Page 5
Come on, fucker. He’ll follow. I know he will. I’d bet everything I have on it. My heartbeats tick out one second after another, ringing in my ears, before a shadow crosses the plastic, blurred but distinct.
I drop into a crouch behind the machinery and listen for one tentative footfall after another. Waiting for me to pounce? Or hoping to get the jump on me? Whether he’s braced for it or not, I attack as soon as his shadow crosses the floor in front of me.
He barely has time to release a strangled groan before we hit the linoleum, with my body on top of his. He’s wiry but steely, driving a knee into my ribs and taking my wind before he delivers a fist to my jaw. He gets the same thing back, then another punch that lands against his nose, before I gain the upper hand, pulling him to his feet and slamming him up against a table saw. His eyes go wide, round with fear, while I fumble with one hand for the power button.
“Who sent you?” I grunt, teeth gritted, while he struggles to break free before I slice him to pieces. “Who are you with?”
He only spits in my face, throwing me off balance long enough to shove me away and take off running. I’m still trying to catch my breath after the beating my ribs took, using my forearm to wipe his DNA from my face while he disappears. Fuck. I might be losing my edge. First that aborted job with the family I couldn’t stomach offing, now I somehow let this asshole get away too? There aren’t many men capable of besting me.
Pulling my phone out again, I check it for real this time after taking it off airplane mode. By the time I get a signal, breathing is a little less of a chore—until the breath catches in my throat when a push notification comes through.
New job listed.
Men in my line of work—women too—can’t exactly go on mainstream job boards to look for assignments. There’s no LinkedIn for contract killers. Anonymous clients tend to be more discreet and much more discerning about the sort of talent they hire. There’s always somebody out there looking to get rid of somebody else. The reasons don’t matter. Only the pay.
At least, that’s normally the case. Right now, the reason matters very much to me.
Because the subject of the top job listing happens to be me. Some anonymous entity has put a hit out on my head.
Meaning my recent run-in won’t be the last.
And I thought a chatty, drooling seatmate would be the worst of my problems today.
Chapter Three
June
I stare at my reflection in the floor-length mirror of my hotel room. I look super cute wearing skinny jeans, a low-cut T-shirt, and adorbs sneakers. Yeah, I know, I’m a basic bitch, but basic bitches can still be cute. I curled my hair, did my makeup, and even put on some strip lashes. I definitely look like I’m ready to go.
Now I wish I could feel the part too.
My phone pings again, another author group chat message coming through with pictures of a bunch of them drinking fancy cocktails at the bar.
Come on and join the fun. The more the merrier! someone writes.
I should go and meet my peers, at least network for a few minutes, but every time I think about heading down there and introducing myself to people I know only from social media, I get more terrified.
Now more than ever I wish Emily were here with me. She would have held my hand through this. And I don’t mean that figuratively. Stupid flu.
I spend thirty more minutes hyping myself up to go before finally settling on room service dinner and getting lost in a book.
Calling the in-house restaurant, I order a steak with a baked potato. The lady on the phone gives me an estimated delivery time of forty-five minutes.
Settling down on the bed, I open my Kindle app and search for a spicy novella to read. When I find something that tickles my fancy, I download it and start reading while I wait for my food.
Thirty minutes later, someone knocks at the door. “Room service,” a deep voice filters through.
Dropping my phone onto the mattress next to me, I jump off the bed and head to the door, glad they got here faster than expected. With my stomach growling and food on my mind, I open the door without looking through the peephole first.
As soon as I take in the guy at my door—dressed in all black, with a bruised face and empty hands—I know something is wrong. I quickly slam the door shut, but he manages to stop it with his foot, making it ricochet back at me.
“That’s not very nice, June.” He calls me by my name, ringing even more alarm bells.
He steps into the room, and I open my mouth to yell “Help” at the top of my lungs.
Unimpressed, he kicks the door shut and pulls a gun from his waistband, pointing it straight at my chest. My scream dies in my throat as I stare at the weapon in absolute shock.
“Is this a joke? This has to be a joke. Yes, it’s for sure a prank,” I answer my own question. “Did my sister put you up to this? Wait! Are you a stripper?” I wouldn’t put it past her to send a guy to give me a lap dance.
