Page 49

49

Jonathan

I drive out of Barcelona, as fast as I can. As I am broaching the edge of the city, I find myself turning back. Before I know it, I am circling the city like a hawk, round and round like I cannot escape.

It’s not about killing other people. It’s about killing myself.

I have never been read so accurately, and she was not even talking about me. She was talking about herself. She was talking about us.

I want to run but I feel like I am bound in a web stronger than fear and stronger than fate. Even if I drove as fast and as far as I could, she would be there, sticky in my mind.

I am searching for a way out when Thomas calls again. That was fast.

“Please tell me you know who hired the hit, because I am about to go nuclear,” I say.

“I’m actually calling you about something else,” he says.

“Full of surprises today,” I say. Hopefully this surprise does not hurt as much as the last one.

“A job just came in over the network.”

“You really think I have time for another job right now?” I switch lanes three times, even though I do not have a destination.

“ She is the job,” he says. I inhale sharply. “I thought it might be a sort of two-birds, one-stone thing. Earn a little pocket money. Send a message to whoever wants you dead.”

“Who wants her dead?”

“Does it matter? She’s trying to kill you.”

“I suppose not.” I exhale, but I do not have time to think. “I want the job. I don’t want anyone else to take it.”

I end the call. I keep circling Barcelona. I try to come up with a plan. Do I want to hide? Or do I want to be found? I have never had a mark who was chasing me .

I do not want Eva dead, but part of me does want to kill her. It is what I have been doing all along. It is self-destruction in its purest form. I am sorry for making her collateral damage. I am sorry it had to be her, but this is the culmination of a lifetime of murdering myself.

Soon I am driving almost aimlessly, changing lanes at random, traveling in a loop. I cannot think straight. I cannot get a grip on this. Any plan runs like sand through my hands.

I am not sure if I can do this.

I remind myself that she is trying to kill me. I do not have a choice. I am a cold-blooded killer. I am not a romantic. I am not a nice guy. I can murder the person who is trying to murder me.

But there is something about her assignment that bothers me—and not just that someone wants me dead. Something in this scenario does not quite add up. They sent Eva to kill me. They sent her unarmed. That does not sound like a plan; it sounds like suicide.

Maybe they knew there was an attraction? Maybe they thought I would fall in love, get dumb and get fucked. Or maybe…

They did not send her to kill me. She had so many opportunities that she did not take.

They sent her on recon. They sent her to talk to me. They sent her to get me to spill and I did. I told her things I have never told anyone else. I think through all these things. Search my words for things she could use, things they could use, to get to me.

The tires squeal as I spin the car around. I shift gears four times and I steam north, toward Paris.

I told her about my first murder. I remember the way her eyes lit up, not with the tragedy but with the words I used so carelessly:

We had found someone to help us. We were leaving the next day.