The Hitman’s Final Job (Pine Ridge #1)

1. Silas

ONE

SILAS

Viktor Soós has been watching me for twenty minutes when he finally makes his move. I’ve kept the bar stool next to mine free, waiting for this moment.

“You’re not Hungarian,” he says in perfect English but with a strong Eastern European accent. He settles onto the seat and signals the bartender.

“Canadian.” Or at least that’s what this week’s passport says.

“What are you drinking?”

“Whiskey.”

“A man of refined taste.” He orders two more without asking if I want one. “I like that.”

On paper, Viktor Soós is a respected Hungarian politician.

A lobbyist with government connections that stretch from Budapest to Brussels.

His wife is beautiful. His daughters attend private school.

And his country home outside the city is the kind of place that is featured in architectural magazines.

What isn’t featured in any magazine write-ups is the drug network that operates out of three Eastern European countries under his calculated management and the government connections that exist primarily to keep his other business invisible.

Viktor Soós is a man who has built an empire on two foundations: legitimacy and fear.

He’s also a man who’s hiding an even bigger secret. One that I’m about to capitalize on.

He reaches for his drink while at the same time placing his free hand on my leg.

I bring the glass up and track him from behind the rim as the liquid touches my lips and I dry swallow.

It’s a real shame. I bet this whiskey is the kind that travels smoothly down your throat and almost asks for forgiveness for affecting your bloodstream. Real shame.

But I’m not here to enjoy this drink, so I lean only slightly toward Viktor to make it clear, but with discretion, I’m more than willing to be his indiscretion.

I lick the liquid from my lips, sad that this is indeed good whiskey.

It’s almost boring how men like him are so predictable. Enough money and power to run countries, but it’s the thoughts of young cocks in their mouths that ultimately leads them to a less fortunate and premature ending.

“What brings you to Budapest …?”

“John.”

He laughs. “Of course you are.”

“I’m here for business.”

“What business could a Canadian man have in Budapest?”

I roll the whiskey around the glass and raise it to my mouth, but as he takes another sip of his, I put mine back down on the bar and lick my lips again.

“The kind that takes a while,” I reply. “You?”

“Same.” He smiles, and it’s the smile of a man who’s used to charming people and having it work. “Long days in the office and longer nights in an apartment nearby that’s entirely too comfortable to enjoy alone.”

My gaze is steady. “Is that what you’re looking for? Company?”

“I find myself with a quiet evening ahead, and the whiskey on my shelf is a superior quality to this one. It would be a waste to drink alone.”

He’s not subtle, because men like him never are. They’ve spent too long taking what they want to bother with subtlety. No doubt he already has plans to dispose of me in a discreet manner should I end up causing any trouble.

“That does sound like a waste,” I say.

His smile widens and he raises his glass to his lips, but this time he doesn’t drink. “Turn left, then right. Five minutes.” He sets the glass on the bar and leaves.

I do the same, but instead of the exit, I head off to the bathroom. When I’m assured there’s no one around, I call my partner.

“Zuza, we’re on. His apartment.”

She laughs from the other side of the line. “I guess I owe you dinner next time I see you.” She wasn’t convinced of my assessment that Soós enjoyed the company of men when he was alone in the city.

“You bet you do.” I don’t tell her that’s unlikely to happen.

“I’m inside his building’s security system. It never ceases to amaze me how it’s always the people with more money that spend the least on their security.”

“You might want to check the bar security cameras too.”

“Already done. They haven’t noticed it yet, but their cameras have been down with a technical fault since before you got there. I was even kind enough to report it to their IT team. Now, remember what I said about the street cameras. Keep to the right side of the street until you get to his place.”

“And his building?”

“There must be a bug going around. Their cameras are also off.” The way she says it like this is child’s play makes me laugh. I’ve been working with Zuza for almost five years. She’ll be the only thing I’ll miss after tonight.

“Thanks, Zee.”

I put the phone away and reach for the high shelf above the toilet where I hid my gun earlier. I double-check the suppressor is attached properly, holster it at my hip, and exit the bar.

Viktor is standing on the corner of the street, smoking a cigarette. When he sees me, he starts walking. It was still daylight when I arrived at the bar, but it’s now fully dark, and the old street lights are my best friends, especially when Viktor stays on the right side of the road.

I hate feeling like a job is too easy because that’s when I can get distracted and make mistakes, so I keep my focus. Anything can happen to derail this job.

The apartment is just as I’d seen in the surveillance photographs—high ceilings, expensive furniture, and a wall of windows that frames the Danube like a painting. The city lights shimmer on the water below. It’s a genuinely beautiful view.

Viktor pours drinks from a crystal decanter while I stand at the glass, gazing out at the city.

“Come away from the window,” Viktor says, crossing the room toward the large white couch between us with both glasses. “You make me nervous, standing there.”

“Do I?” I take the glass from him, sit without being too close, and hold his gaze. “You don’t seem like the kind of man that ever gets nervous.”

“Everyone gets nervous around the right person.”

Despite his words, there isn’t an ounce of uncertainty or nervousness radiating from him. I know from my research he’s not a fan of heights, which makes me question the location of this apartment, but to each their own.

No. The way he’s studying me like he wants this part to be over so we can move on to better things is everything but nerves or reluctance. In fact, the outline of his hardening cock is quite a tell.

Sadly for him, it does nothing for me. Murderous drug lords aren’t really my type.

“I’m tired of talking.” He takes a large swig of his drink and sets the empty glass on the table, then grabs my full drink and does the same.

