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It had been a long day.

A long, frustrating day.

It should’ve ended hours ago, right outside Patrick Marrion’s dorm, with Agent Knox lying dead on the pavement.

I’d had the perfect plan—a gun and a clean escape route. All I had to do was pull the trigger and put a bullet in both Knox and her little friend’s heads and walk away.

I’d planned every detail, every step. The route back to the warehouse was mapped in my head, so perfectly thought out that I barely needed to think at all. After Knox, Yates would be next. Half the bounty would already be mine by then, and I could take my time with him. No rush. No pressure. Just fun.

I had pictured it in my mind a thousand times. Maybe I’d carve him up, see if he bled slow. Maybe I’d find out what kind of sounds he made when he begged.

But first, Knox.

I’d been parked across the street, waiting. The FBI arrived just as I expected, but Yates wasn’t with her. Instead, some other woman had shown up alongside her. That wasn’t part of the plan, but it didn’t matter. I could adjust. I could be flexible.

They walked into the dorm, leaving me in the Tacoma, my fingers resting on the grip of my gun. I knew what would happen next. They’d come out the same way they’d walked in. I’d slide out of the truck, blend in with the students, and hit Knox in the back as I passed her.

Simple. Clean. A tap to the spine, a second to the skull. She wouldn’t even have time to process.

Before the other woman could respond, I’d take her down too.

And just like that, I’d be one step closer to collecting my payday.

It started unfolding just as I imagined…

The pair stepped out of the building, chatting and completely ignorant of my presence. I’d slipped out of the truck, stuffing the gun in my pocket, and approached them. Knox was standing at the bottom of the steps, unscrewing the cap of a bottle and tipping it over, pouring vodka onto the grass like it wasn’t worth drinking.

That made me laugh a little. All this time chasing her, and here she was, wasting good alcohol.

I took another step closer, my fingers tightening on the grip. One more step.

I was right there.

I could already feel the warmth of her blood on my hands?—

Then the doors burst open, and the sidewalk became a river of bodies as a crowd of students flooded out of the surrounding buildings, moving in waves, talking, laughing, blocking my shot before I could even react.

Too many people.

Too many eyes.

The moment was gone. Vanished.

I’d kept moving, walking straight past her, shoving my shoulder against hers just to feel it. Warmth.

She didn’t even notice me. That was almost better than shooting her.

Almost.

But it didn’t matter. I had a new plan.

After that failure, I’d gone back to the warehouse and collected what was left of Patrick Marrion’s blood. By now, it had turned thick, half solid in places, gelatinous in others. It didn’t flow anymore, but that didn’t matter. I’d fix it.

I cut the bottom off a plastic water bottle and scooped up as much of the dark, coagulated mess as I could. I then added water, stirred it, watched the old blood swirl back into something usable. It was dirty, murky, not quite as vibrant as it once had been, but it would do.

Next, I grabbed a paintbrush from my workbench and drove straight to the alley where we’d dumped Patrick.

I’d circled the block twice, checking for law enforcement. It was late, and the place was quiet. No cops. No bystanders. Nothing but darkness and the occasional glint of headlights reflecting off wet pavement.

Perfect.

I backed the truck into the alley, cut the engine, and grabbed my supplies. The stench of rotting garbage hit me hard. Rancid meat. Dirty diapers. The festering stench of a city’s filth piled high. It burned in my throat, but I ignored it.

I wasn’t here for comfort.

Dipping my brush into the blood, I started painting. The symbols came naturally, each stroke precise, careful, methodical.

There was no way the FBI wouldn’t come running when they saw this.

The alley wasn’t like a normal alley with only two exits—this one had four. It connected to a pedestrian shopping mall, meaning I had multiple escape routes. When Otto and I picked this place to dump Patrick, that had been the deciding factor.

Otto had been useful then. Before he turned spineless.

I shook my head, jaw tightening. I should’ve known he’d crack. He got what he wanted, though. He wasn’t caught. Not by law enforcement anyway.

After putting the paintbrush and my makeshift paint can in the bed of the truck, I wiped my hands on my jeans. Using a burner phone, I called 911 and changed my voice as I described the horrible thing I found.

When the dispatcher told me help was on the way, I crouched behind the nearest dumpster, pretending to be a drunk. Local cops would likely come first, but the Feds would be called in soon after that. Cold bit through my jacket, but my heart raced.

It wasn’t just from anticipation.

It was from earlier—that shoulder bump with Knox, the heat of her body against mine. She hadn’t even noticed me. Hadn’t even looked.

But soon, she would.

I shifted my weight, careful not to step in anything wet or put my hand in anything slimy. The stink of garbage burned in my nostrils, but I forced myself to breathe evenly, to settle into place.

Sacrifice.

Not the kind the Administrator preached about. Not the nonsense he spewed in cryptic messages and holy proclamations. The real kind. The kind that meant giving something up to get something better.

I’d sit in this alley, crouched in filth, freezing my ass off, but it would be worth it. Because Knox or Yates would come.

It didn’t matter which.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my gun, weighing it in my palm.

Knives were better. More intimate. More personal. You could feel the skin break, watch the blood flow, listen to them beg.

Guns were too mechanical. No fun at all. But they got the job done.

An SUV pulled up at the end of the alley, its headlights flaring against the walls.

I ducked lower behind the dumpster, gun ready.

Showtime.