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“Black,” I tell her.
“I don’t have much black, especially for newborns, but there might be one or two things.” She zaps through the hangers, pulling out a few of the smallest all-in-ones I’ve ever seen. They’re basically the size of my hand, and my heart starts racing because how the fuck am I meant to handle something so small?
“They grow really quickly,” she tells me.
I hope so.
“These two are the only small sizes I have. The geometric pattern is really popular right now. It’s actually one of my bestsellers.” She holds up the outfit with the dark grey pattern, but it’s not for me, and Fleur likes things simple.
“I’ll take the plain one.”
“Okay.” She’s gone from timid to full-watt beaming at me. She’s getting comfortable, and it’s a gullible mistake because I could blow her brains out in one of her fluttery blinks.
I follow her to the counter, checking out of her friendly chatter. Before we make it to the till, I notice the floppy-eared bunny that caught my attention in the window. It reminds me of the cuddly I used to carry around in all my baby photos. Without another thought, I take it out of the window and hand it to woman.
“Oh yes, that’s lovely.” She coos over it, stroking its long mauvy-brown fluff.
There’s a stack of business cards on the counter, but what grabs my attention is the leaflet for the 3D scan. The detail of the scan image on it is incredible. The thought of seeing our baby so clearly has me stuffing one of the leaflets in the bag with the outfit and bunny before I pay.
“Good luck,” the woman sings as I leave.
My hands are full with all the bags, my thoughts on what Fleur will say when I give her the things for the baby. I almost feel bad that she isn’t here, but keeping her safe means keeping her out of sight.
The market is busier, the sun flickering in and out of the clouds. I’m going past one of the cheese stalls when I notice the guy staring me out. It’s not a curious stare, or that of someone who’s assuming I’m trouble. And what gives him away is how he pauses awkwardly beside the fruit stall I visited before the baby shop. He’s not even paying attention to what the server is asking him as he stares down at the lemon he picked up.
Shit.
My heart begins to pump a little harder, flushing adrenaline through me.
I knew this would happen eventually. I knew someone would find us. I’m just glad Fleur’s not here to see this—the side of me that everyone likes to gloss over. Relief calms my raging pulse that it’s not one of our people.
There’s a quiet side street that leads to the back of shops and commercial bins. I start for it, glancing around me to scout for any more company.
There’re two, maybe three other guys. I pick up my pace, stashing the bags in a pile of crates behind one of the shops. This is a dead end, which makes it perfect. I find a decent vantage point behind one of the bins.
One shot. Make it count.
Pulling my Glock from inside my coat, I grab the suppressor and mount it onto the rail. The guy from the fruit stall is the first to come into sight. He’s looking around. It’s kind of funny that he’s shitting himself while he searches the space for me. What’s even funnier is how he has no clue how to protect himself from an attack.
One shot. Make it count.
It’s sad how much of an easy pick he is. And while he’s reaching for his weapon, I take my aim, right to his crown. I shoot and before the ricochet has vibrated through my arm, he’s lying on the ground, face down, blood seeping freely from his head.
I’m not a messy killer, but the sight of blood—no matter how little—is rewarding. It makes the adrenaline pound harder, containing me in a bubble of dark lust.
You only need one shot; you just have to make it count.
It was one of the first things I learned out in the field. It only takes one shot to kill and one shot to be killed. It only needs to be the right shot to count.
Taking a breath, I squeeze between the wall and the row of bins closer to the alley leading here. The other two will follow soon, and they’ll go straight for the man on the ground. One will check the dead guy, and the other will try to cover them. It’s a foregone conclusion, naturally predictable.
/> It doesn’t matter what kind of person you are—good, bad, fucked up, pleasantly bland—basic human instinct draws you to death. Blood calls to blood, regardless of whether it’s running through your veins or flowing out of you.
The other two come into view, and as predicted, they both head straight for the bloody heap. One sees to the dead guy. He’s first to go, joining his mate on the ground. The second guy is smarter. He keeps his weapon up, turning in circles as I shuffle closer to his only way out.
He’ll have a final rush of relief, thinking he’s made it, before he meets his maker. Backing towards where I’ve stopped, he sighs as he reaches the mouth of the alley. Colour bleeds back into his pale face as he begins to lower his weapon.
A raven flaps loudly over us, squawking like a herald of his fate. Its noise makes other birds in the nearby trees take flight, their wings cutting through the still silence.
