Chapter 1
Astor
I pulla black balaclava over my head, followed by latex gloves on each hand. Moonlight sneaks through the treetops, dappling the forest floor in swaying silver spotlights. I’m careful to avoid each one.
I step out of the tree line and onto a narrow path of grass that skirts the back of the affluent neighborhood. No dogs tonight. Luck is on my side.
After a quick glance over my shoulder, I grip the top of the privacy fence and launch myself over. I land silently on the ground. After brushing a speck of dirt from my pant leg, I make my way to the back door of the three-story monstrosity known as the Knoll House, a nod to the former (very wealthy) owners who built it a century ago.
I pull a brass key from my pocket, unlock the door, and step inside. The house is dark.
Recalling the blueprint I studied an hour earlier, I stride past the kitchen, the media room, and the library, then quietly jog up the curved marble staircase.
A woman moans to the beat of slapping skin as I top the stairs.
The master bedroom is lit only by the dim glow of a television featuring amateur porn. On the California King ahead of me is a girl on all fours. Eighteen at best, with long red hair. On his knees behind her, a man in his mid-sixties with a protruding beer gut grips her hips as he thrusts into her.
She screams when she sees me.
“Get out.”
I don’t need to tell her twice. The girl hurls herself off the bed and sprints out of the room, stark naked.
The man scrambles backward, slamming his sweaty, flushed body against the headboard.
I pull the knife from my pocket as I cross the room. “Mr. Whitlock, I hear you’ve been sharing secrets.”
“W—what? No. No. Who—who are you?”
I stop at the edge of the bed and stare down at him. “Are you a religious man?”
The blood drains from his face. He knows what’s coming.
“Yes,” he whispers, tears falling down his cheek.
“You have fifteen seconds to make peace with your death.”
I turn my face and close my eyes as he begs for mercy.
Ten minutes later, I meet Cillian, my right-hand man, at the back gate of the home. He glances at the blood dripping from my knuckles, then at the knot swelling on my cheekbone. “Is it done?”
I nod, wiping the blade on my pants before slipping it back into my pocket. “The girl?”
“Paid her five thousand cash with a threat of framing her if she speaks. She’s his mistress—prostitute, I think, and scared shitless—nothing to worry about. You ready for me to clean up?”
“Let me make the call first.” I pull the SAT phone from my pocket and turn my back to Cillian.
I’m aware that I can’t feel the lacerations on my knuckles or the contusions on my face.
I’m aware that my breath is calm, my pulse normal, my conscience unbothered.
I’m aware that the act of killing no longer affects me. And, in an ironic twist, this is what unsettles me.
The phone connects with a secure line to the US Department of Defense.
“Vice Chairman. It’s done.”
“Loose ends?”
“Taken care of.”
“Great. I’ll transfer the payment into your account within the hour. As always, it’s a pleasure working with you, Mr. Stone. Expect your next package next week.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Leaving Cillian, I kill the call, hop the fence, and disappear into the shadows.
Where I belong.