Page 6 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)

Blade

Y ips and barks echo through some dark corner of my mind. The distorted, choppy sounds stirring a nebulous urgency I can’t grab a hold of. All I want is to go back to sleep. But the insistent, throbbing pain accompanying my heartbeat demands I protect myself from some unseen threat.

Wake. Up. Now!

With sheer will, I pry my eyelids open to find pitch black. At least I think they’re open. I put my hand in front of my face but still see nothing. I struggle to sit up, but a sharp pain in my chest pins me in place.

What the fuck?

With effort, I try to shake some sense into my head, but it answers with a painful throb. A sticky wetness greets my fingers when I run my hand over my angry right pec. The jagged circular hole cut through my heated skin, dimpling into the previously smooth muscle.

Once the puzzle pieces of my thoughts connect, my memory quickly returns, and I realize I passed out on the exam room floor of an animal shelter after breaking in through an alley door.

Hence the sounds of trapped animals. I’ve invaded their home, although some of the plaintive sounds suggest this is more a prison than a home.

My now coherent thoughts have little success convincing my body to obey my will, which remains stubbornly disconnected.

The wound throbbing like a bitch must be infected. How long have I been laying on this cold-ass floor? Someone’s got to be showing up for work soon.

Pain washes over me like a tidal wave, but I slip into my training and become one with the feeling. Once I’ve compartmentalized it, I drag my sorry ass to my feet with a determined grunt and promptly slam into what feels like an exam table, and curse.

I have enough time to get this done and get home before my newest caramel-haired coping mechanism shows up.

A glance at my phone lock screen that tells me it’s midnight.

I rest my pounding head against the cool wall to draw a deep breath before reluctantly pushing off to find an exam room to deal with the obvious issue.

I push through the door and flip the wall switch; the blinding fluorescents make me cringe.

All the while, the barking and howling grow in volume, so does the throbbing in my head.

I squint against the stark light, pressing my fingers against my eyelids for a moment. When I open them again, the room wavers and wormlike black floaties dance before my eyes. The room suddenly stills, but my body feels like it’s still moving forward as a dizzying fog overtakes me.

I stumble—on air, maybe—and bump into a cabinet before righting myself with pure muscle memory alone. I work hard to ignore the growling and barking assailing me and pull my shit together.

Focus. This isn’t even in the top ten of the worst situations of your life, idiot.

I scavenge through the doors and cupboards, relief filling me when I find a surgical kit.

I drop it onto the counter and open it, pleased to find a scalpel, a curved suture needle, and several lengths of sutures to go with it.

Plucking the lid off the glass jar holding gauze, I grab a stack out and place them on the countertop.

Blue gloves sitting in boxes on the shelf snap when I pull them out and push my thick fingers through the too small finger holes.

I use the camera on my phone as a makeshift mirror to see if I have a concussion.

The green seems brighter, but my pupils are equally dark and pissed.

A trail of blood runs from my hairline down my neck, but I’ll survive.

The red, puffy skin screams as I probe the hole to see if there’s still a bullet.

Nausea rolls through me, and bile burns my throat when my fingertip hits a solid lump.

I grit my teeth at what I need to do next.

The biting scent of antiseptic fills my nose as I rip open the foil packet and remove the wet gauze pad. Air hisses through my clenched jaw as I wipe the wound vigorously, pressing it deep into my flesh, wringing the liquid into my body.

“Fuck a bloody duck!”

Once I’ve caught my breath, I pull the tweezers out of the sterile surgical kit and, without pause, slide the thin tips into the hole. Blood flows out faster as I dig into the opening and struggle to get a grip on the lead plug.

Finally, I get a good grasp and pull the bullet out with a sickening squelch and a gush of blood.

Using one hand to drop the lead onto a piece of gauze; I wrap it up before shoving it into my pocket.

The other dabs at the wound, then presses against it to help staunch the bleeding.

I load the needle with the sutures and get to work sewing my skin back together.

