Page 60 of Dishonored

“What’s your usual success rate?”

The man with the sniper rifle carefully balanced and angled on the edge of the rooftop three-quarters of a mile away from the prison’s main yard didn’t even look away from the scope he was adjusting. “Pretty good.”

“Actual numbers would be great, Hudson.”

It was only his name coming from Caesar’s mouth that finally made the sniper glance away from his work. “How much are you paying me for this again?”

“A quarter of a million.”

“If you keep talking, that rate is going to increase.”

Well, then.

“Someone’s touchy,” Caesar muttered.

“I took this job as a favor to a friend, and nothing more.”

Yeah, Cain.

He made a mental note to ask his friend how he had come across an assassin like Hudson, and where exactly the man came from in the first goddamn place. It took three days for Cain to get someone in to work with Caesar who his father wouldn’t know or be able to touch—Angelo was still trying to get his son out of the city, after all, so he had enough shit on his plate without this being added to it.

But now he was curious about the man on the roof, and how he had dropped everything to get here with very little notice. He wasn’t willing to pay more for this kill, though, so he shut up like he had been told.

“And,” Hudson added, a now-lit cigarette dancing from his lips as his strong features roughened and dark hair fell into his eyes, “I don’t usually have a tag along when I do a job—so pipe the fuck down, Italian.”

Caesar’s brow lifted.

He had a serious issue with taking everything as a challenge.

“Who do you work for?” he asked.

Hudson sighed. “An organization.”

“Oh, you don’t do this alone?”

The man went back to his scope. “Seriously going to fucking delete Cain’s number from my phone after this.”

“Cain is good shit—answer my question.”

“I have someone that oversees my jobs—call him a handler, or a boss. Or whatever the fuck you want, I don’t care.”

“How did you get into this?”

Hudson didn’t answer, but instead, tipped his chin up just enough that his gaze narrowed over the line of the scope. “About six-foot-three, a little pudgy in the middle, dark brown hair, and usually sticks to the south side of the prison yard with three heavily tattooed Latinos?”

Caesar glanced in the direction of the prison yard. “That’s the info I got.”

And that Aria visited her father twice a week—never failed.

“Well, he matches the picture I was given. I’m confident in saying it’s him.”

“Take the shot,” Caesar said.

Hudson tilted his head to the side in acknowledgment, before tipping his head back down to glance in the scope and asking around his cigarette, “Why do you want this guy dead, anyway?”

“To hurt someone.”

“It’s not … business or something?”