I’ve done assignments just like these for four years now. And I’m bored.
My phone vibrates once. “Time. Let’s go.”
Landon exhales like he’s been holding his breath since birth.
I slip off the wall and into the backyard of the manor as he stumbles behind me. The back door slides open smoothly, without any hitch or noise. Oiled well. Guess I need to tip that housekeeper more for following orders, and on such short notice.
Landon bumps my shoulder as we pass a doorway. I stop him with two fingers against his chest. He freezes, eyes widening in question, breath shallow.
I tilt my head toward what’s inside.
Footsteps pass on the other side of the wall. Muffled voices. Someone complains about the wine list.
When it’s gone, we keep walking. Well, Lan shuffles like a dolt behind me.
The first staff door is closed, so I straighten my jacket, smooth imaginary wrinkles from the sleeves, then knock.
It creaks open after a minute, and the man standing on the other side blinks at me, irritation already forming. Mid-fifties. Soft. Confused by the sight of someone who doesn’t belong but hasn’t yet figured out why.
“Yes?” he asks.
I smile politely. “I was told to check in here before the rest of the staff arrives.”
His frown deepens. “Staff?”
“Catering,” I say smoothly. “For the Thanksgiving event tonight?”
There isn’t a party. There never was. But he doesn’t know that.
He sighs, annoyed at the inconvenience more than suspicious. “Fine. Uniforms are back there in the locker rooms. Don’t touch anything else.”
“Of course,” I say as I stroll inside.
The man steps aside and gathers up some papers, then heads down the hall.
Lan lingers in the doorway.
“Go mingle with the waitstaff,” I say without looking at him.
He hesitates. Then nods, relief flooding his face as he backs out and hustles next door. I hear him talking before he’s even out of sight. Saying something inappropriate to some woman who doesn’t care.
When the door clicks shut behind me, I lock it.
The inner office behind the next door is warm. Dim. Dark wood paneling. Leather chair. A half-empty glass of something amber sweating on the desk.
My target has his back to me, reaching for a file at his knees.
As soon as he sits up, I pull out the gun, already loaded with a silencer, and pop one in the back of his head.
Nice… From the door. One of my best shots yet.
There’s only a sound like a dropped book and a body folding in on itself. He doesn’t even hit the floor right. I watch him for a second longer than necessary out of habit. Making sure I can sign off on this assignment with ease.
With a gloved hand, I straighten the picture his elbow knocked askew.
As a freshman, and definitely at Crest, my hands would shake for hours afterward.
I’d scrubbed them raw, convinced the smell was still there. That someone would know just by looking at me.