CHAPTER 1 - Deimos
I don't believe in mistakes.
Mistakes are for careless men. Emotional men. Men who act before they think. I'm not one of them.
Every moment I make is measured. Every breath is deliberate. Every life I take is decided long before my arm ever tightens around their throats.
The rain doesn't care about my precision. It turns clean plans into mud. The grave is too shallow. Water gathers at the bottom, swallowing the sharp edges I carved an hour ago.
My boots sink deeper with every shift of my weight. The shovel slips once. Twice. I adjust the grip. I always adjust.
The sirens start as a tremor in the distance. Not for me. Too far. Wrong direction. They grow louder anyway.
I calculate distance. Wind direction. Response time. The forest sits eight miles from the highway. The average patrol interval at this hour is thirteen minutes. I've been here eleven.
Eleven is acceptable.
The shovel hits stone. I curse under my breath. Not because of the noise, but because I should have checked the soil density twice. I always check twice.
Rain runs down my face, into my eyes. Or maybe that's sweat. My pulse is steady. It has to be steady. Fuck. I replay the last hour in my head. My jaw tightens.
The handshake.
It was brief. Calculated. Intentional. A performance. But skin is skin. Pressure is pressure. But he was sweating. I would have felt it though. Wouldn't I?
The sirens are closer now. Or maybe the rain is distorting the sound. Hard to measure acoustics in a storm. The grave is still too shallow. I don't rush. I don't panic. And yet, I'm digging faster than I should.
Tonight…
I made a hell of a mistake.
The kind of mistake that doesn't bleed. That kind that waits to be found.
And someone is about to find it.
When I finally bury the bastard, I head to my car, leaving the fresh crime scene behind. My phone vibrates; a client waiting for my confirmation. The vibration is still quieter than the pounding in my head. The job is done. Almost.
The handshake. It shouldn't matter. The probability of trace recovery is minimal. Even if they found something, it wouldn't lead them to me. But I don't deal in probability. I deal in certainty. At that moment I decided to erase my mistake. Even the word itself cuts deeper than I cut him.
I glance toward the trees as distant headlights cut through the rain. They'll find him soon. I know they will. But sadly for them... I know exactly where that body will be transported. Wealth buys discretion. In the second they find out it was a "Carlo Gambino."—An importantmafia member.
They'll transport him in the private mortuary on the other side of the town. And I'll be there, destroying the evidence before it causes trouble. I'm not in the mood to hide in another state.
I regain my posture and map out the entry.I pull the black hood over my head, adjusting the fabric until only my eyes remain. I don’t like hiding my face, there’s a certain power inbeing seen and not stopped, but until I know the exact layout of this mortuary, I won’t risk the mess of getting caught.
I drive in silence. The city is a blur of grey, indifferent to the monster moving through its veins.
A few calls ensure the body ends up where I need it. The client is handled, and my bank account looks much better, but it doesn't ease the irritation clawing at my throat. I lied to him. The last thing I need is one of the Elites screaming into my phone like apetulant child. I'm not scared of him; I'm scared that I'd end up killing him too, just to stop the noise, before I could fix my initial mess.
Ireachthe building.It’s obscenely large for something meant to store the dead. A monument to forgotten lives.
I needthe grid. I'm not a master of electronics, but I always find a way. Brute force has its own kind of elegance. I have exactly ten minutes to get inside after I kill the power. Maybe fifteen if security is on a break. Doesn't matter. I only need five.
The body is already inside. Pathologistsare creatures of habit; they check the file and examine the exterior first, which gives me a window. The lights die along with the security cameras I've already compromised. I slip through the sanitary ramp at the back,the safest option. No one uses it now. Irony is a quiet thing.
I slide through the door that normally requires a staff card and head for the stairs. It's pitch black, but my eyes adjust. I know the body is on the third floor.I can almost smell the antiseptic and the lingering scent of my own work.
The second floor holds the examined bodies in thoseclinicalfridges.I don't know the technical term, and Idon’t care,but the thought that I'll most likely end up in one of them someday makes my eyes roll.
