11. Talon
Chapter eleven
Talon
M y phone buzzes against the table; Vincenzo’s name flashes on the screen, urgent and red as a warning flare.
I have been expecting it. Two weeks is pushing the limit, even for an assignment he lets me run this loose.
I pick up the phone, feeling that familiar heaviness settle in my chest. The weight of lies I haven’t told yet.
“Talon.” Vincenzo’s voice is brisk, clipped, all business. “It's been a while.”
“Been working the situation like you asked,” I reply, keeping my tone flat. No warmth, no nerves. Just a professional, checking in.
Quell is in the kitchen, barefoot, hair rumpled from sleep. He reaches for a mug in the cabinet, moving easily, casually, like he belongs here. The mug hits the counter with a soft clink. Ordinary. Too ordinary for a place like this, with a man like me.
“And?” Vincenzo doesn’t do patience.
I watch Quell fill the kettle. Water splashes quietly. He looks back at me, catches my eye, and gives me that small, private smile. It twists something sharp inside me.
I look away. “He’s handled. No more art, no more leaks.”
The lie slides out smoothly, practiced. I have lied plenty before. But not like this. Not when the consequence is right here, breathing, alive.
“Good.” Vincenzo pauses. I can imagine him at his desk, fingers drumming out a rhythm, staring at nothing, seeing everything. “My guy will scrub the site. Every trace of him. Wouldn’t want anything… resurfacing.”
The way he lingers on that last word makes my skin prickle. Cold curiosity, like he is testing me, waiting to see if I’ll flinch.
Behind me, Quell’s footsteps pad softly across the floor. The fridge opens, then closes. The scratch of a spoon stirring tea. All these domestic sounds, settling in like they belong, even though this is a killer’s den. I never realized how empty it was before.
“I’ve been thorough,” I insist, keeping my voice steady. “There won’t be any problems.”
“I trust your work, Talon. That’s why I sent you.” Another pause, heavy with things he isn’t saying. “Though I have to wonder why it’s taken this long. Not like you to drag out an assignment.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Needed to understand the situation first. Make sure it really was contained. He has… a unique talent.”
“Had?” Vincenzo’s voice sharpens. “Don’t we mean past tense now he’s handled?”
“Has,” I correct too fast. “I said he was handled, not that he was past. But it’s under control now.”
“I see.” Just two words, but they land hard. “Well, I hope the extra time is worth it. I’ve had to reassign several of your usual tasks.”
I get what he is saying. Other marks. Other kills. Jobs I used to take without a second thought, just three weeks ago. Jobs I haven’t even considered since Quell came home with me.
“I’ll be back in rotation soon,” I say. Maybe a lie. Maybe not. It's hard to tell.
“That’s good.” His voice shifts back to business again. “Oh, and Mickey asked about you. Says he hasn’t heard from you.”
My stomach drops. Mickey. The one from Quell’s vision.
Mickey glancing back, head tipped back, throat bared.
Me holding the knife and attacking him from behind.
Well, I assume it's me. I'm not responsible for all his drawings, but the idea of him inside someone else’s head is wrong. So wrong, I'd confess to all of them.
“Tell him I’ve been busy.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it isn’t easy.
“I did. He seemed… worried. You know Mickey. Always watching out for his people.”
This isn’t going anywhere good. Mickey handles logistics, setups, and safe houses. He knows where I stash my backups. He has the codes. Keys.
“I’ll check in with him,” I decide quickly.
“Do that.” Vincenzo’s tone is all business, with a hint of dismissal. “Keep me posted about when you’re back on the regular.”
“Will do.” I hang up quickly. The old weight in my chest doubles down. I've just put a target on Quell’s back. Maybe mine, too.
I set the phone down and stare at it, half-expecting it to ring again with more questions, more suspicion. Instead, it just sits there, silent and accusing, like it knows exactly what I just did.
“Everything okay?” Quell’s voice is gentle behind me. He has a mug of tea in each hand, steam curling around his face, fogging up his glasses at the edges.
“Fine,” I lie for the second time in as many minutes. “Just work.”
His eyes flicker with doubt, and maybe concern. After nearly two weeks of sharing space, suddenly he can read me better than I like. That professional distance I always kept? Gone.
“Was it about Mickey?” he asks, and I hate how easily he says the name, like it is just another word, not a death sentence.
I don’t answer. I move to the table instead, where the drawings are spread out.
Quell has lined them up in his version of order, his own system that I don't really understand. The most recent is on top: Mickey’s back, head thrown back looking at me, throat about to be cut.
I stare at the lines, the shadow across his face, the fear in his eyes.
My gaze follows the curve of the blade, the way it hovers just above his skin.
What catches me, holds me, is the knife. The edge isn’t smooth. It is serrated, jagged, not the kind of blade I use. Not the clean slice I am used to. This is something else. Intentional.
“You never use that kind of knife,” Quell says, coming to stand beside me. He puts his tea down, the mug leaving a wet ring on the table. “In the other drawings, it’s always smooth edges. Clean cuts.”
He isn’t wrong. I have always liked things neat, quick, and efficient. A straight blade does the job faster, cleaner, with less fuss. Serrated edges? They are messier. Noisy. They make a statement. Anger, mostly.
I stare at the drawing again, trying to see past the obvious lines and smudges. If this is supposed to be the future, and Quell’s visions have a perfect track record so far, it means something in me has shifted. Something big.
I say nothing. Just turn around and head for my bedroom. My weapons stash is in the closet, in a false bottom, but it isn’t really a secret from Quell anymore. He knows. He has seen everything, right through my eyes.
