Target 84 (17 page)

“Life's under no obligation to give us what we expect.
”―
Margaret Mitchell
We spent a quiet evening doing not much, but content. I can see how normal people are lulled into marriages and relationships by this kind of thing. Of course, that doesn't stop those same people from hiring someone like me to kill the other one later. That's love, I guess, though I’ve never been plagued with it. I can’t see the use in it. I get that it might
feel
fitting, nice even for a while, but then what? Nothing lasts forever in the real world.

From there it was business as usual for our sort of job: preparing our supplies and studying schematics of the building for points of entry and exit.

I'm wearing stockings because I'm old fashioned like that and staggering stilettos made to European standards, with reinforced heels for support and murder, if need be. I have on lipstick that matches my heels. I flutter my false lashes. Solid. The amount of foundation I’m wearing should be illegal, but it was the best that could cover the bruising on my face.

Bentley looks incredibly handsome. Sinfully fitted jeans. Tight tee shirt. Polished cowboy boots. Clean and well-mannered. I can smell his aftershave and a glance at the hand swiping across his smart phone shows trimmed nails. There are worse things in life than being temporarily tethered to a fine-looking man like the one in front of me.

“There’s one on the roof. Ten o’clock,” Bentley instructs. The long-range rifle equipped with a silencer is ready. I shift the rifle, using the scope to hone in on the target. Once I have him in my sight, I exhale, releasing the trigger, and watch. We’re two buildings away from the club. The sharp sound of the bullet leaving the chamber sends a calm over my body. I watch his head snap back and he falls to the gravel-lined roof through my scope.

“Nice shot. You didn’t even mess up your hair.” He's mocking me and I want to pour my anger out on him. I don’t. He sets his binoculars down.

“Thanks,” I say wryly.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Hell yes. Let’s get her.”

We pack up the rifle and return to the car, where I put my red stilettos on and reapply my lipstick. One can never be too careful about their
appearance
.

*

“We’re skipping the line,” I complain. I am not waiting for twenty minutes knowing I can get us in with ease.

“Greta. The plan.”

“Just...trust me,” I snip, taking his hand and tugging him behind me until we reach the front of the line and the mountain of a bouncer.

“Who's the fellow who owns this shithole?” I coo seductively to the man before me. Dismissing Bentley, the black-suited bouncer gives his attention to me. His body jams the doorway like a boulder while his face resembles something between a pit-bull and a shark. Tattoos run down both sides of his neck. The sound of my voice calls him to heel with a silent dog whistle that I’m sure only men can hear, and that is that.

Attention gained.

I prowl up to him in my skin-tight dress. When I emerged from the bathroom at the hotel, the slinky dress had made me feel gorgeous, but Bentley’s stare had made feel downright stunning. “I could fuck you up, down, left, right, coming, or going. I'll get so close to you it breaks you. And if that doesn't work, I have other ways. I have so many other ways,” I say as I trail a finger down his massive, hard chest. “What do you say, big guy?”

“Honey, you wouldn't be able to go thirty seconds with me,” he growls at me with fire in his eyes.

“I’m willing to try if you are.” I wink at him. His hands dislodge from their crossed position. His massive fingers reach down, unclip the brass hinge from the velvet rope, and pull it open. I smile up at him, batting my lashes.

“Thirty minutes. Men's room,” he rumbles.

I widen my eyes and grin at him. People overlook women in my profession. We don't make good killers. Too much emotion, they say. We
feel
too much. I hide in plain sight. No one wants to think that pretty women do despicable things. It is what makes me so effective at my job. I was trained to override emotions. I was trained to be calculating, cold and ruthless.

It's not always a man's world.

Tugging Bentley’s hand, I yank him through the opening before the bouncer changes his mind. His face is hard. He is agitated.

“Relax, Bent. I’m not actually going to screw him.”

