But no one is there.
Just the silence, the porch light buzzing faintly overhead. And the blood.
12
Anton
Blyat.
There’s blood in my trunk, and I’m the one who put it there.
I didn’t plan on killing anyone today.
Wasn’t even supposed to be that kind of night. Follow the lead, watch the girl, report back. But plans don’t mean shit when a man pulls a gun two feet from a target I haven’t decided what to do with yet.
Now there’s a body leaking into a tarp, and I’ve got more questions than I started with.
Walther P22 with a threaded suppressor. Custom-tuned. Clean shot. One to the base of the skull. No screams, no second chances. Just silence, the way I like it.
The pistol’s still warm when I set it back in the glove compartment.
I watch the house from three cars down, headlights off, engine cold. The porch light flickers, buzzing against the night.
She steps out. Just for a second.
Shoulders hunched. Eyes wide. Arms crossed like she’s trying to hold herself together. She scans the street, breath shallow, like she’s expecting something to leap out of the shadows. Her gaze lands near the gravel. Her body stiffens. She sees it.
The blood.
“Blyat,” I mutter under my breath. Not fast enough. I should’ve cleaned the scene better. Should’ve dragged the body further out before the shot. Now she’s seen the aftermath. If she calls the cops, this quiet block turns into a crime scene, and I’m the asshole holding the matches.
She freezes.
Stares at the dark patch like she’s trying to rewire her brain on the spot.
Her palm cracks against her own cheek. Hard. A jolt to force herself back into denial.
She shakes her head, muttering something I can’t hear, twisting the moment into a version she can live with. Something explainable.
She drifts to the hose, fumbling at the knob. The stream sputters out, too weak to wash anything away, just enough to smear blood into mud.
She bolts back inside, quick enough that the screen door rattles on its hinges. A lock clicks. Curtains shift.
She’s scared. She should be.
Whoever sent that man wanted her gone; quiet, clean, before she even touched the door.
They were late.
I wasn’t.
The man came from the alley; no hesitation, no wasted motion. Baseball cap pulled low, jacket zipped tight. Tall. Right build for a pro. Close enough to be local. Quiet enough not to be.
He had a suppressed Ruger tucked under his shirt. Reached for it just as he cleared the fence line. Two more steps and he would’ve had a clean angle on her front door.
I didn’t give him the third.
Now he’s cooling in the trunk, body wedged between a tire iron and a contractor tarp I bought from a Home Depot two citiesover. No wallet. Burner phone. No ID. Just a weapon and the look of someone who was there to finish something.
