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I am.
My firearm, silencer and all, clears my holster before his fingers can even close around the gun tucked into his waistband.
Too slow.
The first bullet goes through his forehead.
The second goes through his heart.
The third—I shift my arm to the left—goes through the neck of the man straight across from me as he tries to duck down beneath the table.
The fourth—I move my feet, stepping to the right and angling toward the last man standing, changing the target I present in case he has a gun on me; but the barrel of his gun is still rising as I squeeze my trigger—bores through the bridge of his nose, passing through his brain, before exiting out the back of his skull.
Five seconds after stating my name, all three men are dead.
There’s a gurgle from the man I shot in the neck.
Okay, dead or dying.
I move my position again, striding to the other side of the door, and press my back to the wall.
Silencers don’t actually silence anything. The muted pops won’t be audible out in the main bar, but the bouncer on the other side of the door will have heard them.
I stand still. Eyes on the door, waiting to see if he opens it. If he’s on the side of the dead men.
But the door doesn’t open. The handle doesn’t turn. And there’s no sound of fleeing footsteps.
Huh.
I slide my pistol into my holster and stride across the room. Reaching the table, I lift the duffel bag from below it.
These idiots don’t usually have tracers in their money, but I do a quick sweep of the bag to make sure.
No visible tracers, but a pair of cheap, probably dirty handguns on top of the pile of cash.Would’ve done more good in their hands than in a fucking bag.
I strip all three of their guns, drop the firing pins into the duffel, then drop the rest of the pieces on the floor.
I’m not concerned about fingerprints. If I’m ever brought in by law enforcement, I’ll just blackmail my way out. I have plenty on plenty of officials. Or I’ll die at another assassin’s hands. Either way, it’s not worth the hassle of constantly cleaning up after myself.
Plus, letting people know it’s me is kind of my thing.
Like my name.
Ever since I started down this path, I’ve used my real first name. Because I wanted people to know who they were afraid of. And if she ever heard the whispers, I wanted my sister to know I was coming. That I was trying.
She had the same hair color as me. And wore it the same length. So it stays.
It will always stay.
Because she’s the reason I am what I am.
And she’s the reason there are three fewer worthless souls on this planet tonight.
After taking one stack of bills out, I zip up the duffel and hold the handle at my side.
With silent steps, I approach the door and quickly pull it open.
The bouncer is still there, but he’s moved a few steps up the hallway so his back is no longer directly in front of the door—probably hoping to avoid a stray bullet.
