPTER FIVE

PERRY

The fact I’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, really need 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. Frozen feet. 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, that would 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 paid a lot for 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.

Though neither was being poor as fuck, so here we are.

The back gate into Saint Clare’s courtyard suddenly opens, and I 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 being handed my 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. Clare goes 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 is kinda perfect 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 almost begging me 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, then walk 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.

I give myself a mental butt slap and walk into the alley. It takes a minute for St. Clare to spot me. Something about his shadowy posture goes stiff as I close the distance between us. Close enough to face him but not close enough to know the exact moment he panics.

I can do this.

“Who are you?” he asks in a deep voice that plucks up the hairs on my arms.

I can do this.

“What do you want?”

I can do this. I can do this.

My grip on the gun is too tight, but I cock it, then lift it into my line of sight. This is totally fine. I’ve played Call of Duty . Fortnite . I’ll shoot him, and he’ll go all holographically translucent, and then I’ll skip away and get the 11:47 p.m. bus home.

St. Clare’s hands inch into the air. “I don’t have any money on me.”

Lies. He’s probably got money and guns and a pocketful of party favors. He probably lures women into his club before having his frisky way with them.

“Put the gun?—”

I pulse the trigger, first one going wide, but the second hits, and St. Clare drops to the ground.

The chick-et is quieter than I was expecting, and it takes me a second to realize it’s because my sharp cry drowned it out .

“Well, fuck .”

I should probably keep my voice down, but fuck. I did it. I actually fucking shot someone. This is the point where I pick up my shells, turn around, and walk the fuck away. It’s done now. No regrets. No worries.

Akuna Ma-ta-tas. Still weirds me out that Disney was singing about titties, but the message applies.

I turn for the street, half expecting a row of police officers with their guns out, and I’m shocked that no one heard that or reacted or seems to even care.

Shit. I think I just got away with murder.

I’m about to put the safety on the gun and tuck it back away into my pants before I make my getaway when a long, painful groan comes from behind me.

My heart sinks.

He’s still alive.

Because of course he is.

I turn my back on the street and head back in that depressing direction.

St. Clare rolls over as I reach him, bleeding heavily from the ear, hand pressed to it to stem the flow, breathing harder and faster than I was when I was following him. He might not be dead, but hey, I got close. A couple of inches to the left and he’d be trying to catch brain right now.

“Sorry,” I explain, torn between helping him with the bleeding or shooting him again. “I was aiming for your head. I’m not a very good shot.”

“Fuck you!”

“Wow, talk about a hostile work environment,” I mutter. “Look, if you hold still, this will be over quickly. It’s a minor setback. We can do it.” My eyes catch the blood staining the cement behind him. “Though I do wish you didn’t bleed all over the street. That’s going to be a bitch to clean up.”

His breathing has turned to a heavy pant. Probably from the pain, I guess. “An inconvenience? You’re trying to kill me.”

“Shh …” I glance down the end of the alleyway. “Keep your vo ice down. I can’t afford to be caught. My sister says I wouldn’t do well in jail.”

“You can’t … What the fuck is happening …”

Considering he was close to losing his head, I can understand his confusion. “Look, I should probably get this over with. I hear it won’t hurt if I shoot you straight in the head. Or was it the chest? Shit, I’m only new at this.” I raise the gun, alternating between which area to shoot as I rack my brain to remember. Given I tried the head last time and it’s hurting a hell of a lot, maybe the chest?

“Wait! Don’t I get last words?”

Shit. He’s right. “How rude of me. Of course. Right. How do we do this? Ah … God?” I give the bleeding man an uneasy smile. “It’s been a while,” I explain. “St. Clare needs, umm … safe passage to … heaven? That doesn’t sound right?—”

“What are you doing?”

“I know I’m not a priest, but I’m doing the best I can here.”

“I said last words , not last rites .”

“Oh …” It dawns on me that he wants to be the one to say something. “Go on, then.”

“You know what? Just kill me.”

I perk up. “Can I?”

“No!” he snarls. “Jesus, what is wrong with you?”

“Hey, you’re the one with a gunshot wound, so should you really be asking that question?”

Pain spasms across his face, and when he pulls his hand away, the blood staining it is bright red. It’s still bleeding. A lot. If I was lucky, the wound would finish the job for me, but I’m not lucky, and as each second ticks by, I’m becoming increasingly worried that I won’t finish things either.

I let out a frustrated growl, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, careful not to poke myself in the eye with the gun. “Why can’t you be dead already?”

He makes a choking nose. “Am I supposed to apologize for that?”

“It would make me feel at least a little better, if I’m honest.”

“You shot me in the fucking ear! ”

“And I already apologized for that.” I pace a few steps away and back again, trying to find that same pump-up speech about puppies and … and …

Shit, now he’s sweating. And looking pale.

I could end all this by ending him.

I could do it.

Except I really, really can’t.

I’m so fucking angry with myself when I duck down, yank his jacket from his shoulders, and turn to his shirt instead.

“The fuck—” St. Clare tries to slap my hands away. “—you doing?”

“I need your shirt.”

“Fuck off.”

I go for his buttons again, and again, he slaps my hands away. I hit his back, and he shoves me, and before I know it, we’re fucking wrestling against the pavement as I try to get his shirt off and he tries to stop me.

“I’m trying to …” I pant, holding off a hit to the head. “Help you.”

“You shot me!”

I belt his shoulder. “Why are you so hung up on that?”

“Hung up? It happened a few minutes ago.” He sends a strong kick to my thigh, but I grab his leg with the hand holding my gun and manage to pin both his wrists to his chest with the other. We’re both panting, both glaring at each other, and he’s looking really worse for wear now.

“I need your shirt so I can tie it around your head. To stop the bleeding. They do it in movies all the time.”

He’s still glaring, slightly shaking, breathing an uneven mess as he slowly nods. I’m half expecting him to attack when I slowly release my hold on him, but he doesn’t, and I take it as a good sign.

I set the safety and tuck my gun back into my pants before going for his buttons again. He lets me this time. He doesn’t say anything, and the lack of conversation is starting to make things really, really awkward. I’ve never undressed a man before, and sure this might be a life-or-death situation, but I’m not sure that makes it any easier.

“Why are you sneaking around a dark alley anyway?” I ask him, tugging the shirt from his shoulders. “I couldn’t not take a shot when you went to the trouble of setting it all up for me.”

He doesn’t answer, and I try not to hold it against him.

“You really made this more difficult than it had to be, you know? If you’d just let me kill you …”

If anything, his glare gets glarier.

At least he lowers his hand when I lift the shirt, and his cringe of pain as I set it in place gives me a quick break from his death stare.

I should probably tell him I have no clue what I’m doing, but it doesn’t seem right to freak him out anymore. So I do what I can, hope it’s enough, and once I’ve got the thing tied tight to his head … I make the mistake of looking down at him.

His blond hair is in bloody tufts near his ear and chaotically spiked where I’ve tied the shirt. His eyes are confused and wary and scared and full of hatred all at once. But the photos and article didn’t do him justice. There’s a something around him that he doesn’t need a leering skeleton mask to produce.

“You can go now,” he grits out.

I’m about to do exactly that before I remember that I can’t let him waltz off into the night. “Actually, there’s one more thing.”

He looks ready to hit me again.

“Have you ever heard of a pinky swear?”