Six stitches later, the wound is closed and I’m on a mission to find some antibiotics.

I’m guessing they would refrigerate them and grab a syringe before searching out the stockroom.

Lucky for me, it also lacks windows, allowing me to turn the light on.

I use a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall above the sink to open the fridge and let out a sigh at the neatly stacked bottles of enrofloxacin.

Probably for dogs, but then again, I’ve been called worse things. It’ll do in a pinch.

I load the syringe and flick it a few times, though I should warm the medication first, so it doesn’t hurt as badly going in, but I don’t have time to waste.

Slamming the needle into my bicep, I press the plunger.

The cold liquid tears through muscle, but the pain is almost nonexistent, especially compared to the bullet wound.

Still, a deep growl rumbles from my chest.

As I move to close the door, my stomach rumbles loudly, despite my nausea.

There’s fuck all but bottles with strange names in this fridge.

I slam the door shut, making the little glass vials rattle in protest. I turn to stalk out but spy a smaller fridge on the opposite wall with a cleaning schedule posted with a magnet that reads ‘Your mother doesn’t work here.

’ Yanking it open reveals a sandwich wrapped in paper with the name ‘Lisa’ on it.

Sorry for your luck, Lisa.

I can’t remember my last meal and it’s probably what makes my stomach feel like it’s on the world’s largest rollercoaster.

So, like a damn savage, I snatch Lisa’s sandwich, rip the paper off and tear into what turns out to be an Italian deli foot long.

After I inhale it, I pour a can of orange soda into a paper cup before crushing it between my hands and sliding it into the back pocket of my jeans. Then wash the sandwich down in one go.

Gathering the paper towel, sandwich wrapper, syringe, and the glass vial, I toss them into a small hemp promotional tote bag discarded on the breakroom counter.

Bright blue letters across one side advocating for owners to spay or neuter their pet.

I slip back into the exam room and clean the mess, adding all traces of my midnight surgery into the bag.

The incessant barking, growling and baying become louder as I navigate the hallway—one of the bag’s cords hung over my uninjured shoulder—searching for the backdoor I used to get inside.

The stench of unwashed animals and the tang of urine assault my senses as I pass an open area filled with cages holding dogs desperate for release.

Sucks I know, but don’t worry, some family will come along and adopt you all, eventually. Just be patient.

When I reach the door, it’s swaying in the night breeze.

Damn, I didn’t close it. I must have been really out of it to make that sort of rookie mistake.

Not the first one recently. I’ve no idea why the ghosts of my past are turning up to fuck with my present.

I’m telling myself how lucky I am no one got the drop on me when I almost step on a clipboard on the floor.

Blinking at it, a fuzzy memory of knocking it from the empty hook when I broke into the building earlier floats through my mind. The faint light filtering in from the parking lot light illuminates the bold lettering. I glance at the front page and translate it in my mind from German to English.

Tuesday’s Euthanasia List.

Cages 18—25

8:00 AM

Not fucking happening!

This country doesn’t euthanize unless the animal is terminal.

This must be a seedy vet being used as a front to launder money.

Looking over my shoulder at the cages, I don’t find any gravely ill dogs.

They go wild with the snarling, growling and that fucking high-pitched yipping.

But really, what can I do, take them with me?

Not likely. With a sigh, I give them a regretful salute and turn back to the door.

Movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention, and I turn to see something that resembles a half-drowned rat with gray, black, and white hair standing on end as if lightning has struck it.

Beady black eyes stare at me from under a flock of too long wiry hair hanging over his protruding brow.

He growls at me and slams against the cage door as if he swallowed possessed jumping beans.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I growl back and flash my canines at him. He quiets and sits back on his haunches. His front leg paws the air as he whines pitifully. pleading with me.

Fuck!

With a frustrated sigh at the dog and myself for being so soft, I search for a key.

Coming up empty, my frustration intensifies, and I eventually find bolt-cutters.

