“It is not,” I say. “Not as you expect, at least.”
“Who is this?” asks the voice.
“A nobody unless you bring me in,” I say.
A mocking laugh echoes in my ears through the speaker, just like the man under my knee.
I hate men. What I hate more are men who have no respect.
“Poor Simon here told me the same, and I advise you to listen closely,” I say. “You can either bring me in and have me as your friend and for your cause, or I’ll bring you all down. I have all your names. I know about the pills, the Prime Minister of the UK, I know about your targets, and I know that Jared Sutton had very, very sensitive information. You may have deleted them, but I have copies.”
I emphasize my last words with an arrogant glee.
Silence follows.
I wait patiently. I hear no breathing, so I am sure I’m put on mute.
“Wait for transit,” the man on the phone finally says.
“Just so you know, killing me will transfer all the data to the public. I have insurance,” I say, “so don’t you dare try anything on me.”
The man growls. I interpret it as confirmation, yet I won’t trust them a second.
“I figure Koehler is still alive?” the man asks.
“Can confirm,” I say. “He is unable to move, though. And he’s leaking.”
“He’s been a liability; take care of it.”
One misstep and you’re dead. So much about God’s will.
“I understand,” I say and hang up.
“Well,” I say, pull the gun and drive a bullet through the back of his head. His body turns limp as I say, “It’s bye-bye after all.”
I get up, take all the guns just as a precaution, and take care of my arm, which is just a minor through-and-through, no major arteries hit, and will heal by itself. I also clean any traces of me.
Then I wait.
I wonder how they recognized the trespassing. So, as I get bored of waiting, I use the time to check for anything remotely security-related, but I can’t find anything. I should’ve taken my tool for finding electric cables with me.
Transit arrives, and I wait for them with a drawn gun as the door opens.
Two men appear, no guns; they point me outside. I lower my gun and follow them. A black full-size GMC SUV waits outside, and I enter.
A man in a suit sits in the back seat, his gaze as cold as curious. His eyes tell me all I need to know: grey, disengaged, while murderously delighted. I know a psychopath when I see one. It’s not that I am repulsed by them; I actually enjoy them because they can be very predictable and unemotional, unlike other, overemotional humans. Can be, because the right trigger can make them emotional, murderous monsters. It’s a thin line. I know what I am talking about.
“So, who are you?” he asks, and I recognize the voice from the phone.
“I have many names,” I say and stare outside the window. “Right now, I am someone with aligned interests,” I say.
“And why might that be?”
“Lilian Anne Knightley,” I say, and turn to look him straight in the eye.
He glances at me with eyes as slits, probably analyzing me equally and determining what to do with me.
“Your men ambushed my mission,” I say. “As a result, Knighltey’s watchdog killed them both and almost got to me, too.”
