Page 42 of Lethal in Pink

“Copy,” I murmur, the word barely leaving my lips.

My nitrile gloves are the kind hospitals use-thin, powder-free, disposable. They make a soft snap against my wrists as I pull them on. An N95 respirator follows, the straps pulling tight against my cheeks. The seal has to be perfect. The last thing I need is to inhale the same powder that's about to kill him.

My dark hoodie is unremarkable in every way that matters—the kind of garment that exists to not be remembered. But my nails peek out from the cuffs, painted a soft ballet pink that clashes spectacularly with everything I’m doing right now.

I like the contrast.

It keeps me honest.

The stash is right where it should be, which is to say, exactly where any idiot would leave it: on the coffee table, three feet from Julias’s outstretched hand. A folded foil packet, the kind you get from a gum wrapper if the gum were deadly and cost eighty dollars a hit. I pick it up between my thumb and forefinger, holding it to the dim light from the TV.

Fentanyl-laced powder.

The lab report Penelope pulled says it’s cut at about twenty percent, which means a lethal dose for someone Julias’s size is approximately two grains of rice. I eyeball it, pouring out enough to get the job done on the tip of my finger.

Julias doesn’t stir when I approach. His breathing is slow, wet, the kind of respiration that happens when your central nervous system is already halfway to shutting down on its own. I don’t need to force anything. I just need to wait for the right moment—the inhale that comes after a particularly shallow exhale, when the mouth opens just a fraction wider—.

There it is.

I brush the powder across his tongue with the pad of my gloved finger. The motion is quick, light, almost gentle. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cough. Doesn’t do anything except keep breathing, which is exactly what I need him to do for the next ninety seconds.

I step back. Cross my arms. Lean one shoulder against the kitchen doorway and watch.

This is the part most people can’t handle. The waiting. The watching. The moment where theory becomes practice and practice becomes irreversible. I’ve never had that problem. My brain treats it like any other process—input, execution, outcome. Clean. Sequential. Emotionally null.

His breathing changes first. The rhythm falters, like a record skipping. Then the depth goes. Shallow. Shorter. The bag of chips on his chest slides sideways as his body relaxes into something deeper than sleep. It hits the floor with a soft crinkle. One chip skitters under the couch. The TV keeps going—someone is yelling about betrayal on an island somewhere, and the irony is not lost on me.

Julias Nevera goes slack. His chin drops to his chest. His hands, which had been resting at his sides, open slightly, fingers curling inward like he’s reaching for something he can’t quite grasp.

“Clean,” Penelope says in my ear.

The all-clear.

I push off from the wall. Peel the gloves off inside-out, and stuff them into a small zip bag in my jacket pocket. The bag goes into a different pocket. My hands are bare now, pink nails catching the blue light from the TV as I wipe the place of any possible prints.

The stairwell exit is three doors down. I take it at a pace that suggests I belong here but am in a moderate hurry. Not running. Never running. Running draws eyes.

Six minutes and forty-two seconds from entry to exit.

Under budget.

The hit came from a mother in East LA whose sixteen-year-old daughter disappeared eight months ago. The FBI found evidence linking her to a trafficking ring. They found evidence linking the ring to Julias Nevera. They did not, however, find the daughter. They also did not have enough to charge Julias with anything that would stick, because Julias was good at covering his tracks and the system is good at losing them.

This isn’t the first time. Penelope’s background check pulled three similar cases over the past four years. Girls between fourteen and nineteen. All connected to Julias’s distribution network. All gone.

He shouldn’t be on the streets.

Now he’s not.

I don’t feel conflicted about it. I don’t feel much of anything, which is exactly how it’s supposed to work. The compartment stays closed. The job gets done. The math adds up. A dealer who sells children for drug money plus one measured dose of his own product equals one less problem in the world.

The cool night air hits my face as I push through the exterior door, dipping into the vacant back alley where my go-bag is currently stashed. I pull of the mask, shove it into the front pocket of the bag and I’m on my way to my car is parked a block down.

Time to become someone else again.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m a different person walking down Western Avenue with the intense need for boba. The pale pink cropped hoodie I changed into is soft against my skin, complimenting the white joggers hugging my hips. My hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, and my lips are glossed.

Civilian mode. Activated.