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ONE
mercer
The momentshe walks into the party, the air pressure changes.
It becomes thicker, alight with all the dark fucking possibilities that come along with her.
I know, because I can think of things so depraved, twisted, and thrilling even the unrepentant in Hell’s depths would moan with pleasure.
I know, because I’ve done many of those things.
She sets off a vibrating edge, a sliver of excitement. The air sings when she’s near.
I can use that.
And I’m going to.
Just not yet.
Because the wait brings the pitch up to a sweeter level.
I’m also busy watching a dead man walking.
Right now, the poison’s destroyed his liver and kidneys, unraveling his DNA. He’s dead. It just hasn’t come full circle. Even if he was rushed to a hospital, he’d still end up dying.
I spent a long time devising the poison. Tasteless, odorless. Untraceable. Death cap mushrooms are a marvel, myfavorite weapon when I’m not working with guns or knives.
But poisons take time. The right approach, the right formula, the right administration. And then they require time to work. Get one thing wrong, rush a step, and it all crumbles.
Patience, they say, is a virtue. And I play that game like a prodigy.
Stone-cold. A killer. These are me. I’m also rich as fuck. So rich my past can’t touch me. That long and scarred path that stretches as far back as I can remember might not have ever been paved with gold, but tools? Things that have enabled me to become who I am?Thisversion of Mercer Vale?
Fuck yes.
Logan Cooke begins to sweat. There’s a flicker of light in his eyes, a sign of things not quite right. But nobody notices.
And no one will.
The people surrounding me are off their tits and balls on coke and drunk on thirty-dollar artisanal cocktails. Not one of them is going to notice until Cooke hits the floor.
I lean against the wall in the shadowy corner of Seven7Seven, a trendy faux secret spot in Tribeca complete with an entry password and a non-descript flight of stairs. They lead to the graffitied door, which opens into a long, tall, black velvet-lined hall that opens up to the bronze door of Seven7Seven’s dark, glamorous interior.
This is the height of the below-Fourteenth Street crowd’s pomposity. As one of the silent, hidden owners, Seven7Seven makes me a shit ton of money, and I can keep an eye on movers and shakers of all kinds.
Some of them I can use.
Some of them I might need to dispose of.
The Barnes and Noble and Japanese convenience store on the ground level don’t even hint at what’s up here. A personhas to book a spot weeks in advance or receive a special invite. The place is well-known to its very specific target audience, and entry is highly coveted.
I settle back in the shadows and observe.
I don’t need to be here. Cooke’s demise is a done deal, and glitterati parties are not my fucking jam. With the next job I decided to take on? Let’s just say there are other avenues to get what I need. But there’s a certain symmetry, an air of fate about doing it this way.
Not real fate. This is crafted down to the finest detail of the evening, complete with her arrival on the dot. But like all good artists, it’s going to appear seamless, effortless. A natural occurrence, just like fate. And when she realizes there isn’t a drop of serendipity or chance of any kind involved, her real fate, her future, finite as it is, will be sealed.
But I still refuse to look at Ivy Gardner. Not yet.
