I spotted the flash of a phone screen across the bar and smiled when I saw a woman sitting on a bar stool, nursing a cosmopolitan. Well made, judging by the bright shade of pink and the slice of lime garnishing the glass.
“You know it’s dangerous to drink alone, don’t you, sweetheart?” I said, approaching her from behind and sliding onto the stool next to her.
I needed to be this close to her to see if she was drunk, to see if it made me more of a fucking arsehole than I already was for hitting on a drunk woman.
“My friend was sick and had to leave,” she said, not making eye contact as she continued to text. “I’m trying to get hold of my boyfriend to come and collect me.”
“No taxi?”
Rolling her eyes, she finally trained them on me. “So it’s dangerous to sit in a bar and enjoy a cocktail, yet it’s okay to step outside and hail a taxi, completely unaware whether I’ll make it home or die in a ditch?”
“Good answer,” I said, showing genuine approval as I let my gaze travel her lithe body. “Dancer?”
“Gymnast.”
“Drunk?”
“Barely.”
“Barely?”
She winked. “I’m Irish.”
“Ah.” I hummed. “Then I think the luck o’ the Irish found us both tonight.”
“Is that right?”
Nodding, I answered, “Sure. Now, come on. Let me find you a licensed taxi. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t commission a company to take vulnerable young women home from my club when they’ve been left behind and their boyfriend has fallen asleep with his X-Box on and his hands in his pants?”
“It’s like you’ve been stalking me.”
“I’ve been at this a while. You learn to read people.”
The woman smirked, her bright red lips curving up on one side. She blinked slowly, seductively, before she licked her bottom lip and stood as I did. “Then you’d know there’s no boyfriend.”
“Oh, I know,” I answered. “But I know why women play the boyfriend card.”
“I hadn’t looked at you at that point.”
“Shallow?”
“You hadn’t said much.”
“Interesting.”
“Maybe I don’t want to go home just yet.”
Bingo. This chick wasn’t drunk, she had a perfect set of tits that I could imagine grinding my dick between, and she was pouting, ready for me to slide right between her lips. I’d picked her up and yet she believed she was the one charming me. Oh, naïve women.
“Another drink?” She shook her head. “A tour, perhaps?”
“I’ve seen all four floors tonight.”
“Very well.” So she’d been on the prowl. “Then you won’t be interested to know there’s a fifth?”
“Oh, I’m a keen architect. I know there’s a fifth floor.”
Slipping her hand into mine, she stared up at me with electric promise in her strobe-lit eyes. Gesturing to Tim, I told him to write off her tab, and led her through the club to the lift.
“I had fun,” she said as I edged her over the threshold into the lift that would take her directly to the ground floor with no option to return to the penthouse. “We should do this again.”
“I’m not sure your boyfriend would be too pleased about that.”
“But-”
“I told you, sweetheart, I’ve been in the game a while,” I scoffed, glancing at her in that way guaranteed to make her dislike herself as much as I did in the moment. “A man knows when another man has marked his territory.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t fight it. You’ve had your night of fun like I’ve had mine. Mind the smashed glass on your way out.”
With that, I pushed the button and smiled in amusement when I watched her search for a button to hold the doors open. No such luck. The doors closed, the light above the lift signalled its descent and I shook my head as I turned and headed back into the apartment.
“She was hot.”
“Jesus.” I gripped a fistful of my hair and released a gust of breath when I realised I hadn’t been broken in to. “Jobe, what the fuck?”
He shrugged. “Dude, she moaned like a fucking porn star.”
“Well, you know I’ve got a monster cock. Poor girl didn’t stand a chance.”
“I thought you were splitting her in two. I was about to burst in with the Sellotape.”
I laughed, and dropped to the sofa. “Would have made things more interesting, I guess.”
“I thought so. I was sure I could hear the last porno you watched replaying in your mind.”
“You’re such a prick.”
It was a lie. No, he was a prick, but there was no hate between us. We’d gone into business together when we were eighteen. Jobe stayed in the background, working on the logistics whereas I worked front of house, giving everyone a face to connect to Chimera and the empire it was quickly becoming. When I was out murdering for money, Jobe took over, and when he was off doing whatever it was he did—usually partaking in kinky shit and smoking weed—I took over. We swapped out frequently, and no one ever said shit. We ran this place like a single entity, picking up each other’s slack and being the safety net when one screwed up and needed a little…assistance.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” He nodded at me, signalling at his hunger for information. “So how did it go?”
“It didn’t. I think I’m going to have a little fun with this one.” Jobe narrowed his eyes at me, but smiled. “I’ve been paid already, where’s the harm in a little cat and mouse?”
“You’re going to toy with your dinner before you boil it.”
“Exactly. I’ll get her well-seasoned and tenderised before I cut into her.”
“Good thinking, man.”
“That’s why these pathetic cunts pay me…to do the shit they wish they could if they had a set of knackers.”
“You ever just felt like turning on them? You know, giving them a taste of their own medicine?”
Shaking my head, I answered, “Nah. Not until one of them fucks me over. It’s my release as much as it is their relief, you know?”
