This one is less a good breakfast and more a fine wine.
God bless bitchy women.
I back out of the spot and roll away from the office, slowing when I see her sitting down behind the receptionist’s desk, a blank look on her face. She leans on her palm, sighs, and looks up, spots me, and turns away, her cheeks turning pink.
When I pull out on the road I lean back in the seat and shift so my hard-on isn’t so uncomfortable.
“Jesus, Quentin,” I say out loud. “You’ve been here less than a day and you’re already thinking about plowing the local milf. Get your shit together.”
Last thing I need right now is some girl…woman hanging around my neck while I sort out what the fuck I’m going to do.
Rose may have her problems, but I’ve got mine. A crazy bitch tried to slice and dice me yesterday, and she’s probably not the only one hunting me.
She mentioned his name.
Santiago.
Santiago de la Rosa. The greatest assassin in the world, the Leonardo of killers, the Mozart of murderers. For years I was his protégé, learning his methods, drawing on his secrets. That girl—she called herself Lily—knew I was one of his. There were others. When he trained me, I was one of two. Myself and a girl, Samantha, about my age.
We were close.
Bad things happened.
Santiago has trained others. Killers. Some of the deadliest in the world. Poisoners who can kill from across the country, snipers who can drop a man at a thousand yards as easy as swatting a fly. Masters of a dozen killing arts.
They’re probably all going to be coming after me soon.
I’m a dead man. I will bring nothing but turmoil and suffering into the life of anyone I meet now, not that I was much of a catch before. I did all those one-night stands a favor ignoring their calls.
Connections are death. Form a human bond with somebody and it can be used against you, and worse, probably will. When I took up my mentor’s trade I became husband to death, brother to misery. I bought a fine life for myself at the expense of never waking up in a bed with the same woman two nights in a row. Never staying in the same house too long. Never fathering a child to bear my name or carry my memory.
I am become death.
It was a hard lesson I learned from Santiago. He taught me poisons, marksmanship, hand to hand, torture techniques, psychology, all sorts of things, but his last lesson was never to form any attachments. They’re a liability. A weakness.
I took in the lesson but I’ll never forgive him for the way he delivered it. I swore if I ever saw him again, I’d kill him.
Now I may have to make good on my promise.
I’m fine with that.
These people, I can’t believe they live like this. As I drive through this town I marvel at them. How can you stand behind a counter in a Laundromat all day, handing out tokens so people can bleach skid marks from their underwear?
It’s all so banal. There’s a fast-food joint, there’s a car dealer, here’s a little bookstore. Late nights and fast women, love ’em and leave ’em, roll the hard six. That’s me, not the burbs.
Now I’m stuck in this hellhole until someone comes to kill me. Probably Santiago. When he hears there’s a price on my head, he’ll probably go after the bounty himself. He’d consider it rude not to, an insult to allow lesser hunters to seek after his apprentice. Unless he sent that girl Lily after me.
I shouldn’t be here. These people are not ready for this.
I spend the next hour driving, until I have half a tank and pull into a gas station. A few admirers gawk at the car, until my glare sends them packing.
Stupid rules. What asshole decided you can’t park in your driveway?
For that matter, why do you drive on a parkway and park in a driveway? The same asshole probably came up with that.
I wish I knew before I filled the garage up with equipment. I guess I’ll have to move it into the basement, or something.
Sigh. Moving.
I need something to eat. There’s a diner. I park and as I walk inside I instinctively check the exits, planning a route of escape and mapping out the direction of potential threats. The hostess leads me to a corner seat, and I have to compromise. I can face the doors, but have to sit back against a picture window. Imagine the indignity. A common sniper takes down the legendary Quentin Mulqueen.
I tap my spoon on the table until the waitress calls me “hon” and takes my order.
Since I’m going to get my brains blown out soon anyway, I go hog wild and order a great big greasefest—the Hungry Momma, they call it. Pancakes, waffles, French toast, sausage, bacon, and eggs, so much food it takes up two plates. It’s the biggest breakfast on the menu.
It takes me an hour to eat and I can’t finish the short stack or the waffle, but the waitress gives me a knowing look as I walk, bloated, outside.
I guess if this is retirement, it’s okay.