I waste no time.Pulling out my phone, I dial Atlas, knowing he’ll be able to handle this with the urgency and discretion it demands.Oleg dies tonight, and not even this surprise woman is going to stop that from happening.I just have to get her to safety without alerting Oleg that I’m here.
“Atlas, it's me,” I say the moment he answers.
“What's wrong?”
“I've got a pickup for you.A woman, badly beaten.She's unconscious,” I explain, sparing him the details he doesn't need to hear over the phone.
“Where?”
“Venetian.Room 2312.I'm moving her next door.”I break 2312 the same way I got in 2310 and carry her in.She’s so light.I carefully cut the tape off her wrists and ankles, pulling it from her mouth as gently as I can.She doesn’t stir and my stomach drops.She’s breathing, but out cold.I lay her on the bed, and tell Atlas, “she’s ready for you.”
“Understood.I'll take care of it.Anything else?”
“No.Make sure she gets to a hospital and that they find her family,” I say, a rare plea that he understands all too well.I deal in the dead but it’s Atlas who finds the living, saves women and children like this one and before now I never realized how hard his side of things must be.
“Always do.Be careful,” Atlas responds before the line goes dead.She's no longer my responsibility.My focus narrows back to Oleg.
I position myself in a shadowed corner back in room 2310, the perfect vantage point from which to spring my trap.The wait begins, every passing second drawing Oleg closer to his reckoning.Tonight, theMachine’sshadow looms large and is poised to strike with lethal precision.
Forty minutes pass before I hear the lock react to the keycard.Oleg stumbles into the room, his movements sloppy and uncoordinated.He clumsily kicks off his shoes, shedding his jacket and tie barely hooking them on the back of a chair.
He shuffles toward the bathroom, mumbling to himself in Russian.I step in behind, take his forehead in my palm and tilt his head back.The line of his throat exposes itself.The blade in my other hand glints faintly in the low light, a brief herald of the end.In one swift, clean motion, I draw the blade across his throat, my signature method.A silent, efficient kill.
I guide him forward into the tub as his body begins to slump.The thud of his body is muffled by the porcelain, a sound swallowed by the confines of the room.Before the first drop of blood can mar the pristine floor, I turn the cold water on full.Blood dilutes, evidence washes.I wipe what I touched with a bleach pad, the tub handle, the door edge, then peel off my gloves into a pocket, and leave the faucet running.The water serves a dual purpose.Not only does it erase any possible trace evidence, but it also sets a timer on the discovery of the scene.Eventually, the continuous flow of water will raise alarms, prompting a visit from housekeeping or hotel management long after I've vanished into the night.
I take one last look at the scene.I don’t take any photos, or pull a Sava and chop off any body parts.Travis doesn’t need any of that.He knew the second he sent me the file that Oleg wouldn’t leave Vegas alive.His confirmation will come when Oleg’s body is discovered and my payment will come in the form of the investigation running cold and remaining unsolved.
Exiting the Venetian, the cool night air of Las Vegas is a balm against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat that had built up within me during the execution of my task.The city's lights blur as I make my way home.
Once home, the silence of my own space envelops me, a stark reminder of the solitude that comes with my line of work.I strip out of my suit, each piece discarded like a layer of the day's weight, and step into the shower.The hot water cascades over me, attempting to wash away more than the physical remnants of the night.I'm exhausted, not from the physical toll of the day's events but from the heavy knowledge of what I've done.Yes, I've eliminated another monster, a man whose existence brought suffering to countless others.I'm skilled in this grim art.Really fucking good at it.I believe in the necessity of my actions, convinced that in removing such evil, I'm contributing to some greater good.Convinced that London is proud of what we’ve done for her,becauseof her.
But the part I never say out loud?I don't believe men like me get to be loved.I did a necessary thing to a bad man—that’s true.It’s also true I like how clean the cuts always are.I carry the high home every single time.The cut, the blood, it’s never stopped thrilling me.Stack that against a woman who laughs with her whole throat and reads before bed, and the math never works.Even if she said yes, I’d track blood across her rugs.I’d teach her to live with locks and cameras and the taste of iron ever present in her mouth.
London is the proof.The night she disappeared the light went out.Uncle Leven put a blade in my hand and built theMachinehe needed, and I let him—gladly.The Accord exists because we failed her once; I became its knife because I will not fail her twice.If a thousand men stand between her and a grave, I will cut a thousand throats and call it prayer.That’s the undeniable truth that sits between me and Melinda.I’m not a future; I’m a consequence.Whatever good I have left is mortgaged to a girl who never got to grow up.
I slide into bed, exhausted but wired.I want to call Melinda so badly my thumb aches for the screen.I don’t.I can’t.I had Adrian cut my access, and I’m not walking it back…yet.Distance is the best thing I can give her.
I lie there with the day still under my nails.The metallic tang of it, the hum that comes after you end a man and pretend it doesn’t rattle you.It’s not that I feel bad, it’s not that kind of rattle.It’s that every kill takes a little more from me and there’s been enough of them now that I’m not sure what’s left to take.I don’t talk about that with anyone, not even Sava.I can end life without guilt, without remorse, but there’s still a weight that comes with taking something sacred.And life is sacred, even when it’s attached to the scum of the earth.I bet Lindy would understand.She’d be able to comfort me without offering stopping as an option, because if she knew the whole truth she’d want me to keep killing.She’d want me to find London.And that unconditional understanding is precisely why I shouldn’t ever go near her again.
I told Adrian seventy-two hours.No Melinda.No slipups.I meant it when I said it; I don’t know if I mean it now.I didn’t expect it to be so hard.I didn’t expect to miss her in my bones.Maybe going cold turkey is the wrong move.I’m addicted, so weaning me off is probably the better choice.
The need crawls up my spine.The need to hear her voice, prove she’s breathing, then I’ll stay away.That’s the lie I feed myself while I stare at the black square where her app icon used to be.
I last another eight minutes.
Where is she?
I text Adrian.
He replies almost immediately:
Adrian:
You said 72 hours.
This isn’t actual contact.
I just need to know she’s safe.
