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I had no memory of any of it. I had only borrowed rooms, built from strangers’ words, and I knew every corner of them.

Our lives did not change because the policies changed. The flag changed. The men beneath the uniforms did not. There was still extreme poverty, slums and the old contempt in new paperwork.

The bell above the door jingled. A man in work boots crossed the linoleum behind me. Heavy. Unhurried. Each step landed in my chest.

I did not turn around. I did not need to. The boots in those testimonies had always walked at that pace.

I shut the door on that room before it could open any further.

The same neighbour took pity and carried me over the border. Botswana gave me bread, a bed and a language that was not mine. It did not give me peace. I carried my family’s scars beneath my chest, and they festered from time to time, a reminder of the brutality in their ending.

Hatred could make a man do terrible things, and that was exactly what I became.

Hatred taught me patience. Patience taught me precision. Somewhere along the way, someone noticed and put a price on it.

A weapon to be bought.

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I slipped the newsboy cap on. It sat close enough not to disturb my hair, and the brim dropped low enough to bend my face away from any stray camera on the walk back to the motel.

The bell chimed as I stepped out of the diner. The rain had thinned to a mist. A slight breeze lifted the scent of wet earth and bruised leaves. I paused and breathed it in. Whatever I had left in that booth could stay there.

Vadim had offered me a seat at his table more than once. I had refused. The Bratva had trained me and paid me, and I had worked beside its men when a contract needed more hands, but I would not wear anyone's name. Freelance. Beholden to no one. The thought of being trapped beneath another man still made my skin crawl.

Zero understood that. It was why he called. Neutral enough to be trusted by men who trusted nobody, and the first to put someone down if they broke his rules. There was no mercy in our world. I had never needed any.

My stride lengthened as I mapped the route in my head. The hit was not in the port itself but just beyond its fence line, which meant easier access and a cleaner exit. Harlan Street ran trucks through there under Bayou Ridge Logistics. Their men would be around. Armed, probably.

A state senator had no business being there at night. But men like Calloway wore their education and their manners like costumes for the gullible. Whatever he had tangled himself in would cost him his life.

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I slid my finger down the lapel of my long coat before pushing it open. Everything but the rifle would weigh it down. I tested the weight of the grenade in my hand before slipping it into an empty pocket.

The harness held the spare Glock.

I settled it beneath my left arm and rolled my shoulder until the leather stopped creaking. Warm steel against cool cotton. The weight was familiar, as constant as my own pulse.

The primary went on my right hip. I drew the magazine, weighed it in my palm without looking, and seated it again with the heel of my hand. A smooth rack of the slide. A round in the chamber. Seventeen shots. Seventeen was a number I hoped never to need.

The other pistol lay on the bed where I had left it. A CZ, older, well kept, the bluing worn at the edges by hands that were not mine. I thumbed the safety and dry-fired once into the pillow. The trigger broke clean and honest. A good gun.

It went back in the bag. I did not carry weapons I had not earned.

Three spare magazines disappeared into the coat. The suppressor followed into an inside pocket, cold against my chest. A folding knife slid into my boot beside the ankle. Out of habit I coiled a length of thin black cord and tucked it away, because my hands had always needed something to do that was not killing.

The rifle stayed in its case at the foot of the bed, broken down and waiting. I ran my thumb along the latch. It would ride in the car. Whatever the night became, it would begin at a distance.

I turned to the mirror above the dresser. A long coat. A newsboy cap tipped low. Hands loose at my sides. No bulge. No clink. A man out for a walk in the rain.

Behind me the window unit rattled and a television laughed through the thin wall. The sign hummed and flickered.

I switched off the lamp.

Time to work.

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