Contracts like this don’t come along often. They’re reserved forhigh-profile targets, the kind of targets who are impossible to take out, the kind of targets who would only ever be pursued by a select few assassins at the very top of their game.
Contracts like this get people like me killed before they’ve even breathed in the scent of their morning coffee. This shit is no joke. It’s as serious as it gets, and if successful, would launch someone into superstardom within our industry. They would never be questioned again, never accused of just getting lucky.
My ego rushes in, and as I go to hit accept, I hesitate.
Am I ready to take on a contract like this? My head hasn’t really been in the game these past few days. Hell, it hasn’t been in the game since Raiden stormed into my life like a fucking nuclear strike. But maybe this is the distraction I need to focus on to finally be able to put Raiden out of my mind. God knows I need one.
Maybe this is fate. Maybe the angels are looking down on me in my dirty sweatpants, watching me annihilate Flamin’ Hot Cheetos like they’re a personality trait, and had a little angelic meeting among themselves, because how else would you explain a contract like this appearing on my phone today?
I blow out a loud breath, placing my phone on the coffee table and getting to my feet. I pace in front of it for at least ten minutes, going over all the pros and cons.
If I do this, it could potentially be certain death. If I fail, I will forever feel invalidated. If I screw it up, it’s my head on a fucking platter.
Buuuuuuut, if I pull it off? Well . . . I suppose nothing would really change. Guess I’d feel pretty fucking good about myself, and it is the perfect distraction from assholes with redwood monster cocks that swing around like fucking helicopter blades and destroy everything in their paths.
Fuck.
I dive for the accept button before I have a chance to change my mind and immediately start to freak out.
“Ahhh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
It becomes my new catchphrase, and I repeat it for a good twenty minutes while still pacing in front of the coffee table. Then, deciding I can’t possibly research this job before getting my shit together, I promptly start stripping in the living room, tossing Cheeto-stained clothes across my apartment on my way to the bathroom.
Stepping into the shower, my head spins, and as the water rains down on me, I scrub myself silly, continuing my impromptu freak-out.
After finishing up and making myself look like a respectable human being, I settle back into the couch and reach for my laptop. My eyes drift over the empty food containers around me, and the mess starts to scream at me like a raging raccoon trapped in a trash can. I sigh. There’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate like this. So, setting my laptop aside, I start cleaning everything up. Honestly, I may just be delaying the inevitable. Maybe Spikezilla would like to go for a walk before I get started.
Once I thoroughly run out of excuses, and my whole apartmentis perfect, I finally reach for my laptop again. Making sure it’s fully charged, I take it straight to my island counter, pull out a chair, and take a seat.
Contracts like these are different.
Once it reaches a particular level, all details are concealed until after the job has been accepted, and as I open my latest contract and scan over the target details, my jaw slackens, shock rushing through my body.
No wonder this is such a huge payout.
My hand falls away from the keyboard, and I lean back in my chair, just staring at the screen. There’s no fucking way this is the job that’s just come my way. If Raiden were here, I’d already be knocking on his door, desperately seeking his opinion on how to approach this, not even caring if it made me look incompetent, because honestly, he’s probably the only person on the planet capable of pulling something like this off.
Target Name: Unknown.
Alias: Lazarus.
Designation: Tier Black.
No confirmed date of birth. No verified nationality. No real name on record.
Lazarus is less a man and more a classified rumor—a ghost stitched together from redacted files and sealed indictments. Allegedly, a former biochemical containment specialist turned rogue asset, accused of trafficking weaponized pathogens and confidential research acrossborders. The kind of accusation that doesn’t make headlines because headlines would cause riots.
There haven’t been any confirmed sightings in over three years. No photographs. No facial biometrics. Not a single crumb of information. Every supposed lead has dissolved into nothing but chilling silence.
From what little information past attempts have managed to string together, Lazarus relocates every forty-eight hours, moves through military-grade safe houses, and travels under the protection of rotating ex-special operations contractors.
Attempts have been made. Three confirmed teams. All of them failed, with one disappearing entirely. Which explains the generous payout.
Contracts like this don’t come from angry billionaires or jealous ex-wives. They come from higher up. The kind of higher-ups who don’t sign their names, but come with presidential seals. It’ll never be confirmed who ordered this hit, but it doesn’t need to be. I already know.
Lazarus isn’t just listed as dangerous—he’s classified as an imminent threat to global stability. To life as we know it. The file doesn’t spell out the details, but it doesn’t have to. Words like “catastrophic” and “containment failure” tend to fill in the blanks on their own.
And now he’s sitting in my inbox.
