Page 12 of Trigger Happy Ending

I glance at the man standing next to me and wonder what he’s thinking about. His arms are crossed, deep in thought, examining the painting on display in front of us. There’s nothing extraordinary about him.

A sharp pang crunches in my chest as I realize I’m envious of how ordinary he is.

He probably lives carefree; the biggest decision he has to make is where to send his bratty kids to school, or what color he should paint his stupid picket fence. He moves through this fucked-up world totally oblivious to the danger simmering beneath the surface. Blissfully unaware of the monsters who lurk around him.

Me, being one of them.

He has no idea the woman who stands beside him in this unassuming Boston art gallery is a seasoned assassin, contracted for life to the Agency; a top-secret organization that straddles the line between good and evil, run by the powerful elite.

I mimic him and cross my arms, continuing to stare at the artwork, dead-eyed. A small price card on the bottom left corner snags my attention. Fifty thousand dollars for this? A painting that looks like a smear of color? That’s financial assault. Turning away from what I have bestowed as “Rainbow Puke” (an amazing name for an artwork if you ask me), I take a seat on one of the viewing benches in the middle of the large room.

It’s been a whole day since the briefing with Agent O, and my head is still spinning from the mission and my new work colleague. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of Soren about a hundred times. It’s a mixed bag of thoughts. I’m angered at his arrogance and how easily he called the shots with O. I’m offended at his instant dislike for me, and lastly (and perhaps the most disturbing of all), I’m ashamed at how attracted I am to him.

Sighing, I toss my black hair over my shoulder and zone in on the sound of sneakers squeaking towards me. A perk of being an assassin is having the ability to pick up on the little things, like a shift in atmosphere or an invisible ripple that heightens any one of the five senses.

Spidey senses, if you will.

Immediately, I know the footsteps belong to Smyth. I’m betting they’re New Balance, Smyth’s favorite sneaker of choice. ‘Dad shoes’ the kids of today refer to them as. Smyth slides onto the backless bench beside me. I drop my eyes to his shoes and smile softly when I spot the New Balance sneakers. Haven’t lost my touch.

“Hey,” Smyth’s husky voice greets me. “Sorry I’m late.”

To any outsider, we’re two art enthusiasts, contemplating the deep emotional void of Rainbow Puke.

“What do you see when you look at this?” I purposely keep my tone flat, embodying the act, just in case.

Smyth takes a second, giving me a quizzical glance, before he shrugs at the artwork in front of us. “Like a kid went wild with finger paints?” His voice tilts upward at the end, like he’s questioning his answer.

“Damn it.” I frown. “Who typed a question mark on the teleprompter?”

Smyth laughs, relaxing a little. “Wait, I know this one.”

I raise my eyebrows, awaiting his answer.

“Anchorman.”

I smile, impressed he got it. “You’re getting good.”

Quoting movie lines is my quirk. My memory is ridiculous, jammed with one-liners. It’s my fun little party trick. I can also stick my entire fist in my mouth, but that’s not as mentally stimulating as reciting the lines from my favorite films.

“I enjoyed it. It’s probably one of your best recommendations so far.”

“Well, don’t ruin it by watching Anchorman 2,” I say, running my hands over my jeans. “Not nearly as good as the original.”

“Are they ever?”

“There are exceptions.”

Actually, there are many exceptions. Scream 2 (controversial, I know), The Godfather Part II, Aliens, The Dark Knight … But I’m not here to debate which sequels are better than the original. I’m an assassin, not a goddamn movie critic.

“Did you find anything new?” I ask, changing the subject.

He shifts in his seat and takes a beat; he’s nervous about answering me. Smyth’s not wired for fieldwork. Typically, he’s safe and sound, tucked away behind computer screens most of the time, rarely ever out in the big bad world. He’s a codebreaker; not a spy or an assassin. So, naturally, he sucks at lying.

“Your mom’s file remains classified.”

“That’s not news, Smyth.”

“I know,” he replies, eyes apprehensive. “But when I did gain access to one of her files, it set off an internal alarm.”