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All of us under the direction of a man who prefers to be called Dick.
Blood drips over the edge of the table as I gather up my tools and stuff them into the autoclave bag. A cleaner for The Gallows will ensure there isn’t a speck of evidence remaining, though I’m often tempted to hide some shit, just to make Milo’s asshole pucker.
A damn shame. I shake my head, sealing the autoclave bag, and stare down at the dead guy as I remove my gloves . Killing for purpose is one thing. Killing the wrong guy for purpose just pisses me off. Which means Jackson’s in deep shit the next time I see him.
* * *
A worn brick building looks like any other off Church street, with its sealed brown doors set below the fire escape. Having already scanned my surroundings, I type the code on the keypad that’s hidden beneath what looks like a line of mailboxes, and slip my key in the lock to enter.
The guts of the place are nothing like the outside. All state-of-the art technology that encapsulates the modern décor. Any passerby would mistake the joint for an abandoned shithole, but if they tried to break in, they’d find themselves trapped in something of an escape room, rigged with a number of fun little games I can control from my phone. Cost me a bit of money, but as a bachelor in New York who nets more in a single job than most people earn as an annual salary, it’s the fun things that make it all worthwhile.
After tossing my cufflinks and watch onto the granite countertop, I make my way to the fridge and nab a bottle of beer. Bourbon is my drink of choice, but I need something cold to douse the rage burning through me since I left the job.
When The Gallows was first established about ten years back, we were given a file with a name, and it was our job to track, target and capture. These days, there are assistants, like fucking paralegals, assassins in training, who gather the intel on a subject, so all we have to do is show up with a smile. Lazy ass lions in a cage getting fed steaks on a platter.
No chase. No purpose. Nothing but a witless kill.
Kicking back a drink, I feel my phone buzz inside my pocket, and pull it out to see Milo’s number flashing across the screen.
“What’s going on, Milo?” I answer.
“About today … don’t let one mistake—”
“Look, I’m going to level with you. You’ve been a great mentor and friend, but this shit’s getting old. And I’m not just talking about Jackson’s fuck-up. There’s nothing in it for me, anymore. Thrill is gone, man.”
“Voss. You’re our best agent. I know this place has turned into a goddamn media franchise since Kelch, but don’t go fucking existential on me. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you.”
A bright future in what, exactly? Poking holes into various organs? Perhaps I’ll strive to become a professional kneecap buster?
“Take a break for a couple months. Check out a tropical island, order some fruity drinks and fuck some exotic ass. Whatever you gotta do to reset your brain. Guaranteed, you’ll be ready to get back to the grind afterward.”
Rubbing my hand across my face, I shake my head, because I already know a tropical island and some exotic ass isn’t going make this shit any more appealing. “We’ll see, Milo.”
“I’ll call you in a few weeks.”
Clicking off the phone, I tip back the bottle and head toward my bedroom. “Lights on,” I command, and a soft ambient glow fills the room like the sun rising up. “Heat shower.”
Seconds later, the soft patter of the shower echoes from the adjacent bathroom, and I peel my white shirt from my shoulders. It’s then I remember the blade I had to disarm when I first encountered Tony—even that felt like an inconvenience, the way things run these days. He managed to slice across a skull tattoo on my bicep, another scar to add to my growing collection.
The worst one stretches temple to cheek, outside of my eye, and serves as a reminder that no one, not even Milo, for whom I might be willing to take a bullet, can be entirely trusted.
I finish undressing and shower quickly, letting the unforgiving heat of the water wash away the day’s frustrations. Towel wrapped at my bottom half, I exit the bathroom, running my hand through damp short-cropped hair, as I come to a stop in front of a wall. “Panic room open.”
“Password” the robotic voice asks.
“Fuck me.”
The wall clicks and slides to the right, revealing a dark staircase that self-lights as I step down onto the concrete in bare feet. The wall slides closed behind me and clicks locked while I descend, more lights ahead flicking on with every step.
Down there, a cocktail bar stands across from a king-sized bed, and beside it, a Saint Andrews cross is flush against the wall. A shelf stocked with food, and bottles of premium water and liquor means I could essentially survive inside this chamber for months, if I desired.
Some days, I think I could. Particularly as this place was designed for my favorite pastime.
A cage against one wall holds a woman, naked and pale, curled into a ball. Her arms are bound by leather cuffs, loose enough she can slide them off, if she wants, but she won’t. Just like she won’t remove the blindfold over her eyes, or the stilettos strapped to delicate feet.
She won’t because she knows it’ll exacerbate my frustration if she does, and there’s nothing she wants more in this world than to please me. Because pleasing me means pleasure for her, the kind that transcends the mind into subspace.
Unfortunately, her reward will have to wait another night.
