Prologue
THE HITMAN
Iguess you could say watching had always been my thing.
Staring at my prey from afar. Taking in the way their breath sped up, how their pupils dilated, sweat beading across their forehead.
Almost like their body could sense someone was there, like it was engrained in the little curly bits of their brain from back when animal instincts were second nature.
When survival really was about the fittest and there were no participation trophies.
Just killing or be killed.
Humans weren’t like that anymore. They were too cocky. So sure they were at the top of the food chain. Until they remembered so were other humans. One of the few animals that killed each other. Not for protection or out of necessity. But for the sheer fun of it.
I was one of those humans. I enjoyed what I did. The feel of cold metal pressed up against my cheek. The smell of sulfur permeating the air. The seconds before death ticking by like a metronome. Add in the light pitter-patter of rain and I was practically coming in my pants.
Shit was a fucking turn-on.
The thing was… my sick obsession with death had always been one-sided. It comforted me like an old friend. The look of it. The feel and taste of it. Not the face or name it was attached to. Lock on to your target. Wait for the perfect moment. Get in and get out and never think about them again.
Tonight was different. Tonight I was curious about what made them tick. Blonde hair, pretty blue eyes, both darkened by the shadows of the room. Though I was always more interested in their rack…
Their gun rack. Needed to know if they were armed.
We both know where your mind was going. It’s okay.
Perv…
I took a deep breath, slowly letting it out again as I refocused my sight on the silhouette blackening the window.
A few panes of glass didn’t stand a chance against a 7.
62 round or the finger that was brushing the trigger like a clit on the verge of orgasm.
Soft, gentle, edging. No need to fly over that cliff until the moment was just right.
The shadow was bobbing now, dragging something across the floor and hefting it onto the bed.
The light flicked on and then my target came into full view.
Same blonde hair from the file, narrowed blue eyes.
One arm shoving the window open and the other gripping the stock of a rifle.
And then I heard the familiar click at the same time I gradually pressed down with a finger. Once, twice.
They missed. I didn’t.
“Gotcha, fucker.”
I preferred a good headshot, but two to the chest worked just as well when I was on a time crunch. I watched the body drop, already packing up my gear and tossing it onto my shoulder before heading back down the way I came.
I quickly hopped from one fire escape to the next, landing on the street with a near silent thump of boots meeting concrete. I had thirty minutes to clear the scene. On a good night, I could do it in fifteen.
But apparently tonight wasn’t a good night.
I’d just made it halfway up the metal fence that separated the alleyway from my bike when a hand was wrapping around my ankle and tugging me down again.
I kicked out a foot and peered over a shoulder. A stupid grin lit up the darkness behind me.
“Hey, sugar tits,” he hummed, his glare hinged on where my chest was popping out of my leather jacket before he tapped two fingers against his vest. “Next time, aim for the head.”
Oh, what? You thought I was a dude, didn’t ya? Women can be hitmen too, ya know. If those rings around the toilet taught you anything, it should be that us girls had better aim from the start.