Aware of the minutes ticking by, I rush over to the cages and bust open the locks.

Not bothering to open the cage doors. They’ll have to know how to escape without help to survive.

I kill things. I’m nobody’s savior. But all mutts deserve the chance to be the king of the junkyard.

Opening the back door, I call to the four-legged hell hounds and almost laugh at the speed with which they escape their confinement and tear out past me. As I leave, the little electrified rat—who I suspect has a disreputable Jack Russel Terrier relative—trots alongside me.

I make it deep into the woods lining the back of the shelter before fishing the flattened can from my pocket to dig a hole in the damp earth.

The rat digs with me, more in my way than helping as the smell of mildewing leaves he’s chucking everywhere surrounds us, mixed with the scent of unwashed dog.

I gather a few dry twigs resting on a rock to line the bottom of the hole before dumping the contents of the bag on top and finally tossing the bag in, too.

The trees next to me seem to tilt wildly in the light breeze as I pat my pockets, looking for my lighter.

Maybe a minute passes, maybe it’s an hour before I find it. I’m not fucking sure.

Shit. I’ve lost too much blood.

It can’t be that long since the rat still sits beside me, waiting patiently enough. For what, I’ve no idea.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I growl at another interruption, glancing at the screen to see who it is.

When it comes up blank, I realize how fucked up I am.

I don’t have caller ID for very good reasons.

Only two people have this number, and neither can be ignored.

It doesn’t mean I have to be nice about it, though.

I hate saying hello to someone I probably don’t like.

Hell, even those I might like, so I refuse to answer the phone with hello.

“I’m fucking busy,” I bite out.

“We all are. Get over it, dick,” my high commander, and longtime friend Zephyr, responds immediately. I scoff into the phone, but don’t take the bait, leaving an uncomfortable silence hanging on the line, pressing him to get on with it. “What’s your damage? You’re never this nice.”

“No damage, just an arrogant prick bothering me on a job.”

Zephyr sighs heavily. “I gave you this assignment because you’re the only one who can handle it. You’ve never missed a mark before. What? Happened?”

How the hell does he know what’s going on from across the globe?

Does he have eyes on me? Then more details come back to me.

Right, the murder of a crime lord’s heir must have been all over the news.

He sounds half as disgusted with me as I am with myself.

He’s correct. I sure as hell never let a mark catch sight of me.

They call me Shadow for a reason, and I didn’t live up to that on my latest job.

But our conversation right before the hit shook me to the bone.

Even had me seeing things that weren’t there.

Remembering a life I’ve worked hard to forget.

“It’s handled. He’s dead.”

The sound of something hard thunks against what I assume is a wall before Zeph screams into the phone, “You murdered him in a public place! His people will look for you. I need you back in the US. You fucked up and now you have to go into hiding, you dumb fuck!”

“You know me, Zeph. I always have a plan.” I say, with quiet confidence.

In another time, I was always heated. Since my move to Europe, I’m calm as shit.

Well… with Z anyway. It’s an infuriating trait…

for Zeph. Which is excellent motivation to yank his chain at every opportunity.

I picture him sitting ramrod straight in his desk chair, red faced.

His barrel-chest puffing out and huffing like one of those cartoon bulls who loses their shit when they see red.

His lame-ass hair slicked back like a freaking helmet on his head.

“You better, or I swear to all that’s unholy, I’ll kill you myself.”

I laugh. “You can try.”

Angry silence bristles between us for a long moment.

“Get your ass home.”

“I am home,” I insist. “Have been for a while now.”

“Don’t play games with me, Shadow. You pissed off the commanders at Umber.”

“I don’t give a shit,” I say before disconnecting the call.

I release my grip on the lighter clutched in my fist and flick my thumb against the little wheel. It sparks to life, and I touch the flame to the bag. It ignites quickly; the glow lights my face as the rat and I wait until there’s nothing left but ashes.