In fact, I own twenty-three car dealerships. They are spread throughout the Balkans, Germany, Austria, the USA, and Japan. All of these places have their own manager, and they report directly to me if there is any problem. It also doesn’t hurt that I own an entire apartment building complex in Central London.
Yeah, money is good.
But what makes me the most money is my business in killing people. There is no other way to put it, and I fucking love my job. You might ask yourself how I got into this. Well, it’s none of anybody’s business. That information I reserve only for the most important people—the ones I trust the most. And as of right now, that only consists of a handful of people. Adam and Sara, a couple who oversees my business in the Benelux, Hana, my cousin, the best hacker in the industry, and…
“M, we have something for you for your next job,” Oliver states as he and Josh walk in. I met Oliver and Josh while we were allstudying mechanical engineering at MIT. Even though I knew I was destined for this line of business, I valued education as well.
Why? Another piece of information I’m not willing to share.
Anyway, I wanted to study something that would let me use my interests in robotics and my ability to look at problems from different angles. Not to toot my own horn, but I was an excellent student. During my time there, I met two of my best friends, Oliver and Josh. Those two are wild, but extremely loyal.
“Tell me,” I order them as we all sit down in my office. Six years ago, I bought a big house just outside of Sarajevo. It’s close to the city, yet far enough away from prying eyes. The nearest house is three kilometers away, and that’s perfect for what I do.
In my time on this earth, I have learned that ordinary people are not accustomed to hearing other people scream.
Well, I fucking do, and I relish it.
“Marco Jasarevic, forty-one, married with kids, and a clean bill of record,” Josh says as he flips through his papers. Oliver scoffs. “Legally, there is nothing. But, he is a shady motherfucker.”
“Tell me more, Oliver.”
So he does.
“Marco seems really boring. He is an accountant for a midsize firm. But he has been seen at restaurants with teenagers who are not his daughters.”
“This is not going to go well.” Oliver raises an eyebrow at me. It’s like he can smell my rage. “Well, no,” he states. “The girls range from the ages of fourteen to sixteen. They are girls who come here undocumented and seriously under-protected.” I can feel the rage inside me shimmering like a light that only needs a single puff of air to be set on fire. If I smell injustice, I’ll be the right hand of the devil and deliver you straight to him.
Not that I am any better.
“Also, there is something else.” Did I mention I’m angry? I nod at Josh to continue. He slides a stack of photos onto my desk, and when I look at them, I start sweating. While I deal with the worst of the worst of humankind, this asshole is at the bottom of this dark underworld.
“He is a pedophile?” I ask Josh, even though I already know the answer. The photos feature kids with candied apples around them.
Candied. Fucking. Apples.
Marco Jasarevic is the Sweet Snatcher. A pedophile who kidnaps teenagers by luring them with candied apples and other sweet things. He also lures them by acting all nice, but if there is one thing people should know about men, it is this—don’t fucking trust them.
In my world, there have been many mentions of Marco, but nobody could catch the guy.
Not even me.
And now I fucking have him.
But something bothers me. How the fuck did anyone get these pictures and information on him? The man does everything to keep his image clean and always erases all evidence. Nobody in our circle even knew his real name.
A sentiment not lost on me.
“Is this something you both have figured out, or does this come from a client?” I ask Josh. He stares at me with this weird look on his face. With Josh, you can always read his face, but now? There is no emotion, and that is dangerous.
“Neither. It was an anonymous tip.” I grip the armrests of my chair so tightly my knuckles turn white as he puts the document of the anonymous tip on my desk.
“How the fuck did you get this?” I ask my two best friends. Their expressions tell me they know how, but not where it came from. This is the first time I've seen them nervous, andI understand why. It’s normal to exchange information in our world, but always on the record. When someone has information about a threat, whether it’s a person or an organization, we share it through official channels. Each assassin determines the official channel for announcing hits—some prefer courier, others use encrypted email.
If someone wants me to take out a hit, they must contact me via a handwritten letter sent to an apartment I own but don’t live in, in the center of Sarajevo. A hit can be requested over dinner, in my headquarters, or with a simple phone call. But first, they must reach me through my chosen official channel. Because if you do this unofficially, like going to the assassin directly, you’ll get punished. Years ago, there was a serious issue with someone disclosing information that turned out to be false, and innocent people died.
That’s why it’s a law among assassins that any conversation about exchanging information on a hit is recorded. And we do not know where the other person lives.
Keeps your anonymity and increases longevity.