He pierces me with a look that says he owns me. It sends a chill rushing through my body. I think I like the possessive, agitated Bentley. Taking in our surroundings as Bentley takes the lead, I notice the throngs of people. The music is deafening. No one would hear a gunshot. No one would hear pained screams. Bobbing and weaving through people, we enter the darkened hallway leading to the bathrooms. Bentley pulls a small pistol from his ankle holster. He proceeds forward with that lazy, gunslinger stride, a powder keg dressed in snug jeans and a tee shirt. If we weren’t on a mission, I’d be hitting on him.

Arriving at the employee entrance, Bentley pushes through the door. I keep it open, waiting for him. He disappears from sight. My heartbeat seems so loud I think it might give me away. I suck in air, waiting. Moments later he appears, bag in hand. We take a moment, each of us screwing silencers into place and strapping on weapons.

Following his lead, Bentley moves through a set of doors.

“Left,” I call. “Clear.”

“Right,” his voice rings out. A muffled shot sounds. I swing right and see two men holding raised guns. I pull the trigger. One drops, clutching his thigh to relieve the pain and to put pressure on the hole I’ve put there. The other is in a heap, unmoving. Bentley prowls to the one I clipped. He fruitlessly begs for his life. I follow close behind. As he passes the injured guard, he stops. There is uncertainty etched in his face. I raise my gun and shoot the man between the eyes.

“It’s not what you think,” he says with implication. “My job...”

I raise a hand to stop him.

“You can injure. I will kill,” I answer. I understand now. His livelihood, his career, allows him to kill, but only if within the boundaries of the law. He nods. We continue forward. Approaching a solid, steel door, Bentley turns to me. His eyes burn with fierceness I haven’t seen before. This is where we will find her. Four guards, another door, and Torren Delanti sit on the other side.

This is where shit gets real.

I pull the pin from the stun grenade. Bentley opens the door. It explodes with a burst of bright light that instantly and temporarily blinds. Orders are shouted. Heavy boots slap the concrete floor. Overhead, a few bare bulbs glow like small moons.

Behind us now.

I turn.

Inhale.

Fire.

Exhale.

One down.

Bullets whiz past our heads. I crouch lower to the ground and repeat my actions until we’re clear to enter the chaos on the other side.

“Only in the darkness can you see the stars.
”―
Martin Luther King, Jr.

As the door swings open, she looks down the barrel of the pistol and holds her breath. I nod once. She takes a step through the threshold. The door swings at her. The impact thrusts her left side into the wall, her body rotating to the right as she instinctively attempts to stand. Her legs being incapable of supporting her weight, she falters and looks up, uncertain of what happened. I motion for her to stay still. The smell of copper and cordite fills the room, there’s a body slumped on the bench ahead, with blood dripping from the upper body over the bench and onto the floor, pooling toward the center of the room.

A fresh kill.

A man rounds a corner, firing at us. I unload my clip in the direction of the bullets coming at us. Greta does not. Her eyes turn into narrow slits, she inhales, and upon exhaling, she fires one shot. Bullets no longer whiz at us.

She covers me while in the middle of a combat reload, striding sideways, slamming a new cartridge into the grip of my gun. Greta raises an eyebrow at me. “Being a good shot doesn’t mean much compared to being levelheaded. It’s not so easy to shoot a man, especially if the son-of-a-bitch is shooting back at you.” She shrugs as I stare at her. She might actually be the most attractive and sexiest human being in the history of time.

She’s also cocky as shit.

“You think I haven’t killed, Greta?” I ask as we inch our way along the wall.

“Not the kind of killing I’m talking about.”

“There.” I point just ahead of us to a thin, wooden door. Behind it Allie waits.

For a moment, Greta and I simply stare at each other. Everything up until this point has gone seamlessly.

Stopping at the door, hand on the knob, I nod once at Greta. I twist and push, letting the door open on its own.

Silence.

A hiccup.

“Allie!” Greta yells, rushing in. Cursing under my breath, I follow, gun raised.

