“As long as he dies right after the sale, the Bureau doesn’t care what happens with the target.” And this comeback is easing my disgust a little.
“Looks like I’m bringing all the equipment.”
“Just try not to dismember him. Let’s keep the paperwork clean this time, Vic.”
This boy has some nerve. First, he wants a body. Now, he’s whining because my fun doesn’t fit his paperwork aesthetic. The audacity!
I sigh loudly enough for him to hear it. “Alex, darling. Has it ever occurred to you that you might be due for a turn in the trunk? Just to keep things interesting?”
He exhales, annoyed. “Don’t start again. I’m your?—”
“I’m just saying.” I interrupt him lightly, running my thumb across the raw split in my knuckle. “It might be good for team morale. You’ve been safe for far too long while your stupidity is still growing. Imagine how motivated I’d be if the job was fun.”
He pauses. “You’ll not get a cent for killing me.”
“Pity. I was already picturing the duct tape on your mouth. Just remember, when I get to that, you need to breathe through your nose,” I say, a thin smile forming on my lips. Making him suffer has been a dream of mine ever since he learned I hate being called Vic, which has made him overuse the nickname.
“I’m sending the information. This needs to be done as soon as possible.”
Another eye roll. “I didn’t say yes.”
“You never do. And Vic?”
“Yes?”
“Are you done with Azrael?”
Hanging up the phone is an answer in itself. If Alex thinks I’ll fuck up the job because of Azrael, then he understands nothing.
By the time I get home from my training, the target’s information is already in my inbox.
I read the file the way some people read horoscopes: half amused, already bored, and scanning for anything I could find interesting.
INCOMING: NEW CONTRACT
Target: Daniel Vorel
Age: 38
Collaterals: Divorced, no kids.
Current employment: Lindskey Ltd. Contracted by the government on Project Insipia.
Position: Director of Cybersecurity.
Payout: $230,000
Preferred window: 7-day deadline until Sunday, May 3rd.
Translation: he works for a group of men who need to google “is electricity Wi-Fi” while congratulating each other for existing. And apparently, working on a government project gave little Daniel a reason to grow balls.
The next few pages are filled with information so utterly useless, yet so entertaining, like how he still pays the vet bills for the Labrador mix his ex took last year when she moved to North Carolina. A poor dog with shitty parents.
Forty-three is the kind of man who needs something fragile around just to feel like he’s not the most replaceable thing in his own apartment. No criminal record. No drugs. Not even a traffic violation. The closest he came to rebellion was forgetting to pay the phone bill for three days. Rents a loft in a building that screams industrial chic but mostly just looks like someone poured concrete onto a Pinterest board and gave up halfway.
I dig into his search history, and believe it or not, it’s all beige. His only searches are about self-help blogs, TED Talks, and therapy appointments he keeps rescheduling. The icing onthe top is daily googling about “how to show your masculinity.” He should thank me for killing him.
I mutter mostly to amuse myself. “This is where we are now, Alex? Sending me after a man less interesting than a plant?”