3. Talon
Chapter three
Talon
I ’ve been watching him for three days. The man who draws death like he’s seen it up close. Pencil-sharp and unblinking. Quell. Weird name for someone who stirs up this much trouble.
My car is parked across from his apartment building.
Engine off. Windows tinted just enough that nobody can see in, but not enough to scream, “I’m hiding.
” I have the camera on my lap. Through the lens, his third-floor apartment is right there, every ordinary movement blown up big and clear.
He doesn’t look like someone who should know about the things I do in the dark.
The telephoto lens makes it all too real.
Same faded blue sweater for the second day.
Hair sticking up in the back, like he’s slept rough and doesn’t care.
When he stretches, it’s a long, slow arc, almost graceful.
Catlike. I snap a few pictures. Documenting the boring stuff, like always, but with no kill order tagged on the end.
Just gathering intel. That’s what I tell myself. Standard procedure before termination, without the paycheck.
But nothing about this feels standard. Three days of watching, and I’ve got nothing. No visitors. No weird phone calls. No secret meetings. Just a pale, skinny person drinking buckets of tea and sketching so hard he forgets to eat.
I don't want to end this guy. I want to walk in there and tell him to get his shit together.
To shower in the morning, to eat three square meals rather than nibbling when his belly tells him it's empty.
Sleep when it's dark, live when it's light.
Normal things most humans can manage. This boy doesn't need taking out; he needs looking after.
Quell goes to the window again. The mugs of tea are stacked beside the drawing table, like little ceramic towers.
I zoom in on his hands. Graphite all over the edge of the palm, the pinky, under the nails.
Working hands. Artist’s hands. Not the hands of someone who’s messed with our business. Someone needs to tell him to wash them.
Someone. But not me. That isn’t me, not anymore. I'm a cold-blooded killer now.
I drop the camera onto the passenger seat and rub my eyes. My back is killing me from sitting here so long. The car’s gone cold, and the chill in my chest hasn’t let up either.
Vincenzo wants this sorted out. That’s my job, sorting things out. Usually, the answer is simple: a silenced bullet, a quick accident, a vanishing act nobody bothers to question. But this isn’t usual. This isn’t a rival, or a witness, or some loose thread. This is something I can’t put into words.
I pick up my phone, thumb through the screenshots I’ve saved from Quell’s site. Dreamscream.pro. Stupid name for a death gallery. Each sketch stamped with a time, some cryptic brief note about “visions” or “dreams.” But every one is dead-on, a perfect snapshot of someone’s last second.
Someone I’ve killed. Someone my colleagues have killed. Colleagues isn't the right word. Other hitmen.
I've been grouping the drawings by killer. Some were easy; Vincenzo remembers who he paid for each body, allowing me to group them, even if he wouldn't give me the names. But others have no paper trail, understandable given the lives we lead.
The pile that are mine haunts me the most. Images of people I allowed myself to forget about. I don’t dwell on the past, but seeing the frozen images forces me to relive those moments.
The fourth picture makes me pause. I know the guy right away.
Samuel Reeves. Fourteen months back. Private job, solo, no witnesses.
I got him in a hotel room in Cincinnati.
Tied his wrists with black zip ties. Asked the questions I needed to ask.
Then finished it with a single shot. Clean. Quiet. Gone.
Quell has never been to Cincinnati. I'm struggling to find evidence of him leaving his house for anything other than paint and coffee. His daily visit to the coffee shop down the block is the closest thing this guy has to a routine… or social life. He wouldn’t know a healthy lifestyle if it bit him.
He needs someone to drag him into the real world, make him eat something green.
But that’s not my job. I’m not here to save him.
The drawing captures the exact second before I squeeze the trigger.
The angle is wrong for a witness. It's from where I stood. It’s as though the artist has crawled inside my skull, seen through my eyes.
The light from the dime-store bedside lamp throws shadows just the way I remember.
The loose thread on Reeves’ collar that irritated me throughout the interrogation.
The water stain on the floor, shaped like Africa.
Things I’d never told anyone. Things I’d almost forgotten myself.
It can’t be a fluke. It can’t be detective work. There isn’t a police report with those details. No witness.
But here it is, in front of me, every detail perfect and damning, drawn by someone who shouldn’t have a clue.
I start the car, knowing I have to get closer.
Breaking into Quell’s apartment is almost embarrassing. The security is a joke, a single camera in the lobby I dodge by taking the fire escape, and locks that feel like they’ll give if I just look at them hard enough. I pick the deadbolt in under thirty seconds, slip inside like a thought.
The apartment is dark except for a thin slice of streetlight peeking through the curtains.
I stand there, not moving, letting my eyes adjust, breathing in the place.
Pencil dust. Tea that’s gone cold. The stale smell of paper, and laundry that hasn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in a while.
The personal scent of someone used to being alone.
I make my way across the hardwood, careful not to hit the boards that might creak. The apartment is straightforward: one main room that doubles as living and studio, a kitchenette off to the side, a bathroom, and, behind a closed door, what I guess is a bedroom.
The drawing table takes center stage. It’s set up near the window, slanted to catch the light, with a mess of crumpled paper all around it.
I crouch by the trash can and pick up one of the rejects.
Even Quell’s throwaways are better than what most people can manage.
This one is a woman, half her face missing, the rest abandoned mid-sketch.
Not one of mine, but I still wonder who she is.
