Page 3 of Trigger Happy Ending

Texas bucks in his chair, eyes wide in terror. Chains clang on the concrete floor, the soundtrack of a man desperately trying to escape his situation. There’s no use; it’s all in vain. He is stuck, strapped, and trapped.

“Bet this isn’t how you expected the night to play out.” I screw on the suppressor. “You paid for a high-class escort; but got a world-class assassin instead.”

Texas fights against his restraints, his chest heaving as he hopelessly tries to break free.

“I’m sure you have questions. Like, ‘Why me? What did I do?’ Just know you’ve landed on the shit list of some very important people. And those people?”

I step towards him. Roughly, I grab his chin and force his gaze to mine.

“They want you fucking dead.”

Releasing his chin, I roughly push his head away and notice a dark stain spreading on his underwear. My nose involuntarily screws up in disgust. It’s to be expected though. Losing control of one’s bladder is a byproduct of extreme terror. It’s a physiological response triggered by fight-or-flight mode. The body prioritizes energy for more useful functions, such as keeping your heart beating in moments such as this.

Still. It’s gross.

“Any last words?”

Furiously, he nods his head, eyes darting to the gag ball, signaling for me to remove it. Like that would ever happen. I don’t need to hear him beg and plead for his life. Snot runs from his nostrils as he sobs, the sound echoing around the basement.

Ugh, fuck his answer.

He has a gag ball in his mouth anyway.

I shrug my shoulders, pursing my lips together. “Guess not.”

Raising my weapon, I level the firearm between his eyes and pull the trigger. A silent death follows; the only evidence a shot has been fired is the carnage splattered on the floor. You know—blood, brain matter, shards of skull. The usual.

Proof of a job well done, I guess.

***

Do you loathe me yet? Find my murderous career hard to stomach? I don’t blame you. I get it. I really do. But here’s the honest truth: Someone has to do it. If it wasn’t for people like me—the dirty deed doers—then many uglier, nastier people would still be alive, doing uglier, nastier things to innocent people like you.

“Angel?”

A curt British accent cuts through the thick, death-enhanced basement air. I’ve just finished removing my corset, heart still racing from the hit. I yank a loose shirt over my head and shoot daggers at the man who now stands at the bottom of the basement stairs.

I hate being interrupted mid get-the-fuck-out-of-here routine.

The Cleaner moves and stands over Texas’s dead body, glasses sliding down his nose. In this business, there are no names, no pleasantries, only codenames and roles. In the Agency, everything is a secret. Identities, missions, all of it confidential. Because, to the world, the Agency doesn’t exist. It’s a myth, a rumor, a made-up story told at dinner parties or theorized online in conspiracy forums. But for those of us unlucky enough to be tethered to it, it’s the only thing that does exist.

The Englishman is the Cleaner. A highly skilled body remover who tends to most of my assignments. And me? I’m the Angel of Death.

Cringe, I know. The Agency has a flair for dramatics.

On assignment, I’m often referred to as Angel. One name, like Madonna. But my real name is Raine Maddox. Not that anyone in this fucked-up family calls me that. Once upon a time, I didn’t mind, preferring to forget I was once a normal girl. But now I’m thirty, I’m questioning everything, resenting it all and done pretending I’m okay.

You might be wondering why I don’t simply leave if I hate it so much.

The uncomplicated answer is this: it’s impossible. One does not ‘leave’ the Agency. You live by the sword, you die by the sword, and all that bullshit. I guess one could say the Agency is my oppressor and my liberator. They took me in when my mother was killed, and I had nowhere to go. I was so young and naive, I thought they were my saviors. But they became my captors.

The only way out for me is death.

And sometimes, I wish that would fucking hurry up.

It’s fucked up.

I’m fucked up.