Torren catches Greta off guard and wraps his big hands around her throat. Staying at Torren’s back, I move to Allie. Slapping her palms together, Greta drives the wedge of her joined hands straight up in front of her, between Torren’s forearms. Then she slams her elbows down onto his arms, spreading them apart and bringing his face towards hers. Her hands dart forward. Greta digs hooked thumbs into his eyes and her fingers curl at his head and ears in a clawing, two-handed grip.

I reach Allie, her wide eyes rooted on Greta. She’s pulling ragged breaths through her nose and whimpers as I cut her loose. Greta pulls his head forward, driving her forehead into his face with a brutal snapping motion—once, twice, three times. Allie and I stay hidden in the shadows, ready to aid her if she needs me. Ropes of blood fly from Torren’s nose and mouth, splattering the ground. His grunts are sloppy sounding and filled with a liquid sound. Torren reaches behind him and pulls a gun.

Bouncing on the balls of her feet, in a low, ready stance, her forehead is smeared with blood, Torren’s and her own, soaking into her long, blonde hair. She’s in motion again, darting forward and grabbing the top of his gun’s slide with one hand. She twists her body, rotating the gun and Torren’s arm between them. Her other hand snakes forward to stab extended fingers into his neck, then her hand drops to curl under the gun in a two-handed grip. Pulling hard, turning against his already-twisted wrist, the gun comes free. She raises it two-handed and points it at Torren’s face. She holds it steady as he gags clawing at his throat.

“I’m going to kill you. I can do it with integrity. I can do it with flare. I can do it with precision. I can do it with disgrace. So tell me, as your last act of free will, how would you like me to kill you?” she seethes at Torren. “I’d normally just shoot you, but I think you rather deserve a slow death.”

Torren stumbles, unable to see through the blood pooling in his eyes like tears. His hand reaches, shaking, into the waist band of his pants, pulling free a large, serrated hunting knife.

“I am lawfully allowed to shoot a
killer
. And I will, believe that. If that knife even twitches, I'm going to put a bullet right through your brain,” I bark, stepping from the shadows. Torren slumps further into a hunched position. Allie sprints from behind me.

“Greta!” Allie shouts frantically.

“Allie no!” I blurt.

Greta’s eyes leave Torren’s, landing on Allie. Seeing Greta, Allie completely loses her grip on her resolve as her body begins to shake with sobs. She gasps, dropping to the floor, clutching her knees. I move to Torren, holding my pistol pointed at his head.

“You should be dead by now,” Torren spits at me.

“Pity for you, you hired the wrong assassin.”

Greta looks to me before looking back to Allie.

“Just breathe in. Breathe out. You can handle this. You can handle anything, Allie,” Greta chants, stepping to Allie.“It will get better.”

“How?” Allie asks.

“I don’t know, but it will. Come on, we need to get you out of here.”

Hollers and shouts are echoing off the walls from the main warehouse space. “ATF! Everyone down!”

“Shit, it’s time for plan B,” I bark at Greta.

“Why? What’s plan B?” Greta asks, looking around, bewildered. Greta will go to prison. I might very well not be ATF at this point anymore. We’ve just slaughtered seven men.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I do, bird. Allie, you did not see Greta. Understood?”

Allie looks perplexed. I need her on board with us. “Understood?” I ask more firmly. Her eyes widen and she nods. “Greta, you need to…”

“In here! HELP!” Torren screams. Greta turns, gun raised, and stops short, indecision in her eyes. She doesn’t want to kill a man in front of Allie. If she would just acknowledge these small gestures, she’d see that she’s
not
the monster she thinks she is. We don’t have time to screw around right now.

“Out, bird! Get out!” I shout.

Allie releases Greta’s hand and takes mine. I tug Allie towards the door, towards the trained, law-abiding men rushing in. A silenced pop sounds behind me. Ducking instinctively, I cover Allie’s body.

“Are you all right?” I ask mentally, taking stock of my uninjured body parts. She nods.

Turning around, I see that Greta is gone and Torren Delanti lies slack on the floor.

A bullet hole between his eyes.