Page 10 of Pretty Little Assassin

Dostoevsky.

Well now, that’s interesting. The little assassin is well-read. I almost didn’t place it at first since the English translation was printed under a different title. But sure enough, “The Possessed” is one of my favourites.

If I were a sentimental man, I might struggle with killing a fellow literature lover.

Good thing I’m not.

As I’m about to crack the book open and savour a line or two while I wait for my target to come home, my phone goes off again. Another encrypted channel. This alert comes through a private encrypted channel I built for one purpose: to warn me if anyone ever puts a hit on me.

CONTRACT NOTIFICATION

Target: Viktor Petrov

Designation: Alpha

Payment: $2,000,000

Hired Assassin: Valentina/Asset 13

Client: ANONYMOUS

A mirror contract. The client is playing both sides. This isn’t a simple hit anymore; it’s a goddamn chess match, and I’m staring at the other king.

Well, if this isn’t an interesting twist. I can’t say I’ve ever had my prey bite back.

The fat orange tabby, the thing I’m tolerating, between fits of sneezing and itching the shit out of my eyes, hops up onto the couch and purrs as if inviting me to join it.

I stuff my phone back into my pocket and pull out the mini vodka bottle that my fingers land on. No sense in leaving a full bottle, tiny or not. So I twist the cap off, take one satisfying swallow that simmers against the back of my throat, and set the little bottle on the end table near the dead plant.

I leave it where she’ll find it. A warning, not a mistake.

“Alright, you menacing little orange fluff. I’m coming to⁠—”

Lace, draped over a chair arm, catches my eye before I reach the couch, where the cat is tempting its fate. Her scent clings to it. Sharp and clean, with copper under it, and jasmine. On a primal impulse I don’t bother to question, I take them.

“I was lying, you know,” I say, sitting on the couch and stretching out as if I own the place. “I would never hurt a cat. I do have standards.”

The cat nestles against my chest, making my eyes feel like they’re on fire and making it nearly impossible to see as I lift the tag on its collar to read.

“You’re fucking kidding me—Mr. Pickles? That’s your fucking name? How emasculating. She deserves to be killed just for naming you that, honestly.”

As if on cue, the warehouse door bursts open, and a streak of copper hair and fury rushes in. She clears the corners before she looks at me. Puts herself between the couch and the door. Black tactical gear, wet hair, and a right hand that hasn’t left her thigh since the door swung.

The file listed her stats—kills, years of service—but words on a page are nothing. They didn’t capture this fluid deadliness, this coiled grace.

My first instinct is to touch her, not kill her. The lapse irritates me.

“Get your fucking hands off my cat!” she shouts.

I glance up at her, not bothering to move from the couch where Mr. Pickles is now sleeping on my lap. He’s unbothered by her fit of rage.

“Or what?” I ask. “You’ll kill me? I am here to do the same. It would appear that we are on opposite sides of the same mirror.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re my kill, and I’m yours—Valentina.”

Her eyes narrow. “What?”