Prologue
Idris
“It’s done,” I snarl, tossing the heads of the men I was sent to kill at Donald’s feet. He runs his eyes over them and then me, noting the blood covering my frame—theirs, not mine. It was supposed to be an impossible mission, a mission for my freedom. He should have known better. No one can kill me, and when I set my mind to something?
I’m unstoppable.
Unkillable.
The fucking boogeyman in the shadows.
I’m the best he and the Clergy have. I’ve already been to see them to prove I survived. They thought it would kill me, they all did.
When I first approached Donald about my freedom, about wanting to retire, he thought I was joking. Everyone did. I understand why. I’m the best and I love my job, but I’m missing something in my life. I’m no longer happy. It’s too easy, too empty. I need to be free of this and them. He promised nothing but took my request to the Clergy—the top of our business, the ones who control us. They clearly thought giving me a suicide mission would make me change my mind, would make me stay. After all, it’s hard to find a cleaner, a boogeyman who will kill anyone they want.
Including their own.
I’m the fucking monster they need to survive, and they didn’t want to let me go without a fight, but they forgot who they made, and I completed the mission, even if it nearly killed me, and now they have no choice but to let me go.
“They’ll take it out on you,” I warn, feeling a slight pang of regret as I stare at Donald. I wouldn’t call him a friend, I have none of those, but we have been through a lot together.
“I know.” He grins, uncaring. “They can try, but they need me, Boogeyman.” He nods. “Are you sure about this? What will you do? Men like us aren’t meant for a normal, civilised life.”
“That’s for me to find out,” I grumble, stepping towards the door. “It’s done, so I’m free?” I have to ask.
“We won’t hunt you. You’re free. Everyone else will think you are dead. We’ll say it happened on your last mission. There is no returning, so lie low. If an agent sees you, there is no way we can defend this decision. Do you understand?” he questions, his shrewd eyes locked on me.
“I understand,” I mutter, clenching my scarred, tattooed hands at my sides, feeling the dried blood on them. I didn’t bother to shower, but I will when I leave here, even though my skin will never be clean of the blood I’ve spilled. My soul will never be anything but pitch-black from the deaths I’ve dealt in my life.
“Boogeyman,” Donald calls as I turn. I freeze and he sighs. “Good luck, I mean it. I hope you find whatever you’re looking for.”
As do I.