Page 12 of Pretty Little Assassin

“I’m not showing you shit,” I tell him.

I read it anyway.

Two million. Client: ANONYMOUS. Designation, specialty, weapon of choice—my file, condensed into the same tidy little obituary they sent me about him.

“What time did it come in?”

“Eleven forty-one.”

Mine came in at eleven forty-six. Five minutes apart, from a client with no name, to two people who have never been in a room together and are both very good at making people stop breathing.

That’s not a coincidence.

“Which channel?”

“Not the Primacy’s usual routing.” He says. “Back channels. The kind reserved for council members, or for someone with council-level access.”

“And what did they offer you besides the money?”

“Nothing I intend to collect.”

“We’ll see about that,” I say, keeping the blade where it is.

Viktor opens his mouth to say something, but sneezes instead.

I draw in a slow breath. Viktor smells like cold murder, but beneath his leather and pine, I catch unfamiliar alpha scents drifting closer.

My phone goes off again. What the hell is with all the notifications?

“You going to look at that?” Viktor asks, stroking Mr. Pickles’ tail as if we aren’t in the middle of a double-assassination moment.

I grab my phone, not because he told me to, but because the damn thing won’t stop going off, and tap the encrypted message from Madam on the screen.

GET OUT—NOW.

Before I can check the cameras or grab my cat off this predator's lap, the sound of the warehouse doors exploding inward shakes the entire building.

Even more chaotic than the explosion is the way Viktor jumps up from the couch and grabs my wrist.

“Get down!”

6

VIKTOR

I hit the floor, dragging her behind the overturned couch as the first shots stitch across the wall where her head had been. Plaster rains down. Mr. Pickles is a streak of orange bolting under the bookcase.

I count them by sound alone. Seven sets of boots, the whisper of tactical gear, the too-confident cadence of men who think numbers make them safe. Primacy, or Primacy-adjacent. I know the type. I’ve trained the type. I’ve buried the type.

Either the mirror contracts were bait, or someone else wants both of us dead.

Sloppy of him to think seven was enough.

“Get off me.” She elbows me in the ribs.

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t need your help.” She rolls left, away from me, and comes up, blade flashing.