I kneel down, lift the panel. All my stuff is lined up inside, tidy as always. Mostly guns, all different kinds. But also knives. A lot of knives. Each one wrapped in oilcloth, sorted by size and what they are best for.
My hand hovers over the old serrated combat knife from my army days. I almost never use it now; it stands out too much, leaves a trail. But in the drawing, I’m holding it. I am about to use it on Mickey.
I unwrap it and balance it in my palm. The handle feels familiar, worn smooth, like it belongs there. The blade catches the light and throws back a row of tiny, sharp shadows.
It isn’t fear that comes up as I hold it. Fear doesn’t happen to me, not really. But this? This is different. Something possessive, something greedy, curling up inside. Rage. Not the cool, professional kind I use on the job. This is personal. Messy. Real.
Picking this knife is a choice, not an accident. It fits the vision. It is a message to fate: don’t even try me. I don’t just know what is coming, but I am meeting it head-on.
I wrap the knife in the cloth again and slip it into my pocket. The weight settles against my thigh, both familiar and weird, like finding an old jacket I have almost forgotten.
Then, a crash from the living room snaps the quiet in half. Glass breaking, something heavy hitting the floor. I’m on my feet before I even register the sound, knife already in my grip.
Time slows down as I take in the scene. Mickey stands in the middle of the living room, back to me. A smashed vase lies at his feet, water spreading across the hardwood. He has a gun aimed right at Quell, who is frozen by the kitchen doorway, face so pale it almost glows.
“Is this what he means by ‘taken care of’?” Mickey’s voice is tight, almost shaking. “Keeping you like a pet? What the hell is Talon thinking?”
He hasn’t noticed me. All his attention is on Quell, who looks about ready to break if Mickey so much as flinches. Quell’s eyes dart to me and away again, quick enough that Mickey didn't catch it.
The tension is thick, like the air has turned to syrup. It isn’t a sudden explosion, just a long, slow stretch of nerves. My heartbeat stays steady, calm, even as my brain runs through every possible outcome.
But Mickey’s grip is all wrong for someone about to shoot. Shoulders locked, arm too stiff. He is pissed off, not ready to kill. Not yet. But that could flip in a heartbeat if he thinks Quell is dangerous, or if he realizes I am standing behind him.
“I don’t understand,” Quell says. His voice is surprisingly steady, considering the gun aimed at him. “Who are you?”
“Someone who knows what you are,” Mickey says. “What you’ve seen. And what he’s supposed to have done about it.”
Quell doesn’t move. But I see it, the tiniest tremor in his hand, right at his side, fingers twitching like he is about to reach for a pencil, even now. Like maybe if he just draws fast enough, he can sketch himself out of this.
I step forward. Quiet. The knife cold in my palm, grounding me. Three steps, that is all it takes. Three steps, and the future Quell has drawn for us will finally stop hanging over our heads. It will be real.
Mickey must feel something. Maybe just the way the air shifts, or how my presence suddenly presses in. He turns, but he is too slow.
I move smoothly, smooth, no wasted motion. My arm comes up, blade first. I aim for the soft spot under his jaw, the place where the pulse beats, and I pull. One clean, practiced motion.
The knife slides in. His skin splits, and blood follows.
Mickey doesn’t even manage to turn all the way around.
His body jerks once, then again. The gun slips from his hand, clattering to the floor.
I catch him before he can fall hard, lowering him down as gently as I can, trying not to make more of a mess than necessary.
His eyes lock on mine, huge and shocked, and I can see the understanding settle in.
He tries to say something, but all that comes out is a thick spill of blood.
It doesn’t take long. I’ve seen it enough times to know the exact second it happens, the moment Mickey stops being Mickey and becomes just a body, cooling on my floor.
I don’t linger on the gore. That part never matters, not to me.
What matters is the reason, the intent, the thing behind the motion.
This isn’t a job. Not a mark. This is me, doing what I do best, but for something I’ve decided is mine.
The moment I choose not to kill Quell, but to keep him, the rest is inevitable.
I didn't kill Mickey because I had to; there were other options I could have tried to negotiate for Quell’s life.
I did it because his drawing told me to.
It was a message; a warning. The drawing told me this was the only way to keep Quell alive.
To keep him safe. Mickey wasn't the best killer on Vincenzo’s payroll, but he was the most likely to get around me.
Vincenzo had set me up with his comment about Mickey being worried, then sent him around, banking on the fact familiarity would slow me down enough for him to complete the job.
But Mickey was sloppy, too slow, and the drawing told me the rest.
I wipe the blade clean on Mickey’s shirt. The motion is easy, practiced, no more thought than breathing. When I look at Quell, he hasn’t moved. He hasn’t even breathed, not really, the whole time.
“He saw something that wasn’t his,” I mutter. My voice is steady, almost soft. “You know I had to kill him. You drew it as the only option.” My friend was literally drawn to death. Not by a morbid pull or curiosity, but by graphite and paper.
Quell just stares at me. Eyes wide, breathing too fast. His face is so pale it is almost funny, but he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t even flinch. He just watches me, like he always does, cataloging everything, seeing all the parts of me I usually keep hidden.
The knife hangs at my side. Its job is done. It only came out of the box for this moment. Mickey’s drawing has come true, just like Quell says it would.
But the other drawing, the one of us, closer, tangled up together, that one is still waiting. Still possible.
I step over Mickey’s body, toward Quell. The air feels different now, sharp and bright and full of possibility. Full of choices and futures that haven’t happened yet.
Quell watches me come closer, his breath catching. But he doesn’t move away, even with the blood on my hands, even with death right there on the floor. He stays right where he is.
And in that moment, I know exactly which future I want.