“You’re a sick fuck.”
“Takes one to know one.” I stretched out, my neck cracking as I rolled it from side to side. “I’m hitting the sack.”
“This early?”
“Yeah.” I looked at my watch as I stood up. “The real fun begins tomorrow and I don’t intend on wasting a second.”
Three
“Morning,” Evan grumbled as he took the seat at the table with Benny and me at our usual Sunday morning haunt, Barbara’s.
Barbara’s was a greasy spoon, the clientele often greasier than her food. But she made the meanest waffles this side of the river, and her tea was so strong you could stand your spoon up in it—how English tea should be.
“You look like shit, man,” Ben commented, taking a sip of his tea and narrowing his eyes across the table at Evan.
Evan flicked a glance at me and nodded to Ben, who then swept his gaze my way.
He sighed and reached out, tapping the back of my hand. “Bad night, sweetheart?”
I nodded, shooting an apologetic smile at Evan. “Yeah.”
“Oh, God.” The guilt in Ben’s gaze over last night’s fiasco had me shaking my head quickly.
“Don’t start.”
“Shit, Harl. I have no idea what the hell happened.” He chewed on his lip, leaning back into his chair when one of the waitresses brought over our food. She winked at Evan, both me and Benny quirking an eyebrow.
“Know her, do you?” Ben smirked when she walked away, the dramatic swing of her arse for Evan’s benefit, I hoped. She was barking up the wrong tree if it was Ben she was hoping to snag.
Evan just rolled his eyes and took a bite of his toast. “Seriously, guys. We need to talk about whatever shit happened last night.” He looked at Benny and frowned in thought. “Harley seems to think it was a leech, or at the very least, a deliberate block.”
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Ben nodded, diving into his full English. “Yeah, looks like it. Thank God Harley is shit hot at warrens ‘cause I swear, any longer and I would have been buried in there. Did you find anything last night?”
Evan sighed, looking at me. I hated the disappointment reflecting back at me. “Harley wasn’t much up to working last night.”
Benny shrugged and nodded in understanding as he turned to me. “So, Miss Marple, what's the next step?”
“I’ve locked down as much as I could find, and I’ll see what I can get from them later. But it definitely looks deliberate.”
“Surely not the client?” Evan asked, nabbing a piece of my peach waffle with his fork and shoving it into his mouth before I could protest.
“That wouldn’t make sense.”
Benny dropped his gaze, and I narrowed my eyes on him. “Stranger things have happened. You have a theory?”
Clicking his tongue, he pushed his plate aside and grimaced. “Michael.”
The blood in my veins froze and the waffle I’d eaten curdled in my stomach with the mention of his name. “What? Why…why would Michael get involved now? It’s been…”
Evan grabbed my hand when I started to panic, the blood draining from my face and my body going into shock as the thunder of my heart banged against my chest bone. “It’s okay, Harley. Benny isn’t thinking.” He glared at Ben, silently cautioning him.
Ben growled. “We all want that fucker buried in the past. But last night doesn’t make sense. And the only hacker I know who can do that kind of work, especially chasing Harley’s tail, is Michael.”
“Michael is gone,” I snapped, leaning back in my chair and scowling at Ben for even mentioning his name. “The debt was paid, in full.” A shiver raced through me and Evan placed his hand over mine, giving me a tight squeeze. “He won’t be back.”
“He wouldn’t fucking dare,” Evan growled.
We fell silent and I pushed my plate away, my appetite gone and replaced by a different hunger.
“I have to go.” The feet of my chair scraped on the dirty tiled floor as I quickly stood up.
Evan watched me closely. “Not again, Harl.” There was a warning in his voice, but I ignored it as I snatched up my bag.
“I’ll let you know if I get a footprint.”
“Harley,” Benny shouted after me but he didn’t make any attempt to follow me.
They both knew where I would be for the next few hours. And they both knew better than to stop me.
Four
Do you know how an assassin chooses his weapon? There were plenty of factors that affect it. How close did we want to get to the target? How intimate did we want to be? Did we want to hide out on a rooftop and shoot from tens of feet away? Did we want to stand in front of them and ram a bullet into their skull, watching brain explode, blood splatter, and listen to the thud of deadweight hit the ground? Did we want to feel the warmth leave them in a tsunami of blood, while we were granted the ultimate power of not only taking a life, but doing it with no personal motivation?
My methods varied. Sometimes, when I was one man, I would break into their house silently and let time and circumstance lead the way. When I was the other man, I planned each assassination to the second. I knew where the target would be; sometimes I’d stalked their activity for weeks to know when they’d be alone and least expecting it. They wouldn’t live to remember their final night, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t slam so much fear into them that they pissed themselves. Why was I two men? Because I was a little bit crazy. A little bit loco. Life got boring real quick and I was a man who liked to shake things up. I found it all too easy to slip from one person to the other—from barman and charming boss, to stealthy murderer lacking all empathy and remorse.
