“Here.” The blond guy grabs a backpack; he must have brought it in with him. He rummages around for a bit before pulling out a shiny red apple. Like the kind that made one of those fairy tale princess fall into a coma. “Have this.”
Almost like it’s happening in slow motion, he steps forward, but his foot catches on something. Probably the damn body at his feet. The apple falls from his hand. I bend down to look under the bed, in time to see it roll to a stop on the floor. Right in the pool of blood and gross shit oozing out of the dead psychopath’s head.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” he mumbles sadly. Then he makes it worse by picking up the apple and trying to clean it off with a tissue from the bedside dispenser.
I force myself to swallow more bile that rises in my throat. “I’m…not really up for eating. Thanks though.”
He shrugs and puts the apple away in his pack. I don’t get why he’s saving it, but I’m not about to ask.
Dumbly, I gesture toward the body. “You, uh, came here to kill him, right? Like a…like a hit? Isn’t that what you call it? Did he do to someone else what he tried to do to me?”
The blond guy’s hand return to his hip. He looks down at the body again. “Dunno. Wouldn’t be surprised.”
Wait. “How do you not know?”
He’s almost apologetic when he says, “Rowan, you’re the one I was sent to kill.”
My stomach lurches. All at once I’m both hot and cold. Dizzy. No, definitely cold.
What does that mean? What could I have done to make someone want to kill me? I don’t know how to make sense of it.
So I don’t try.
He’s still standing by the bed with the gun in his hand. No chance in hell I’m waiting for him to aim it at me.
I turn for the door, and I run.
2
Notes:
Sorry this chapter is late. I accidentally ripped off my entire toenail and spent six days crying because I’m an empath and my feet were sad.
Milo
Well, fuck.
I stop myself from punching a wall, but it’s a near thing. In this business, leaving behind a ripped glove is the kiss of death. Or blood from a skinned knuckle. Or, God forbid, letting the guy you came to kill disappear.
Little shit didn’t even have the decency to help me move the body before he ran. Guess I shouldn’t have let it slip that I’d come here for him. In my defense, I told him out of courtesy. He could’ve at least let me explain.
Once I’ve muscled the big dead weirdo back onto the bed, I remove the suppressor from the gun—thank fuck it’s not one of my favorites—and position the body so the wound can pass for self-inflicted. It’s not pretty, but it’ll have to do.
Hey, look at me improvising on the fly. If I didn’t have blood on my gloves, I’d give myself a high five.
After pulling the gloves off and stowing them in a wet bag in my pack, I grab my phone to dial my handler.
“Done already?” is the way he answers.
A frustrated growl comes out of me as I glance at the closed hotel room door, through which Rowan disappeared a few minutes earlier. “Ran into a bit of a situation.”
Which is an understatement. I switch the call to video, showing Ray the scene on the bed.
“Who the fuck is that?”
“Driver’s license says Christopher Mercy. Do me a favor and dig into him, will ya? Something’s not right about this guy.”
“Sure. Fine.” Ray nods before giving me a look that says he knows I’m leaving something out. When I offer nothing further, he breaks down and asks, “What happened to the mark?”
