“You promised.”
“I’ll go.” I give her a wave goodbye as I dart out of the building through all the people, heading for my next class. I should go to that party. It’ll be a chance for me to get out there. To do new things and have some fun for once. It isn’t going to kill me.
Chapter Three
Daman
“When are you going to be done playing around at that college thing and get your ass back to work for me?” barks Mr. Van. It’s not his real name. I label all my hires alphabetically. He wasn’t my first, but I’ve done repeat business with him. He pays well and most of the hits are ones that I would’ve done for free—gun runners and mercenaries with the occasional accountant who tried to run off with his money.
I bite off a piece of electrical tape and wrap the strip around the bare wire. The mic and camera need a source of power so I almost always place my listening devices inside the lamp fixture.
“The course catalog says it’s going to take at least three years.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” my old client screeches into my earpiece.
I wince but I can’t take the headpiece off because I’ve got my perimeter warning alert hooked to it. If someone should walk down the hall toward this apartment, I’ll get notified in time to get out of here.
“No. I’m not.” I climb down off the chair and dust my footprints off. “I told you I’m done with that kind of work.”
“Ha ha. Right. Sell me another bridge in Brooklyn. I’ve got seven cool ones ready to drop into your account. All you need to do is take care of one pesky little problem.”
“Hit up the want ads. I’ve retired.”
“You’re fucking twenty-five. You couldn’t have retired. If you were fifty-five, you couldn’t retire. It’s part of your makeup. When you walk down the street, you probably calculate how many of them you can pop off before someone even realizes a shot’s been fired.”
I open my mouth to deny it but the toolbag at my feet stares at me in silent accusation. I kick the dumb thing shut. “Gotta go. My professor is calling on me.”
“Are you in motherfucking class—”
He might have said more but I hang up on him so I don’t have to hear it.
“I’m not killing anyone,” I say to my bag. “I’m just doing…some background work.”
The thing you need the most as an assassin isn’t good aim or an encyclopedic knowledge of poisons. No. It’s the ability to research. You have to get your mark in the right spot and then anyone with a scope and a long gun can take him out. In order to do that, you have to know your target like you know a lover.
Before I kill anyone, I’ve stalked them for days. I know when they get up, who they’re sleeping with, where they drop off their dry cleaning. And most make it easy for me because people are creatures of habit. They go to work at the same time, eat at the same places, and then return home. Some go running before they work. Some walk their dog after dinner. But, generally, they all do it at the same time. Even the rich. Or maybe I should say, especially the rich. They’re actually the easiest marks because there are so many people involved in a rich person’s life. They’ve got housekeepers and drivers and stylists and assistants. Someone does their bookwork, another does their shopping. A good quarter of the hits I’ve completed were done under the guise of being a delivery or repairman.
People will let anyone into their house. For example, here I am ostensibly fixing a leak in apartment 3A on behalf of Anderson Plumbing, but in reality, I’m planting a camera and a mic. I brought four with me but only place three of them—one in the living room, one in the kitchen and one in the hallway. If this girl was a real target, there’d be no privacy for her. I’d be watching her piss and shower and rub one out. But the bedroom would be a bad place for a camera because if I ever caught her with a guy in here, he’d be dead before he could nut and then I’d be breaking my promise to get out of the game.
I heft the bag over my shoulder, pull my cap down and perform one last sweep of the small apartment before hustling out of there. On my way out, I grab the motion sensor I left in the hall. Back in my own apartment, I log into my cameras. Nothing happens for the first hour and then the next. I wonder if I have the right place and double-check the information I obtained from hacking into the college admissions office. No, I’ve got the right place. I push back from my desk and walk over to the coffee maker. It’s almost empty and the coffee is cold but I don’t give a shit. I gulp down the last of the caffeine and set the pot into the sink. It’s when I return to my desk I realize how different my place is from hers. She has a coffee table with stacks of books on it and a colorful blanket tossed over the back of the sofa. I have one black leather sofa and my television is sitting on top of four packing crates. She has pictures on the wall—one of which I used to cover up my camera and mic—and plants in the corner. I don’t have pictures or plants. The large loft apartment with its separate bedroom is barren but for a leather sofa and my large desk with the three computer monitors. The only pictures I’ve ever taken is of a mark. Her kitchen has red things in it—two red plastic chairs for the table, a red coffee maker and red toaster on the counter.