And yet, I feel nothing.
Numb to the fact that I’ve just killed a man.
I’d read the reports, done enough of my own research to know that the world is better off without that arsehole living in it.
I’m made for this work—that’s what Andrews had said since we first met and he ‘took me under his wing’. No family ties, a shitty upbringing and unresolved baggage that can barely fit in a suitcase tends to be good qualifications. He said I’m a natural fighter, a survivor, and have a cold heart.
Maybe I am cold.
Maybe I have always been destined to be the killer I am.
But maybe I am who I am, because ofhim.
Killing people doesn’t stop me from sleeping like a baby at night.
My first ever kill was sloppy and scrappy—multiple knife wounds to the gut. It was a slow and painful death.
I stood with blood on my hands, dripping from the knife onto the floor, watching the light leave the eyes of my victim.
It was fascinating.
The power I had felt in that moment. The power of taking a life. Besides, he deserved it. I regret nothing.
Fuck, maybe I was a cold-hearted bitch.
I push the tarpaulin that blocks the staircase out of the way and pick up my pace.
“Where are you?”
“Heading to extraction point. Situation?”
“Messy. Police are responding, but it’s like a movie outside the hotel. Poor doorman looked like he was going to shit himself. Hell, I think he did.”
I smile to myself, a small laugh escaping at the image. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, I open my duffel bag, remove my black jacket and top, replacing them with a white one and blazer. Goosebumps pebble along my wet skin as I change quickly.
My black trousers are saturated, but this would at least make me less conspicuous.
“I’m cold,” I admit, as a shiver wracks my body.
“Don’t even think about going home for that Radox bubble bath. This job will be worth it. I’m telling you, you won’t need to work for five years. The payout is unreal.”
“It will be if it means I get you off my arse quicker. What’s the cut?”
“I’ll be a nice guy and go 50/50.”
“Fuck that Andrews, I’ll be doing all the grunt work. 60/40.”
“You want to give me sixty little one? You’re too kind.”
I snort and roll my eyes as I push the door, exiting onto the wet London street in Canary Wharf.
“Hell, I’ll go with those terms, it’s a fucking shit ton of money. BUT it is marginally different from your usual MO,” Andrews continues.
“I hate the sound of this already. Different how?”
“Well, it’s simple really Kara. Instead of taking a life, you’ll be trying to stop a life from being taken.”
“I’m an assassin Andrews, not a fucking bodyguard. Get Grant to do it.”