“I could argue we haven’t talked all that much,” I say, running my gaze over his body.

He pulls me to straddle him, and I let him.

“Talking is … how you Americans say, overrated.”

“I’m Canadian.”

He runs his hands down my chest, opening the buttons on my shirt. “Same thing.”

Poor Canadians, undeservedly tagged as Americans.

His hand heads toward the wrong place.

The gun is beneath the jacket. Another two inches and he will find it.

I catch his wrist in a smooth and fast move and lean into him before taking his wrists, one in each hand, and pinning them behind his back. “Patience,” I whisper into his ear. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“I’m tired of waiting. Don’t mess with me.”

His breath catches when I roll my hips. “I think you like being messed with. Am I wrong?”

He shakes his head.

I run my nose up the side of his face. “Let me put a show on for you.” I stand up and move away from him.

“You have too many clothes on.”

“Let me fix that.” I carefully shrug off my jacket without breaking eye contact.

The moment he registers the gun is already too late. With one shot to his head, the world is a better place.

I grab my coat, drink the whiskey and pocket my glass—it’s the only thing I touched in this apartment—and then I’m out.

The elevator takes me all the way down to the garage unseen. The door is unlocked, so with a single flight of stairs up, I’m back out onto the street.

I walk two blocks before I call Zuza again. She picks up on the first ring.

“Done?”

“Done.”

“Good.” I can hear her typing. “Their security system is about to go back online. I pulled footage of him coming home alone earlier and replaced the time stamp. As far as anyone checking the security footage is concerned, Viktor Soós arrived at his apartment alone at nine thirty-five. No visitors. No anomalies.”

“Other than the bullet to his head.”

She laughs. “Goodnight, Silas.”

I pocket my phone and keep walking.

My hotel is a forty-minute walk from the upmarket Gellérthegy area. There’s a light chill in the August air, but it’s pleasant. The crystal glass is warm in my hand. When I walk past the first trash can, I drop it in and keep going.

This was the last job.

I’m the boy who was nothing until I became the man who is something. A weapon. A tool.

And now? Now I don’t know who I am. I’m free. No longer at the service of a secret international organization whose purpose is to do what others can’t.

I should feel relief, but with each step toward my hotel, I don’t know any more.

There’s a Chinese restaurant next to the hotel, so I grab some food and take it up to my room. Inside, I set the security bar on the door and sit on the edge of the bed. I need to grab a shower first to get rid of the overpowering smell of Viktor’s cologne.

My phone rings. The number is a string of digits that changes every time, but I know who it is.

“Draven.”

“Silas.” His voice is measured as always.

It’s hard to tell how old he is from his voice or if he is capable of emotions.

After ten years of being my handler, I’d have thought we’d have grown closer, but he always keeps a distance.

He doesn’t have a face, just that monotone voice that tells me where I need to be next. “Zuza confirmed the job is done.”

“Yes.”

“Excellent work. Your payment will be processed as usual—”

“What happens to his family now?”

Silence.

“Draven.”

“That’s not our business,” he says, his voice unchanged. Not a degree warmer or colder. Just the same flat tone. “They weren’t the target.”

“I know they weren’t the target. I’m asking what happens to them.”

“Silas—”

“He has two daughters. They don’t know what their father does. They probably think he’s a good man.” I pause. “He probably is, to them.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

“That’s not relevant to the job,” Draven says finally.

He’s right, but tonight I don’t let the silence or his lack of emotion pressure me.

“I’m retiring.”

The words come out quieter than I expected, but they feel truer than anything I’ve said in the last ten years.

There’s no audible reaction from the other side of the line.

Finally, “That’s not how this works,” he says, and now there’s something in his voice. Not quite a threat, but a shadow of one.

“Then tell me how it works. Because from where I’m sitting, I’m a trigger finger with a memory. That’s all. I pull the trigger and then I don’t get to know what happens next.”

“The world becomes a better place. That’s what happens next, Silas.”

For ten years that was enough for me. The guilt of wanting more than this has stopped me from uttering those words. It’s no longer enough knowing that my job serves a purpose, that it saves hundreds if not thousands of lives with each single person I remove from existence.

“One more job,” Draven says, cutting through my thoughts.

“In case you don’t realize this, the concept of retiring from one’s job is that there are no further jobs.”

“In case you don’t realize this, Silas, you don’t work as a checkout assistant at your local grocery store. You can’t just quit. You’re an asset.”

He’s not wrong, but fuck, I signed up for this because I had no choice, but I didn’t commit a crime, so why do I feel like I’m in a prison?

“One more,” I say.

“One more,” he confirms. “And then we talk.”

I hang up.

I don’t go into a new job unprepared, but I just announced to my handler of ten years that I want to quit like I’m just asking for some personal time off for a couple of days.

Big mistake. One I won’t make again.

I open the phone app that shows the live stream of my apartment in Atlanta. Cathy proudly sits on my kitchen windowsill. A little pink bud is starting to open, and I’m glad to be heading home so I can see it bloom.

Cathy doesn’t need me. She’s survived every job, every absence, every broken promise to come home sooner.

I think about the vegetable garden I want to have some day. The small house. The quiet life.

And maybe, the version of me that has the courage to make a decision for himself for once.

One more job.

I lie back on the bed, my food probably cold now, and stare at the ceiling, trying not to think of Viktor’s daughters and all the people whose lives were changed because a twenty-five-year-old with nothing to lose said yes to being a hit man for a living ten years ago.

I’m not very successful.