Page 42 of Kill for a Kiss

I pace between bloodstains and broken locks in the dead hours, eyes burning from hours spent dissecting more of Clo’s paper trail. She’s smart, enough to keep names and addresses out of the files. The drugs move without serial numbers, her men rendered to codenames, and Kys slithers through ghost corporations, right up to the gates of that mansion. But every transaction is wrapped in shadow. And shadows are where I live.

Past midnight, I find a dockworker, whose identity took too long to find in Clo’s files. The greedy bastard’s my next kill, careless with his paperwork and worse with his mouth. He tries to talk his way out of it when my wire’s already coiled around his neck like a noose made just for him. I told myself I wouldn’t pull until I get something useful.

But I can’t wait. The snap’s instant, tearing the wire with the way I’m seething as his body collapses, lifeless. It should be satisfying. Except it isn’t. Because the idiot didn’t know enough. Because Elle’s still in that fucking house.

So I keep going. The warehouse takes all night to find. It’s hidden in the back of the industrial district, a gray building among many lined like tombstones. The shipments must come through here. Before I move in, I trigger an EMP that hits the local grid with a pulse of silence. Everything in that doomed warehouse goes quietly dark.

I enter silently at night, sneaking into a back corner door. The first man I see is supposed to be guarding it. He doesn’t screamwhen my blade catches him under the jaw, a whisper of red slices across his throat.

The next one is standing by a locked room. He’s larger, a mountain of a man. But with his size, his movements are slow. He swings first. I duck low, twist into his center, and jam my knife straight into his side. He stiffens, garbling a curse. I let him drop at my feet.

I sneak deeper into the building. That terrible smell of chemicals lingers in the chilly air. I follow it, every step dragging me closer to the source.

Another man stumbles into view, phone pressed to his ear. He doesn’t even get a word out before I silence him with a quick strike to the throat and a sharp, hard twist of his neck. He collapses, his body twitching as it hits concrete. That’s three.

I ghost through the aisles of crates, floor slick under my shoes, steel shelving stacked with shrink-wrapped Kys. The drug dulling Elle’s mind, stripping her voice, making her docile. Far too trusting.

The thought of it—of her sipping that poison with her wonderful smile—floods my vision red. I want them all dead.

But then I hear a sharp, heavy click to my side, where my head snaps, showing my mask. “Hands where I can see ‘em,” a voice in the dark rasps, his gun pointed at me.

I comply partially. One hand lifts. The other clutches my knife. He thinks I’m surrendering. He’s wrong. Dead fucking wrong. The second his weight shifts, with the smallest hesitation in his stance, I strike forward and close the gap.

The gun fires, but I lift his arm away from me. Still, the damage is done. There was a deafening roar, a warning signal. But it’s too late for him or anyone else he’s warned. I’m already below the shot, already moving. My blade slides beneath his ribs, the resistance fleeting before muscle gives way. His gun clatters to the ground.

That’s four. But the shot draws the rest of them. Frantic voicesyell. Heavy footsteps thunder. Towards me. I stand there, waiting. I want them to see me. To see my mask.

“Shit! It’s the goblin!”

Good. Iwantthem afraid. It makes them careless in their desperate act to survive. But they won’t survive me.

From my belt, I unclip a pair of smoke grenades. Then toss one left, one right. They clatter and hiss to life, spreading out thick smoke. Visibility drops. Panic spikes. Footsteps scatter in the haze, breaking formation.Perfect. I move.

One rounds the corner through the smoke, weapon raised but aimed at nowhere near me. My mask lets me breathe through the smoke, and my eyes are trained to see through it. I’m already in motion, ducking and weaving, the blade flashing. It buries into his throat with a wetcrack. He gurgles and drops.

Another charges me from the side, sloppy and too loud. I grab his arm mid-lunge, wrench it sideways with a satisfyingpop, and slam my blade up under his ribcage. He collapses against me. I let him slide down like a bag of meat.

Five. Six. The warehouse erupts in screams, gunfire, and chaos. I’ve always been more of the stealthy type. But the fire in my veins wants out.

A spray of bullets peppers the steel shelves behind me. I roll behind cover, a breath from death, fingers scraping the concrete for the discarded weapon.

My eyes scan for it, and as soon as I find it, I reach for it. The flailing gunman runs out of ammo by the time he reaches me. So all it takes is a quick raise, aim, and fire, clean and straight through the bastard’s left eye.

Seven. Panic floods the room, much worse than the lab’s bastards. These warehouse men are messy, coming at me blind and dumb. And they’re delusional, if they think they can take me down. They yellover each other, firing into the shadows.

I’m tired of the mess, so I throw them off my scent as the smoke clears. I shut the lights out. Force them to either run afraid like cowards, or try to find me in the dark.

From the shadows, I stalk them like prey. My mask grins through the dying smoke, glinting in demonic red. Through more and more pathetic attempts from these blundering men, my blade cuts and my gun pops. More bodies fall.

When I spot a few cowering in a corner, I aim for them. But I must’ve lost count, because when I pull the trigger, there’s only an empty click. I drop the gun, drawing my blade again.

Another turns to run.Too late. I’m already behind him, slicing across his hamstring, then up, fast and cruel, opening him like cloth.

The rest crumble easily from my blade, and from my faster fists and swifter feet. Bodies thud in the ominous noise. They should’ve known they never stood a chance. Not when I’m this enraged, fueled by Elle, who’s still waiting for me.

When the last broken scream dies out, the warehouse is still. My breath steadies. My soles crunch over scattered casings and blood. I step toward the table at the center of it all. When my eyes land on it, it’s clear it’s the throneroom to Clo’s empire. There’shundredsof packets. No doubt full of Kys, stacked and labeled with more codenames.

After all the fighting and the takedowns—with no sleep and only rage—I can’t breathe anymore. I’mshaking. My hands are trembling. The blade slips from my hand. My eyes keep scanning the piles of Kys. This time, it feels frantic. So does my heartbeat. Because Elle drinksthis. She trustswrongbecause ofthis.