“You need to stay.”
“Stay?”
“Yes. Stay. With me…”
1
Fallon
2 years later
“You needto be in Denver the day after tomorrow. I booked a plane. Then from there you fly to California. You only have twenty-four hours for that job. So, your ass needs to be quick. And then right back to New York. Sorry for the breakneck schedule. I’ll make sure you have extra hydrating cream packed for the jetlag,” March chews my fucking ear off.
“Jesus, man, take a breath.”
There is dead silence on his end. “Well, excuse me for keeping your shit together and this partnership running like a well-oiled machine. The mercenary business is booming, and you are number one on the most-wanted list. As in everyone wants to hire you ’cause you’re the motherfucking queen of the castle.” His tone is classic, snarky March.
“Can you shut up for three seconds so I can take care of this job?” I have been sweltering on a hot New York City roof for an hour. My mark is late. Motherfucker.
“That’s all you get. Three seconds.” Silence.
That is surely not enough.
“Can I continue now?”
“You mean there’s more?”
“Isn’t there always?”
“With you? Yes.”
He audibly sighs. “I have a date tonight. I have to spin you up on everything before my facial. I’ll be offline for the rest of day . . . and night, if I’m lucky.”
“When don’t you get lucky?”
“Meh, barely ever.” He’s such a cocky fuck sometimes. “You have a new email that needs your immediate attention, and Ronan Kennedy is requesting dinner. Again.”
My stomach drops from the request. “I’ll check the email as soon as I’m done here, and give him my usual answer.”
“You’re busy washing your hair? I think that excuse is so old it fossilized. He seemed quite insistent.”
“I’m not interested. I work jobs for him. That’s it.”
“I’ll relay the message.Again.”
“Thank you.” I perk up as there is movement in the hotel room across the street. Finally, some action. I peer through the scope, getting a better look at the businessman who is about to meet his maker.Andthe prostitute who is keeping him company. Fuck. She’s a complication. Well, a minor complication.
“You give that man one hell of the runaround.”
I tune March out for a second as I watch the two move around the room, in and out of my line of sight.
“I don’t give him the runaround . . .” I inhale a deep breath as they both stand by the window. He has his suit jacket off and the top of his white dress shirt unbuttoned. He looks like a douche. Stringy hair, smug expression, beer belly. I’m doing this pros a favor. Who the hell would want to fuck that? Even if he was paying.
The moment strikes as she walks away, and I pull the trigger. The window explodes, and you can hear her scream clear across the street. He’s gone, and so am I. “Idon’t give him the runaround,” I finish my sentence as I fold up my rifle in six seconds flat. “I straight up avoid him.” I slip the metal pieces into a black poster tube and secure the top. Grabbing my wide-brimmed summer hat, I slip it onto my head as I disappear into the stairwell.
Adding a pair of dark sunglasses from my back pocket, I hightail it down the stairs as March yammers away. I swear he just talks to hear himself sometimes.
Making it to the first floor of the building, I exit the stairway and walk straight into a busy art gallery. There is a function going on. Lots of people dressed in black, just like me, sipping expensive champagne, fawning over some hideous piece of art. I stop to look at one that has drawn a crowd.
