The bar’s parking lot is packed, but only a few people are outside the building, and none are close enough to watch me as I lower the tailgate.
Under the light of a yellowing streetlamp, I use my thumbnail to flick up a tiny hidden door in the bed, then press my thumb pad to the small black square beneath.
Nero Security makes some pretty good locks. And thanks to having plenty of time and money on my hands, I was able to utilize these fingerprint locks to secure several hidden chambers in my truck bed. The compartments conceal a multitude of weapons that would see me in prison for the rest of my lifetime if anyone were clever enough to find them.
But I have a fail-safe for that.
The lock clicks, and after I press down on the nearest section of the bed, a four-foot-wide piece pops open on a spring hinge.
This is my most used selection. And it’s a selection.
Handguns, knives of varying lengths, a grenade… the usual.
My lower back twinges as I reach for one of the knives, and I decide that tonight is a night for ease.
I still take the knife, tucking it into the sheath at my side, but then I reach for the Glock. And the silencer. And three prefilled clips of ammo.
Pressing the lid closed, I make sure to hear the lock reengage, then I lower the tiny door to hide the thumbprint reader and flip the tailgate back up.
The summer air is thick with humidity, but the temperature has dropped to tolerable degrees, meaning no one will look twice at me in my black jeans and the nondescript dark flannel I put on over my T-shirt.
The flannel is unbuttoned, the open edges flapping a little as I stride across the parking lot, but my lowered arms keep the fabric from pulling too far back and revealing the shoulder holster I have on beneath.
I cut through the handful of intoxicated people standing near the bar entrance and smoking cigarettes, and enter the poorly lit building behind them.
The bouncer at the door slides a bored gaze my way, but I look every one of my thirty-nine years, probably more, so he doesn’t ask for ID.
But if he did, I have one on me. It’s not my photo or my name, but it’s close enough to work.
Country music blares through speakers mounted to the ceiling, and I do my best to tune it out as I slant my body between groups of people, making my way to the back corner, toward the hall that disappears into the dark.
I enter the hallway.
And I move past the bathrooms, past the storage room, past the locked walk-in cooler. And I end up at the very end of the hall. And the final door, hiding the final room.
It’s a room saved for private parties. Ones that are little more than coke fests and excuses to hire strippers and treat them like shit.
It’s a room with another bouncer, this one looking slightly more alert than the man out front.
It’s a room I know about but have never been in.
Until tonight.
My steps slow until I stop in front of the man guarding the door.
Inside that room, three men are waiting for another man to arrive with instructions. Because they have a bag of money, and the man they’re expecting has a cargo shipment, and they need to know where to go pick up that cargo.
Except I’m not the man they’re expecting.
And humans aren’t cargo.
So they’re about to die.
“Password?” the bouncer asks me.
“Candy cane,” I reply.
It’s the right answer, even if it’s a stupid one. But I know it’s right because Karmine texted it to me an hour ago after she got it out of the real seller.
And people don’t lie to Karmine.
The bouncer reaches behind himself to twist the door handle. He only opens the door a crack, then he steps aside to let me pass.
I nod to him, unsure how much he knows about tonight’s dealings and, therefore, unsure if I should kill him too or not.
Time will tell.
I push the door open with my left hand, gripping the edge of it as I do, and as soon as I’ve stepped through, I swing it shut behind me.
The music is still audible through the closed door, but not so loud I need to raise my voice.
“Gentlemen.” I greet the three men who are certainly not.
Their heads turn at the same time, looking up at me from their seated positions around a beat-to-hell poker table in the center of the room.
“You the guy?” one of them asks.
“I’m the guy,” I reply.
The man on the right moves his eyes up to my shoulder-length blond hair.
He starts to slide his chair back.
“What’s your name?” the first guy asks.
But I keep my eyes on the man to my right when I answer. “Hans.”
His face pales, even as he reaches down to his side.
He knows my name.
He knows he needs a weapon.
But he’s not a professional.
I am.
My firearm, silencer and all, clears my holster before his fingers can even close around the gun tucked into his waistband.
Too slow.
The first bullet goes through his forehead.
The second goes through his heart.
The third—I shift my arm to the left—goes through the neck of the man straight across from me as he tries to duck down beneath the table.
The fourth—I move my feet, stepping to the right and angling toward the last man standing, changing the target I present in case he has a gun on me; but the barrel of his gun is still rising as I squeeze my trigger—bores through the bridge of his nose, passing through his brain, before exiting out the back of his skull.
Five seconds after stating my name, all three men are dead.
There’s a gurgle from the man I shot in the neck.
Okay, dead or dying.
I move my position again, striding to the other side of the door, and press my back to the wall.
Silencers don’t actually silence anything. The muted pops won’t be audible out in the main bar, but the bouncer on the other side of the door will have heard them.
I stand still. Eyes on the door, waiting to see if he opens it. If he’s on the side of the dead men.
But the door doesn’t open. The handle doesn’t turn. And there’s no sound of fleeing footsteps.
Huh.
I slide my pistol into my holster and stride across the room. Reaching the table, I lift the duffel bag from below it.
These idiots don’t usually have tracers in their money, but I do a quick sweep of the bag to make sure.
No visible tracers, but a pair of cheap, probably dirty handguns on top of the pile of cash. Would’ve done more good in their hands than in a fucking bag.
I strip all three of their guns, drop the firing pins into the duffel, then drop the rest of the pieces on the floor.
I’m not concerned about fingerprints. If I’m ever brought in by law enforcement, I’ll just blackmail my way out. I have plenty on plenty of officials. Or I’ll die at another assassin’s hands. Either way, it’s not worth the hassle of constantly cleaning up after myself.
Plus, letting people know it’s me is kind of my thing.
Like my name.
Ever since I started down this path, I’ve used my real first name. Because I wanted people to know who they were afraid of. And if she ever heard the whispers, I wanted my sister to know I was coming. That I was trying.