I put the page back and keep looking. On the kitchen counter: three mugs, each with a crust of dried tea at the bottom. A prescription bottle next to them. Sleeping pills. The heavy-duty kind. I make a note of the doctor’s name for later.
On the refrigerator, a single photograph is held up by a magnet: Quell with an arm around a guy about his age. A sibling, probably, or could be a lover. Both of them are smiling. The photo is creased, like it’s been handled a lot.
I touch it, tracing the outline of Quell’s face with my gloved finger. The smile in the picture isn’t anything like the tight, wary expression I’ve seen through my lens. This is from before. Before the dreams. Before it all changed.
This is professional, I remind myself. Just gathering intel.
There’s a sketchbook open on the couch, a pencil marking the place.
I pick it up, careful not to mess up how it’s left.
The drawing on the page shows a woman on her knees, hands raised as if she’s begging.
I recognize her right away. Eliza Mercer.
Embezzler. I took her out in a parking garage six months ago. She begged too. They always do.
I flip backward through the pages. Every page is more death.
Not just the ones Vincenzo shared with me, but others too.
He must have been having these dreams for years before he started posting online.
Some faces I recognize as my work. Others must be different killers.
Vincenzo’s other “problem solvers.” All drawn with the same brutal detail, the same weird, impossible perspective.
My hands are steady. Inside though, something is off. There’s a tightness in my chest I don’t recognize. I don’t like it.
I set the sketchbook down exactly the way I found it and go for the black portfolio propped against the wall. It’s heavier than I expect, packed with loose pages. I bring it over to the coffee table and open it under the narrow beam of my penlight.
The drawings are stacked by date. I flip through them, one by one. My own work, most of it, and the more I look, the less I like what I see. Jenkins, the lawyer who got too curious. Donovan, the witness who couldn't keep his mouth shut. Li, the accountant who found the wrong numbers.
All of them caught at the moment right before I ended them. All of them staring up at me, eyes wide, like they understand exactly what’s about to happen.
My pulse picks up. This isn’t surveillance footage. It isn’t a lucky guess. It’s something else.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes me stiffen. I glance at my watch. Too early for Quell to be up; his meds should keep him in a dreamless sleep for a few more hours yet. I’ve checked. I’ve timed it.
The footsteps are outside the apartment.
My hand goes instinctively for my gun as I creep towards the front door.
In all my time watching this place, I've not seen any evidence of another soul living here. The footsteps stop at Quell’s door and then continue down the hall.
Must be a neighbor, a fact I need to check.
Just because Vincenzo’s assignments are exclusive, it doesn't mean someone else isn't looking into this bizarre situation too.
I should kill Quell. That’s the job. That’s what Vincenzo wants. It would be easy. Wait here, lights off. One shot when he opens the door. Make it look sloppy, like a robbery gone bad. Done.
My hand drifts to my gun, fingers curling around the grip.
But the drawings will still be out there. The website. Even if Quell is gone, the questions won’t stop. Maybe it will get worse. I need to know what I’m dealing with before I stop this poor man from breathing.
That’s what I tell myself as I reach into my bag for the cameras. Just gathering intel. Just being careful.
I put one above the kitchen cabinets, angled so it catches the whole main room.
Another goes in the smoke detector, pointed at the drawing table.
The third is in the bedroom, tucked inside the ceiling light.
That's the trickiest one, with a breathing man hidden under the covers, but I'm a pro at this.
The final bug slides under the coffee table, sensitive enough to pick up a whisper.
Professional. Methodical. Nothing personal.
I’m nearly done when a loose sheet catches my eye. It’s slipped behind the drawing table, half-hidden by the radiator. I pick it up and turn it over.
My breath snags.
It’s a drawing. A man sits in a chair, wrists lashed to the arms with wire. His head hangs forward, blood trailing from a cut over his eye. Someone stands over him, holding pliers. The angle is all wrong, like it’s seen through the eyes of the person with the pliers.
Through my eyes.
But I haven’t done this job. Not yet. This is…
The job Vincenzo mentioned before sending me after Quell. A banker named Harris, skimming from one of our accounts. The job I’m supposed to handle next week.
I stare at the drawing, my mind racing. This man isn’t dead yet. This is something I can’t explain.
I should put it back. I should leave it where I found it. Instead, I fold the paper, careful, and slide it into my pocket. Evidence, I tell myself. Something to show Vincenzo.
But I already know that’s a lie.
I finish my work fast after that, erasing any sign I’ve been here. Straighten the portfolio. Adjust the sketchbook. Wipe away every fingerprint.
As I slip out through the window onto the fire escape, I pause and look back at the apartment. Through the gap in the curtains, I can see the drawing table where Quell works, turning nightmares into art.
He’s just a target, I remind myself. Just another problem to solve.
But my hand drifts to my pocket, fingertips brushing the folded drawing through the fabric. Quell has seen me. Has been in my head somehow. Has watched what I’ve done, and what I’m going to do.
For the first time in years, something strange settles in my chest. Not fear. Not exactly fascination, either.
Recognition.
I move down the fire escape without a sound, the metal rungs cold against my gloves.
In the car, I unfold the drawing again under the dome light.
The face of the man in the chair is so precise I can count the beads of sweat on his forehead.
The hands gripping the pliers, my hands, are steady, certain.
This is what I will become. This is what Quell has seen.
I fold the paper again, slower this time, and slip it into my inside pocket, closer to my heart. Quell will draw again tonight. Will see through my eyes. Will put on paper the things I do in darkness.
And I’ll be watching when he does.