He frowned at the thought. Why was he acting like Kota would still be there later?
“Yeah, something like that,” he said, too tired for sarcasm.
Walker was bad at this shit. Bad at conversation, bad at relating to people, but he needed to say something, to explainsomehow what Kota saw, to draw a line between himself and the man Kota had seen bleeding out in the cab of that other truck.
“He was a bad guy, you know,” he said, then winced internally.
Kota gave him an incredulous look, gesturing towards his neck as he said, “Yeah, I kinda picked up on that when he was trying to strangle me to death.”
“I mean, you’re not the only one,” Walker continued, pushing through. “He’s left victims up and down the highway. And the shit he does to them…even after they’re dead.” His hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel. “He deserved what he got.”
“How do you know all this?” Kota asked. “Like, I know you weren’t there by coincidence.”
“How do you know that?” Walker asked, genuinely curious as to how much the boy had picked up on his own.
“I guess it’s possible that you knew the guy personally and that’s why you know he’s such a piece of shit,” Kota said, thoughtful, eyes still on the blur of trees passing outside, “but it seems unlikely. Do truckers just, like, run into each other on the reg?” he pondered out loud before barreling on without pause. “And you had a suppressor on your gun—that’s what it’s called, right?—which seems like you do this often enough to need it. I figured hitman? Is that still what they call it? Contract killer? Assassin seems a little too grandiose for that piece of shit. Though, I suppose—especially given my track record—you could be a disgruntled partner who’s just luring me into a false sense of security so you can, like, torture and kill me later yourself.”
He tilted his head slightly, considering. “Or a rival serial killer. Is that a thing?”
Walker found himself smiling as the kid rattled off every thought he had, each one more absurd than the last, the tension in his shoulders easing despite himself.
When he finally finished talking, Walker said, “Ray Early was a monster. He was a serial killer and a necrophiliac.” He kept his tone flat, factual, like reciting weather patterns. “He was arrested two years ago but got released on a technicality. Someone entered his name into a deadpool and put a price tag on his head.”
Kota went very still.
“So, you’re not a serial killer, you’re a vigilante?” Kota asked, expression dubious.
“You had it right the first time. I’m a contract killer. I just only kill people who deserve it. I don’t know if you can call me a vigilante since I get paid a small fortune to do what I do.”
“So, you’re not actually a truck driver? This is a pretty elaborate disguise. Also, who brings their cat to a murder? Is this even your truck? Is this even your cat?” Kota frowned, looking slightly uneasy as he asked, “Are you licensed to drive this thing?”
Walker was smiling once more, the muscles tight from disuse. He shook his head. “Yes, I’m a truck driver. Yes, it’s my truck. Yes, I take my cat with me so she doesn’t starve to death while I’m on the road.”
“Weird coincidence that Early was a truck driver, too.”
“That’s why they gave me the job,” he explained. “They knew he wouldn’t see it coming from another driver.”
“They?” Kota asked, sounding like he thought the “they” he referred to might be the voices in Walker’s head.
“Mm. The company who runs the site.”
“So, you work for a murder-for-hire company? Is that even a thing?”
“I wouldn’t call it a company so much as a…game. I’m just a player.”
Kota made a noise of derision. “You look like a player.”
“Somehow, I don’t think you mean the game,” Walker said dryly. “I’m too busy toplaywith anyone. Besides, my life isn’t really conducive to relationships. Not many people want to live on the road and occasionally murder people.”
“I don’t have the stomach for killing people,” Kota said. “But living on the road sounds nice.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “Is being a killer a prerequisite?”
“Why? You applying for the job?” Walker asked, giving him a hard once-over. He noticed the way Kota sat, alert but exhausted, like he’d learned a long time ago how to stay ready. “How old are you, anyway?”
Kota flushed. “Twenty-two. You?”
“Thirty.” Kota nodded, absorbing that. “And killing isn’t a prerequisite. You just have to make peace with living with a killer.”
“I don’t think enough people are being killed, if I’m being honest,” Kota said. “Some people don’t deserve to breathe air.”
