Greyson blinks slowly. “No… Viper is aman.”
“Cut the misogynistic bullshit.”
“You’re not shitting me? You’re actually fuckingViper?” Greyson asks disbelievingly.
“Would you like an autograph?” I deadpan.
Greyson abruptly stands from the table, taking a step back as if I’m radioactive waste threatening to poison him.
“Your estimated kill counts are in the hundreds,” Greyson says. “You never fail. You’ve… you’re suspected to have killed someNighthawks.”
I frown at him. “Have I? How many?” I remember the one, but there weremore?
“You don’tremember?” he says disbelievingly.
I shrug. “The faces started to blur after the first few.”
“I…” he shakes his head. Gazes at the one-way mirror. “I think I have what I need. Uh… welcome to the Nighthawk’s Fortress.”
“I’m going to blow this place and everyone in it up if you don’t release me,” I say conversationally.
The door creaks open. A new, unfamiliar man stands in the doorway. I appraise him carefully; he’s tall, has multicolored eyes—blue, grey, green—dark sable hair, and a stubborn jaw. His eyes are the sort of empty that I’m used to seeing in sociopaths or psychopaths… or people so traumatized, they avoid mirrors.Such as myself.
His posture is straight. His muscles are so stacked, I’malmostintimidated. He stares at me with a flat intensity that raises goosebumps on my skin.
“You won’t be blowing anything up.” He steps inside. “Though I do admire your determination. And your handiwork. If I placed any value in human life and creation, I might consider myself a fan of yours.”
“Offer for an autograph is still on the table.” I roll my shoulders. “Cain, I presume?”
“The one and only.” His tone is drier than a desert. “Viper,” he says succinctly. “Wonderful to meet you.”
“Is it?”
“Not really.” He sighs, glancing at Greyson. “Get out.”
Greyson’s upper lip curls into a snarl as he looks at Cain. His jaw clenches, and then he speedwalks out.
Trouble in paradise?Something I can capitalize on?
“Would you mind if we skip the fatuous small talk and cut to the chase?” he closes the metal door and stalks towards the table, carrying himself with a lethal predatory grace.
“Not at all. Small talk is a waste of time—”
“And neither of us have the time to waste.” Cain offers me an approving nod. Apparently, Viper commands some respect around these parts.
He helps himself to the seat Greyson vacated. “I’m at a bit of a loss. You’re Maximus’ chosen; it’s his prerogative to claim you.”
“And my opinion has no value?”
“None whatsoever,” Cain confirms. “Mine, however, does. You’re not a typical chosen or a mere piece of property; if you are indeed Viper—which, considering Max’s state and the tales he told, seems likely—then you’re a valuable resource to me. You’re an extremely successful assassin.”
“According to Greyson, executioner.”
“On my list of priorities, listening to Greyson’s philosophical bullshit ranks somewhere between giving myself a lobotomy and taking a cheese grater to my eardrums.”
The corner of my lip ticks up. All of my alarm sensors are blaring around Cain, warning me that he’s an extremely dangerous individual, but he’s also amusing and frank. I don’tdislike him, though I immediately clock that he’d kill me if he saw the slightest benefit in doing so.
Contrary to popular opinion, sociopaths and psychopaths are actually the best people to work with. They’re extremely predictable in that they’llalwayschoose themselves above all others—save, perhaps,for any permanent object of fixation they might find. I prefer dealing with someone on the antisocial spectrum rather than someone who’s a slave to their emotions—in other words, most people.
