I stared at the contents of my wall safe. Each item was necessary. Passports. Money. Extra guns and ammunition. A hunter’s knife. It was my kill and escape pack. And my mission was right on schedule.
I’d situated myself inside the life of Jackson Sullivan per my new mission parameters. I was in charge of his security detail. I owned his life. I planned his protection and designed his safety—he wouldn’t die. Not on my watch.
I had another target.
Yet…a searing doubt ate at me. One I’d never cared to admit before. I never regretted my kills.
But I didn’t want to kill my next target.
Fuck.
I’d been trained to kill in every possible way, but my next mark didn’t sit well with me. I hated the idea of killing her.
Darcy Sullivan.
My orders were clear. Kill her the night of her twenty-third birthday. Tomorrow night.
She was…
I couldn’t finish that thought. I wasn’t allowed to care. I’d been trained to disassociate my feelings from my kills. If I permitted myself to care, then I became invested. Careless. I couldn’t afford any complications.
Caring led to compassion. Compassion led to affection. Affection led to love. I had no place in my life for such fanciful ideas. They didn’t exist in my world. I couldn’t shit rainbows and unicorns for anyone. Such weakness would get me killed.
So I buried any sentiments. Deep.
I clicked the safe door shut, and then flipped a switch on the wall panel, which automatically covered my safe. My hand checked my weapon at my shoulder. I was ready for anything.
My phone rang.
Pressing my lips together, I tried to shrug off my irritation. No such luck. I dug my phone out of my suit pocket, answering, “Hyde.”
“Sir, this is the five-minute call. Mrs. Gerrard and Ms. Sullivan arrives shortly.”
I glanced at my watch. Nice to see the limo would arrive as scheduled. “Thank you, Franco.” I ended the call. Everything was going “business as usual.” By tomorrow night, this mission would be over. Then I’d disappear.
My phone buzzed with a text. I glanced at the two words on the screen: Call me.
Shit. I didn’t have time for this.
I swiped the call button, anger boiling through my gut. As she answered, I didn’t allow her to finish her greeting. “No one is supposed to reach out to me while I’m on a mission.”
“I know, sir, but Mr. Mullis has changed the deadline. He wanted to be sure that you received the new date. He was quite clear and insistent.”
More anger hit me. “No fucking names over the phone.” When would they learn? Names were personal. And left traces. “When?”
“Next Saturday,” she said.
“Copy,” I said, ready to end the call, but one last comment came to mind. “If anyone contacts me through improper channels again—they’ll be asking for a personal visit from me. One that won’t end favorably.” I didn’t mind killing the messenger.
“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice shaky.
I ended the call, barely tethering my rage under the surface of my cool façade. What was the point of learning rules and following regulations, only for others to fuck up? Seemed pointless to a death sentence and me for others.
A swift knock at my door composed me. I found one of my men standing at ready attention. “Yes?”
“Mr. Sullivan is asking for you, sir.”
I nodded. “Let’s go.” My composure flexed out into my usual detachment. This was what kind of man I was. What I was trained to do—the killer I was meant to be. A sheep in wolf’s clothing.
I was a liar—and good at my game.
Copyright © 2021 Beth Mikell
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