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The lights of the highway pass in a blur, and I’m not concentrating on any of them. Cruise control on, jaw set, fighting the urge to slam my fist into the fucking dashboard.
Call it instinct, but something is off.
I glance in the rearview mirror. White high beams burn into my retinas. Muttering a curse under my breath, I swerve into the lane over. A moment passes, then the car behind follows suit.
Now, the hairs stand on the back of my neck.
“What does this mother fucker want?” I growl, slamming my foot on the brake. They brake too, tires skidding on the slick road, before coming to an abrupt stop.
My heartbeat doubles in speed, that familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins. If it was just a dumb-ass civilian, their car would be crumpled up against my bullet-proof Bentley by now, because a dumb-ass civilian doesn’t have that kind of reaction time.
I can’t take any chances. The upside of being a lone hitman is not having to be picky about what families and institutions I work for. The downside is that some people reallydolike to shoot the messenger. I flick on the turn signal and pull up on the hard shoulder. Sure enough, the car behind does the same.
Fuck it.
I kick open the false bottom of the passenger seat footwell and pull out the APC9K submachine gun, eyes trained on my rearview mirror. The fucker has switched their lights off, plunging their black Sedan into invisibility.
Guess I’ll have to go with the spray and pray approach.
I strong-arm the car door open, gun blazing in the most literal sense of the word. Finger on the trigger, I unload a full belt’s worth of bullets in the direction of the car, shattering the windshield and blowing out chunks of the paintwork. I stop, straining my ears through the ringing to hear any signs of life.
Nothing.
But I don’t take the chance. I drop it to my side and tug out the pistol tucked into my waistband, cocking it at the driver’s side. Once I’m close enough, I fire one shot through the side window, and the bullet lands with a thud. I know that noise better than I know my own name—it’s the sound of a bullet landing in flesh. No screams or gargles follow it. They have to be dead.
Gun still cocked, I tug open the door, and a bloodied body spills out onto the pavement. “Not even wearing a seatbelt,” I tut. Standing in the darkness, I stare down at him. Mid-forties, bald, covered in tattoos. “Now, what would an ugly fucker like you want with a guy like me?”
Using the sleeve of my sweater, I search for clues. Tattoos are fucking dumb. Men like me spend their lives trying to not get caught, yet they’ll ink their entire life story on their bodies, like a network of clues. His head rolls on his neck, lifeless and bullet-ridden, as I tug down the neckline of his shirt.
Even in the darkness, the small blue crane is unmissable.
The national bird of South Africa.
And the Van der Boor’s symbol.
“Fuck,” I hiss, letting his body flop to the ground. Without thinking twice, I tug the lighter from my back pocket, toss it into the car, and stalk back to mine.
The explosion lights up my rearview mirror like a fireworks display.
Rather you than me, fucker.
I bring my cell to my ear. Donnacha answers on the first ring.
“It’s late.”
“It’s important.”
His signature groan-chuckle hybrid. Then, “Hit me with it.”
“You know it pains me to say it, but I’m going to need another favor.”
Ignoring his shit talk, I take a hard right to make the highway exit. The one that’ll take me back to Philadelphia.
Dahlia Rose isn’t mine to save.
And I’m not saving her.
I’m just a selfish bastard that doesn’t want her dead yet.
