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Connor bypasses the question entirely. “Who sent you?”
I glance over at the man clutching his shoulder in pain. But there’s something else in his eyes now, something that’s slowly filling up the void I’d seen at first. It might be that I don’t usually get to be so chatty with my targets, but I find myself wanting to linger a little longer.
“Padraic Duffy,” I say with a shrug. “You’re gonna die anyway; no harm in telling you.”
“Of course, it was Padraic,” Connor says. “I suppose I should thank him for waiting an entire week after I buried my father.”
“Quite considerate if you ask me,” I reply, taking a seat on top of a creaking table. May as well take a moment to gather my strength and some intel.
Connor smirks dryly. “Fucker can’t even face me himself.”
“He killed your father, too?” I say, more as a curiosity than anything else.
“No,” Connor says with a shake of his head. “The drugs took care of that.”
A tragedy, then. No wonder I’m taking my time. Always had a soft spot for broken things—birds of a feather and all that. But Connor feels different, broken in every way a man can be, and yet he still fights for his life. I’m not sure I’d have the resilience if the situations were reversed.
Seeing me sit down, Connor follows suit. He presses his hand more firmly against his wound, and I watch with that same pang of pity as blood begins to drip through his fingers.
“I can give you drugs if you want; it’s easier,” I say, pulling out a couple of capsules from my jacket. They’re expensive, but with Padraic Duffy footing the bill, I don’t see any harm.
“Thanks,” Connor replies, although this time without a hint of sarcasm. “But what I want is not to die in this place.”
“Accidenti, scusa. Already been paid.”
He glances at me curiously. “How much?”
I actually laugh out loud. “You know, no one has asked me that before.”
“No one’s wanted to know what their life is worth?”
“I don’t usually give them the option to ask the question.”
The light leaves Connor’s eyes as if he’s calculating the likelihood of surviving this conversation. He slumps back and closes his eyes, wincing as he presses harder into the wound. He’s a sorry sight if I ever did see one.
“Are you sure you don’t want the drugs?” I offer again, more gently this time.
Connor’s eyes snap open, and I suddenly see why Padraic called me in for this job. The sheer steely will in his eyes is terrifying—a lesser man would walk away from someone like this.
“If I am going to die, I want to go fighting.”
He staggers to his feet again. I stare at him, stunned, but a corner of my mouth pulls up against my will. Sure, I could take him. But how much of me would he take with him? Would it make me a lesser man if I quit while I was ahead? Face the consequences tomorrow and live another day?
Would Connor run away if he were in my shoes?? He says we are not so different, and yet I can’t help thinking the man is the type to confront his issues head on. Whereas I prefer to be calculated, tactical. Tactical’s just a short way to say “not dying today—but what if avoiding my troubles is the reason I’m here in the first place?
Connor grunts at me and my self-preservation kicks in full force. This is not what I signed up for when I took on this contract. Get in, get done, get out; that’s how to prosper as an assassin. The families like their feuds and vendettas, and emotional connection will just get me tangled up with all that crap myself. But shit, I’m starting to root for the guy.
“Jesus… You know what?” I say, dropping my knife to the floor. “This isn’t worth it.”
Connor staggers on his approach. “You’re—what?”
“$500,000.”
“What?” Connor looks at me as if I’ve grown another head.
“That’s what he’s paying me,” I clarify, then gesture to him. “It’s not enough to deal with all this as well.”
“Only $500,000? That bastard!”
