Chapter 1
Raine
If hell has a waiting room, this might be it.
The Agency did a great job at disguising this black site as a brothel.
It certainly looks like a place where perverts and their deep pockets come to live out their twisted fantasies.
Chains drape from the walls like windchimes, alongside whips and other paraphernalia that blur the lines between pleasure and pain.
The lighting is dim, casting an eerie reddish wash across the basement.
My reflection looks warped in the silver tray, my face fractured among the arsenal of sex toys neatly arranged.
It’s not every night I get to commit murder dressed like a slutty Catwoman.
And before you begin to feel sorry for him … Don’t.
He’s pissed off someone very important. And when you fuck over anyone within the Agency? Well, they don’t take lightly to getting fucked. They prefer to do the fucking.
I sleep well at night (I think?) knowing the targets I’m assigned to seduce and eliminate almost always deserve to die (right?). I prefer to think of them as vermin, needing to be exterminated. And Mr. Texas? Well, I certainly don’t think about what his life is like, or who he might be.
I don’t want to know if he’s a husband. A father. A friend.
Someone’s little league coach, a tough boss, or a friendly neighbor.
And even if he is some or all of those things, he is also this: a demented human trafficker. Which makes him a dead man.
Texas, the clueless idiot, hasn’t noticed the suppressor hidden amongst the sex toys.
Nor the firearm strapped to the underneath of the silver tray.
He’s too busy eye-fucking my tits, his capillaries nearly bursting as he drowns in my cleavage.
I’m not a huge fan of wearing corsets (unholy rib-crushers), but tits are such a useful distraction.
And my distractions are big.
Texas pants through his gag, squirming like a pig on a spit. Sick bastard is loving every second.
My fingers find the leather whip, twirling it lazily as I inhale.
Leather is an intoxicating smell, isn’t it?
There are a few scents that tickle my brain.
Leather (obviously), rain on warm pavement, freshly brewed coffee, and popcorn (extra butter).
I inhale deeply, allowing my lungs to expand as much as the corset will allow (which isn’t much).
Texas makes an impatient sound, chains rattling as he strains against them. It really is a dumb idea to attempt to talk when you have a gag ball stuffed in your mouth.
“Patience,” I purr, with a lazy tilt of my head, because, hello, Catwoman.
My nails click softly as I drag out the anticipation, skimming the selection of vibrators, clit stimulators, nipple clamps, anal plugs, gag balls alternating in sizes, hot wax … choices, choices, choices.
I heard Mr. Rich Sick Fuck likes to make his victims cry.
Let’s see how he likes it, shall we?
Nipple clamps it is. There’s something satisfying about the thought of those little serrated teeth munching down on this revolting man’s hairy nipples.
Texas groans as I attach them, sweat streaking across his brow as pleasure and pain collide.
Unfortunately for me, pleasure seems to override the pain.
I know this because of what I see rising in front of me. The sight of his erection straining against his underwear does two things:
Makes me retch, because ew. Everything about him is unimpressive, including the size of his dick. My goddamn heels are bigger.
Offers comfort. If he’s aroused, it means he doesn’t suspect a motherfucking thing.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what I love about men. They are fucking stupid.
Especially when it comes to pussy.
I don’t need to do this (the nipple clamps), but I like to think of my life as a movie (it’s not), and I’m the star (of course). I need to view my life as a performance because the reality is too harsh, too depressing, too tragic.
“Breathe through it, bitch boy,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
Texas nods his head and sucks fast breaths in through his nose. I remove the lace thong I stuffed down my cleavage earlier and dangle the sliver of fabric just out of his reach. He strains for it, drooling like a rabid dog.
Sicko.
Dropping it to the floor, I kick it away, turning back to the tray of instruments. Beneath it, hidden in plain sight, is the real star of the show. My hand slides underneath the cart to feel the cold, solid shape of my pistol.
It’s time.
Placing my hand on my hip, I twist my spine and let my eyes narrow in on him. “Ready for your surprise?”
He nods enthusiastically, like a toddler desperate for a sweet treat.
A vicious grin lights up my face. I palm the Glock and turn to face him. “This”—I lift the weapon to my lips—“is to die for.”
I run my tongue slowly upwards along the barrel, then suck the muzzle into my mouth. Gun fellatio is a first. Maybe it’s because of the outfit. Or maybe it’s because I’m a psycho. Probably a bit of both.
A soft pop echoes as I pull away.
Texas bucks in his chair, eyes wide in terror. Chains clang on the concrete floor, the soundtrack of a man desperately trying to escape his situation. There’s no use; it’s all in vain. He is stuck, strapped, and trapped.
“Bet this isn’t how you expected the night to play out.” I screw on the suppressor. “You paid for a high-class escort; but got a world-class assassin instead.”
Texas fights against his restraints, his chest heaving as he hopelessly tries to break free.
