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STEFI

A man is on the ground, cowering before me, trying to crawl away, tears streaming down his eyes. “Please,” he begs. “Please. . . I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know what you want, but please don’t shoot me.”

I should be moved by his fear, but I haven’t been able to feel anything for a long time. No sadness, no joy, nothing. I’m numb inside and out.

“Do you remember me?” I lift my gun and aim it at him. “I was just a child, and I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I begged you for help, and you looked at me as if I was dirt on your shoe. And then you said, ‘Stop crying and pay attention. I don’t care about your tears.’ Remember that?”

His eyes widen in horror. Oh yeah. He knows who I am now.

“You knew we were trafficked,” I say. “You knew Bach acquired us from all around the world, and you didn’t care. You just cared about your paycheck.”

“Please,” he whispers. “Have mercy.”

“Stop crying and pay attention,” I tell him. “I don’t care about your tears.”

Then I shoot him in the head.

I have a hit list.

When I started it seven years ago, it had thirty-nine names. Since then, I’ve narrowed it down considerably, and there are only four entries left.

Varek Zaworski and Pavel Dachev, two bounty hunters who worked for Bach and hunted down anyone foolish enough to run away from his control.

Antonio Moretti, the Venice crime lord, who’s been funding Bach’s operations for the last five years.

And finally, the man himself. My former trainer, the man who molded me into a killer. Henrik Bach.

Four rich, powerful, dangerous men, and I’m determined to kill them all.