In this case, my mind was occupied by Harley fucking Davids. I couldn’t get her off my mind. I’d tried to talk to Rome this morning, but he was busy. Too busy for me, because his mind was occupied and fixed on something, just like mine was. So tonight I would keep my distance. I wouldn’t risk losing a grasp on my control and fucking this up. If there was one thing I was proud of, it was my ability to murder without leaving a shred of evidence, absolutely nothing to lead the police to my door. I killed, I ended, and then I continued until the next time.
I knew my target was out, at some financial event with people who had been born with money, never knew any different, but always screwed the poor fucks of society out of their share of their happiness. They say money can’t buy it, happiness, but I knew different. It didn’t just pay for contentment; with the right amount of money and just a slither of psychopathy that skewed the needle on the moral compass, money could change everything. Tens of lives in an instant. Money held more money ransom—the more you had, the more you could ruin. I had no doubt Mr Fraser had fucked the wrong man over, lost him a couple of mill that meant his life became worthless, while his death earned a £100,000 price tag.
Letting myself into his apartment, I looked around, trying to find something I could take. This man, this persona of mine, liked to keep souvenirs. I liked to keep mementos, pieces of shit that wouldn’t show up on an insurance report, but things that I would use as my physical tally—exactly how many kills I had on my non-existent conscience. Mr Fraser was surprisingly modest for a rich prick. His furniture was pretty scarce, his bathroom lacking the collection of colognes and grooming kits I saw as a trend amongst the rich, and his wardrobe was pathetic. Polo shirts hobos wouldn’t be seen dead wearing, jeans from the local supermarket, and the dude had a 44-inch waist. With my fingertips protected by the leather gloves I’d pulled on when I got to the front door of his apartment block, I rummaged through his drawers—at least he had Calvin Kleins; he wasn’t a complete lost cause. I grabbed a pair of socks from the drawer, picked up a photograph of him next to a model at some car convention, then I shoved them into my pocket and pulled the zip up. I’d chosen my souvenir and I wouldn’t risk losing it. The second I’d secured the socks in my pocket, my phone pinged from the breast pocket of my shirt. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. I allowed myself to smile when I saw the name of the sender. It managed to clear my thoughts and fill my mind with something I hadn’t felt since I was a kid. Hope.
Ah, my Ariel. The chick I’d been speaking to for weeks, since I stumbled upon her in a chatroom I used to bounce my communication trail. Her profile image was of the redheaded mermaid from the movie and, you see, I’d always had a thing for redheaded cartoons.
I scoffed a laugh, standing in my target’s bedroom, staring down at messages from the only woman who had made no attempt to meet me and let me drag her into bed. She had no interest in me beyond casual conversation and it had become refreshing, less of a challenge and more of an escape where I didn’t have to be a boss or a bad guy.
Ariel signed off just in time. When the digits at the top of the screen flicked to 8pm, I knew it was time. Weirdly, I didn’t want to be the one to cut her off…I refused to dwell on it right now. I stepped back across the room and hid behind the bedroom door. I wanted to listen to his movements for a while. I let the rush of adrenaline and the premature-satisfaction take me. It was like a high, better than any time I’d smoked a joint or snorted a line of coke—which just turned me into a lunatic, so I didn’t do it anymore—and I wanted hit after hit after hit. The ride from every kill got a little duller, until I needed to find something else to intensify the high. I needed to find a way to get back to what I felt the first time. Call it experimentation. Call it indecisiveness. Call it hypocrisy, I didn’t give a fuck. I knew what would happen over every one of the next thirty minutes, but I wasn’t about to deny myself some fun while it all played out.
Mr Fraser made himself a cup of tea, and I knew he took it with three sugars and a shit-ton of milk. Just the thought of the diabetic coma making its way into his stomach made me realise maybe I’d be putting him out of his misery. Some sort of sugar seizure was no way to go. I’d choose a bullet any day. He sat in his leather wingback wit
h the book he’d been reading over the last few nights; I heard the creak of leather, the flipping of the pages, and the crackle of the fire he’d lit to keep himself warm. I almost felt bad that I’d be stealing him away from such a relaxing evening. Then I smiled…I really wasn’t sorry. Neither was the man who had paid me to kill him. When he finished reading, put out the fire and made his way through the hallway towards the bedroom I was still hiding in, I slipped my gun from the waistband of my trousers, unclipped the safety and held it in both hands in front of my legs. I listened to him move around the room from where I hid in the dark corner. He didn’t turn a light on and I almost wished he did, so I could smile and yell, “surprise,” before shooting him. His trousers hit the floor, sent down by his heavy belt to make a loud thud on the carpet. His shirt was next, whooshing to the floor with a grunt from him. Poor Mr Fraser was tired. How much longer should I make him wait? 3…2…1…
“Good evening, Mr Fraser,” I said, stepping out from the shadow.
He jumped, and I saw him pale even in the darkness. He knew. He knew what I was here for, and there was no fear in his eyes.
“It’s amazing what money can buy,” he whispered, raising his hands and turning to face me as he stepped out of his trousers. “Thank you.”
“What?”
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