Ian might enjoy killing, but I’m not on his hit list. Besides, we genuinely like each other. Neither of us can say that about many people.
“Good morning.”
“It is a good morning. What a view.” He sidles up beside me, gaze fixed on the narrow strip of orange sunrise, and touches a hand to my shoulder in greeting. Beside me, Bear growls a warning, ever the protective running partner.
I don’t look Ian’s way, not yet. I settle into his presence, his company. It’s a unique camaraderie that we share, being the same sort ofdifferentin a world that doesn’t recognize or understand us. And if it did, would be all the more terrified.
There’s also the fact that for him to be here means he followed me. Which means I’m followable. I should have noticed I had a tail. When I do glance at his face, he peers back with his familiar amber eyes, long nose, pronounced cheekbones. He’s more interesting to look at than handsome, and yet, I like his face. Ian’s a friend, a colleague, and the only other assassin I’ve ever met.
We did our first job together twelve years ago, back when wewere both new on the scene. He helped me fill some gaps in my knowledge—after all, I was fresh out of college. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I’d like to blame the pull I feel toward him on the fact that we were both in our twenties when we met, high on the reality we could literally work as assassins instead of toiling away behind a desk for the rest of our lives. But it’s not that. It’s plain and simple attraction, like-minded people who are genuinely drawn to one another—physically and otherwise—who’ve nevergone there, never tested those waters.
Who never will, for that matter. Beyond the fact that it would obviously interfere with our ability to work together, I’m happy with my husband, happy in my family—I won’t let anyone threaten that. Thankfully, in all the years we’ve known one another, we’ve gotten better at ignoring it. Instead, we meet randomly and talk through the wild, unexpected moments from our best jobs. Sometimes, we grab a beer down on the River Walk and catch up. And on rare occasions, we go to his weapon store, a ten-foot-by-twenty-foot storage unit that holds guns and knives and weaponry I can’t even name—one of half a dozen he has strategically placed throughout the country—and pull out guns to take to the shooting range. Like anyone with a calling, we have fun immersing ourselves in the tools of our trade. And always,always, I am honest with him, honest like I can be with no one else. When you’re living a lie—even a partial one—it’s a relief to have someone you can tell the raw truth. I’m pretty sure he feels the same.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask. Though we text regularly, Ian doesn’t come around just to socialize. Twelve years ago, after that long weekend spent killing three mobsters, we went our separate ways and only see each other a couple times a year. Whenever he’s coming through San Antonio, or if we happen to get the rareopportunity to do a job together. It’s safer that way, but I miss him in between visits, crave our easy conversation.
“Job.” He shrugs his big shoulders. “Want to walk?”
“I’m actually out for a run.” I look at him pointedly.
He cracks a grin. “Okay. Want torun, then?”
We take off at an easy jog. I’m tempted to sprint ahead, to see how long he can keep up or if he can outrun me. I smirk at the thought but don’t do it. If he’s found me here, in the wee hours of the morning, with no one else around, it’s because he wants to really talk. This isn’t a social call, it’s a work one, and Ian takes our business very seriously.
“How’s work?”
“It’s good.” I consider. “Really good.”
“And life?” His gaze searches mine. There were about two seconds during that job twelve years ago when I wondered what a life withhimwould be like. Someone who knows who I truly am, what I am, because he is the same. Someone who understands how my mind works, that I can kill people without being a complete monster in every aspect of my life. At the time, I held off due to professionalism, and honestly, being unsure how he felt—I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. Then I met Brian and realized I could have a normal life, like my mom and dad, and my siblings too. At least, normal on the surface.
I suspect Ian and I would have ended terribly. We may be drawn to one another, but if he’s dynamite, then I’m the spark. It would have been fun and exciting—until we both ended up dead. But still, he gets me in a way no one else can, because no one else in my life is like me.
Ian clears his throat, bringing me back to the moment, to his question—How is life?I try to formulate a response that’s honestand doesn’t give him more detail than necessary. The more we know, the more we could hurt one another if someone nabbed one of us and got us to talk. Like a government or any of the societies that pretend to not exist.
“I’m happy.” I point with my chin up a steep climb that levels out near The Lodge, a fancy-schmancy club settled between multimillion-dollar homes where I’ve pulled off a hit before. This route is the only way to get back to the dam I want to run across before I head back toward my neighborhood. But it’s two or three miles of sprawling, knotted oaks, manicured lawns, and stately homes between here and there, so we have plenty of time. And at this hour, almost no one’s out. “How about you?”
He shrugs. “I’m happy too.”
I know he has a wife. A kid. I don’t know their names, and I’ve never visited his home. If everything goes as it should, I never will.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says, unreadable. He has no nervous twitches, no easy-to-decipher extraneous movements that offer me insight into what’s happening in his head. I’ve often wondered how he learned to be that way, or if it came naturally. My biggest tell is clenching my jaw, grinding my teeth. I’m pretty good at hiding it, at least from everyone besides my dentist.
We slow to a walk as the incline increases.
“Okay.” I know I’ll have to wait until he’s formulated the words in his head. He doesn’t feel the need to fill the empty space like so many others do.
We finish climbing the hill, huffing as we crest the top. A woman in her eighties gives us a little wave, then bends down slowly, retrieving her newspaper. She turns to go inside, her bathrobe wrapped tightly around her slight body. Someday, that willbe me. I won’t be so capable, won’t be able to do my job anymore. Or maybe it will just be one more disguise. No one suspects a little old lady. The thought makes me smile.
“I was offered a job I think should have been yours. That’s why I’m passing through town, headed south—for work.”
It takes me a second to reply. “Go on.”
“It’s in Mexico. I had to travel a thousand miles here, and now I have to drive five hours across the border. It’s a big job, a dangerous dude and his security team. But it’s a big payoff, half a mil. I suggested you for it since you’re closer, but—” His gaze darkens. We break into a run again, taking a sharp turn down a wooded road. “They said you weren’t quite right.”
I don’t know everything about how Ian works, but I know he has no handler—that he works directly with the people who want killing done—sometimes contracted by the same organization I work with and sometimes freelancing. It’s a risk, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Or maybe he wants to keep the twenty percent I pay out to John.
I turn this information over in my head. I travel for work every couple of months, and Mexico is just south of the border. But there might be more to it than that. “I mean…there are jobs they’d choose me for over you. If they wanted it to look like an accident or needed a woman. Whereas you’ll kill anyone, and I—”
“Won’t?” he fills in. “Yes, you have…ethics.” He says it as though it’s distasteful, then clears his throat and wipes the back of his hand over his forehead. “It’s not that. I got the impression they didn’t think you could do it. Orshoulddo it.” A cyclist zooms past us going the opposite direction, and he waits until they’re out of earshot. “Because you’re a woman. A wife. A mom.”