“I’m sure you have questions. Like, ‘Why me? What did I do?’ Just know you’ve landed on the shit list of some very important people. And those people?”
I step towards him. Roughly, I grab his chin and force his gaze to mine.
“They want you fucking dead.”
Releasing his chin, I roughly push his head away and notice a dark stain spreading on his underwear.
My nose involuntarily screws up in disgust. It’s to be expected though.
Losing control of one’s bladder is a byproduct of extreme terror.
It’s a physiological response triggered by fight-or-flight mode.
The body prioritizes energy for more useful functions, such as keeping your heart beating in moments such as this.
Still. It’s gross.
“Any last words?”
Furiously, he nods his head, eyes darting to the gag ball, signaling for me to remove it. Like that would ever happen. I don’t need to hear him beg and plead for his life. Snot runs from his nostrils as he sobs, the sound echoing around the basement.
Ugh, fuck his answer.
He has a gag ball in his mouth anyway.
I shrug my shoulders, pursing my lips together. “Guess not.”
Raising my weapon, I level the firearm between his eyes and pull the trigger. A silent death follows; the only evidence a shot has been fired is the carnage splattered on the floor. You know—blood, brain matter, shards of skull. The usual.
Proof of a job well done, I guess.
***
Do you loathe me yet? Find my murderous career hard to stomach?
I don’t blame you. I get it. I really do.
But here’s the honest truth: Someone has to do it.
If it wasn’t for people like me—the dirty deed doers—then many uglier, nastier people would still be alive, doing uglier, nastier things to innocent people like you.
“Angel?”
A curt British accent cuts through the thick, death-enhanced basement air. I’ve just finished removing my corset, heart still racing from the hit. I yank a loose shirt over my head and shoot daggers at the man who now stands at the bottom of the basement stairs.
I hate being interrupted mid get-the-fuck-out-of-here routine.
The Cleaner moves and stands over Texas’s dead body, glasses sliding down his nose.
In this business, there are no names, no pleasantries, only codenames and roles.
In the Agency, everything is a secret. Identities, missions, all of it confidential.
Because, to the world, the Agency doesn’t exist. It’s a myth, a rumor, a made-up story told at dinner parties or theorized online in conspiracy forums. But for those of us unlucky enough to be tethered to it, it’s the only thing that does exist.
The Englishman is the Cleaner. A highly skilled body remover who tends to most of my assignments. And me? I’m the Angel of Death.
Cringe, I know. The Agency has a flair for dramatics.
On assignment, I’m often referred to as Angel.
One name, like Madonna. But my real name is Raine Maddox.
Not that anyone in this fucked-up family calls me that.
Once upon a time, I didn’t mind, preferring to forget I was once a normal girl.
But now I’m thirty, I’m questioning everything, resenting it all and done pretending I’m okay.
You might be wondering why I don’t simply leave if I hate it so much.
The uncomplicated answer is this: it’s impossible.
One does not ‘leave’ the Agency. You live by the sword, you die by the sword, and all that bullshit.
I guess one could say the Agency is my oppressor and my liberator.
They took me in when my mother was killed, and I had nowhere to go.
I was so young and naive, I thought they were my saviors. But they became my captors.
The only way out for me is death.
And sometimes, I wish that would fucking hurry up.
It’s fucked up.
I’m fucked up.
A shiver runs down my spine. Enough.
Self-pity is a virus, and that’s an infection I don’t need.
The Cleaner bends down, scooping up my lacy black thong. He dangles it off his pointer finger. “Are these yours?”
I blink a few times, try to bring myself back to the task at hand. I dissociate often. Mainly when I think of my mother. Grief never really goes away; you just learn to live with it.
“Angel?” The Cleaner lifts the lacy thong higher, eyebrows raised, like I owe him an explanation. “This little number. Yours?”
“Yeah.” I rummage through my duffel bag and fish out a black cap. “So?”
“Well, what am I supposed to do with them?” he asks, deadpan, but I can see the smirk playing on his lips.
Tugging on my hat, I stomp over and snatch the panties from the Cleaner’s hand, mumbling “perv” under my breath. I stare down at the dead Texan. He’s still strapped to the chair. Parts of his skull a crater of bone and brain. It’s a grisly sight.
“How are you getting rid of the body?”
The Cleaner sizes up the corpse. “He’s a big boy.”
“Understatement.”
“Considering his size,” he muses, adjusting his glasses. “Acid bath, probably.”
“How very Breaking Bad of you.”
He grins. “Or maybe I’ll chop him into little pieces and burn him.”
My stomach turns at the thought. I’m not sticking around for either of those options.
I crunch down onto my knees and lean over Texas, proceeding to rip the gag ball from his mouth. His head lolls back, mouth agape.
I stuff my thong between his teeth.
I’m a sucker for performance art.
“Burn them with him. He can taste me in hell.”