I was hired to kill this man. For months now, I’ve been taking odd jobs like this to soothe my killer instinct. To get a little thrill, a little bit of danger in my life. Something I used to get working for Enzo Black, but the Black empire has grown so big, so powerful that no one dares to stand up to him. No one has threatened them in months. The job has become boring and unsatisfying.
But I’m finding that these jobs, hunting and killing killers, is even less exciting.
“Mr. Reynolds, thank you for helping me realize something,” I say, standing like I’m about to end a business meeting.
His eyes fill with hope, and I can see the relief filled smile stretch over his lips.
“What’s that?”
I crack my neck casually. His life means nothing to me. This is what I do. I hunt, I protect, I kill.
I pull out my gun and aim it at his heart.
“I’ve realized that you are going to be my last job.” And then I squeeze the trigger, watching him drop to a puddle of blood on the floor as his heart squirts out blood.
I walk out the door before his date for the night comes out and realizes what happened. I’m not worried that she’s going to report me to the police. I don’t care that my prints are all over the condo. The police are no threat to me.
I take the elevator down, walk out to my motorcycle and start it up. This is definitely my last job. I don’t need the money, I only do it for the thrill, and the thrill is gone.
My phone buzzes, most likely Adrian, the man who got me this job. I pull it out to answer him when I see the message come through. I’m already getting sent another job because I’m the best hitman. That’s all this town sees me as.
They don’t know that killing people doesn’t even touch the depths of my capabilities.
They don’t know exactly how evil my heart is.
They don’t know what I’ve done, what I’m about to do.
I consider just deleting the message without reading it, but the way it starts catches my attention.
Hitman Needed.
I don’t need you to find the man who made a death threat. I’ll find him.
I don’t need you to kidnap him. I can do that too.
I don’t even need you to actually kill him.
All I need you to do is say that you killed him if the need should arise. Just be there so I can say I didn’t kill him.
You have to have a record. And you have to have killed before.
I’ll pay one hundred thousand.
—Huntress
I read the message three times before I accept that I’m not dreaming. This is my chance for payback, for redemption, for revenge.
Huntress.
It’s been years since I’ve called her huntress. I don’t think I’ve called her that since we were teenagers. And yet, she’s using it here to hide her identity.
Or she’s calling out to me? Hoping I’ll be the one to answer her ad?
Not likely, since she hates my guts.
But this is too good an opportunity to pass up.
I kick my foot down, starting up my motorcycle as I text back: Accepted.