I have about thirty questions slamming around my head right now, but it’s not appropriate for me to ask this guy. I keep my mouth shut as I follow him through a surprisingly large, luxuriously decked out, elegant apartment. My shoes make hollow ringing sounds as they hit the polished marble. Reminds me of Jamie’s family home, but on a smaller scale. This guy must have money. A lot of money. Especially if he’s willing to pony up 10k just to have a ten-minute conversation with me.
I’m led all the way down a long corridor—three doors to my right, four to my left—and the big bruiser knocks his meaty hand against the final door to the right. There’s a grunt from the room beyond, and then the big guy is giving me a warning look. “He’s not in the best of moods. I’d be careful not to piss him off any further if I were you.”
The door opens, and then there’s a tank of a guy standing in front of me, barely visible with the minimal light coming from a small table lamp behind him. He’s tall, broad, stacked with muscles, his skin covered in tattoos. And the rest of him covered in blood. It’s everywhere—all over his face, down his neck. His arms and chest are stained bright red. He’s wearing nothing more than boxer shorts and a grim look on his face. He holds out his hand and lifts an eyebrow, waiting for me to shake with him. Normally I do my best to avoid contact with other people’s blood, but in this particular instance it seems like a bad idea to refuse. The guy looks fucking unhinged.
“Hello. You’ve been told to call me Mr. Mayfair but fuck that. We can dispense with formalities. My name’s Zeth. Zee. Good to meet you.” He squeezes my hand, not in that ridiculous way most guys insist on posturing when they meet for the first time. It’s a subconscious action as he tilts his head to one side, taking a good look at me. After a few seconds, a broad smile pulls at his mouth. His teeth are a brilliant white against all of that quickly darkening blood. “Know why you’re here?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Know how much I pay?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Anything you want to know?”
I look at him, this monster of a man, covered in blood and violence, while a horde of people wait outside his apartment for god knows what. Narrowing my eyes, I lean against the doorframe, considering him. “Yeah. Why me?”
“Well,” he says, grinning even harder. “I’ve been told you’re really good at killing people. I could use a guy like that around here.”
******
Zeth
I’m horny as fuck, but I’ve also just been shot in the shoulder. And now I’ve got this guy standing in front of me, unblinking, unfazed by the people now inside the apartment, or by how I look. He’s watching me like he’s trying to take me apart in his head, just to see how I work. It’d be polite to warn him not to bother. There should be a warning that must be read by anyone wishing to glimpse inside my head: This Way Be Dragons. Or murders and an assortment of other vile monsters who have all helped form and shape me into the man I am today.
I walk over to the sideboard and grab the bottle of whiskey I’ve left uncorked there. I take a deep, deep pull on the stuff—nothing can dull the pain of a bullet wound quite like a thirty-year-old single malt. The liquor hits my stomach and burns there. Feels like it’s fucking boiling inside me. I hold the bottle out to Michael, wondering with faint interest whether he’ll take it. Some people are funny about sharing a bottle. And this guy, in his pristine suit with his clean-shaven face looks like he cares about things like hygiene. He accepts the bottle, though, smirking when he takes a look at the brand. “What?" I ask. “You don’t like the good stuff?”
“Nope. It’s just...Lagavulin. My cousin and I drink this.” He’s not lying, either. Not many people can scull whiskey the way he does, his throat muscles shifting as he takes one, two, three, four mouthfuls of the stuff. I’m the one who’s in pain right now, but this guy’s gonna be feeling comfortably numb pretty soon. He hands the bottle back, eyes full of steel, his gut probably full of fire now, and I already know I’m gonna hire him. He’s a ball breaker. I can tell by the way he’s not bowing and scraping to me. I like that. I like that a lot.
“So you got a cousin, huh?” I ask.
“I do. Just one.”
“Any other family I should know about? Anyone in Seattle in particular?”
“No. No one. Parents are both dead. I have an uncle in Alabama. You should know, he’s a governor.”
“A United States Governor?” I raise my brows, scanning Michael’s face to see what this means for me. Could be nothing, but could also be really fucking bad news if the bastard’s close with his nephew. Michael nods.
“I haven’t seen him in four years. Not since my mother died.”
“Why not since then?
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” I say, leaning against the wall. Gonna be getting blood everywhere but I’ll have to deal with it in the morning. “If you haven’t seen your uncle for four years since your mother died, that means you had a bust-up with him at the funeral. Or he didn’t go to the funeral. Or it could just mean that he lives in Alabama and you live in Washington State, and neither one of you can be fucked making the journey. Which is it?”