Page 3 of Venomous Games

I like it clean.

Precise.

Refined.

A kill should feel like a transaction, not a crime scene. No screaming, no collateral, and no unnecessary mess. Everything in its place, as if it were always meant to happen that way.

It’s the control that fascinates me. The way the world narrows to one target, one strike, one outcome. Everything else disappears behind clarity, focus, and efficiency.

And when it’s done … silence. Nothing left behind but the proof that the job was completed.

I don’t linger.

I don’t celebrate.

I don’t feel guilt.

It’s just business, done with style.

And I am very, very good at it.

I’ve even earned a reputation for myself, exclusivity if you will.

I’m hard to reach, and even harder to hire.

My fee would scare the most steadfast of men, but luckily, those aren’t the people who hire me. No, my clients are just filthy fucking rich assholes who always want someone dead.

The streets have a name for me.

Venom.

Which I find highly amusing.

TWO

BOSTON

“Fuck, they really did a number on this one,” Rolland says from behind me. I bend down and get a closer look, careful not to touch anything. The asphalt beneath my boots is slick with rain, reflecting the wash of red and blue lights that pulse across the alley. It’s two in the morning, and the city hasn’t quite decided whether it’s asleep or just pretending to be. Sirens hum somewhere in the distance, not urgent anymore, just part of the background noise of a night gone wrong. The air smells like damp concrete and the tang of fresh blood.

“Do you think this is the same person as Highball Street?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say without a doubt. It’s too clean, despite the mess of blood. There is no trace of whoever did it, and that’s an issue we have with these high-profile kills. My gaze traces the wound again. There are no defensive marks on his body, and no signs of struggle in the surrounding area. Mr. Sand barely had time to realize what was happening. That’s a signature in itself, showing the killer’s control and confidence.

“Fuck, reporters are here,” Rolland grumbles, then turns and walks off as I remain crouched next to Mr. Sand’s body.

Gawkers stretch their necks, phones out, hungry for something they can post before the body is even cold. Flashes go off behind the tape, mixing with the patrol lights, turning the whole scene into something almost theatrical. I tune it out—you have to learn to do that in this job. After so many years on the force, you either learn to narrow your world down to the details or you drown in the noise.

When I googled the victim on my way here, I found that his net worth is in the billions, and that he was currently trying to acquire a stretch of real estate predominantly owned by small businesses. Which made it hard for him to buy because not only did the businesses not want to sell, but they also refused to let him make an offer. They didn’t want to be bought by a big corporation and have their worlds turned upside down.

My knee aches slightly as I shift my weight, old reminders from years of scenes just like this. Too many late nights, too much bad coffee, and not enough sleep.

“Fucking hell, put on your gloves,” I say to the officer as he walks over and reaches for something in the crime scene. “What is it, your first fucking day? Don’t touch shit.”

The stupid bastard’s eyes go wide, and he backs up. “Sorry, Detective,” he murmurs, and steps back as Rolland returns and comes to stand next to me.

Rolland and I are partners, so we understand each other well. Years of riding in the same car, working the same cases, learning each other’s rhythms without needing to say a word. However, I do prefer to work alone, with less noise and fewer variables.

“They’re fucking leeches,” he says, referring to the press as I stand up. “This is going to be everywhere. Whoever this assassin is, they’re good,” he adds in praise.