Cat stops judging me eventually, or maybe he just moves on to judging the floor. Either way, I take the silence as permission to return to the Toronto file.
The target is supposed to be easy, very predictable.
The paranoid real estate ghoul of a client has a habit of incinerating every person who stands in his way, regardless of if that person actually did something or is just minding their own business. His targets are usually as boring as the color beige. This time, he wants another partner gone, quietly, in a maximum of nine days. One of those “tie up the loose ends” jobs I could usually do half asleep with a butter knife.
Considering I have no intention of attending the lecture next week, I want to take full advantage of the preparation time to keep myself busy, so I spend the next few days building the plan.
By Thursday morning, I know this guy’s address, his favorite deodorant scent, and what his mom makes for dinner every Christmas—ham with cloves. Like it is still 1964. I’m not judging—okay, I am—but mostly because it doesn’t make sense. He looks too… clean. Too polished for someone on this list. No gambling debts, no offshore accounts, no wife with bruises or a mistress that lives with his secret child. His tax returns are boring and correct, his friends called him ‘dependable’. He is even kind to dogs.
It just doesn’t add up.
And I hate when it doesn’t add up.
I’m barely sleeping, not drinking at all, but the idea of focusing on my personal life sends shivers down my spine.
I always over-prepare for my jobs, it’s just something that is needed if I want to be in control of the situation. I have a system, and I never improvise. Yet, even after days of learning this human being by heart, I somehow still feel under-prepared. I need to be on top of it, not distracted by a certain Professor. I need to make sure I don’t fuck up.
By the sixth day, I could kill him with my eyes closed.
By the seventh, I don’t want to kill him anymore. Maybe I should save that energy for someone else.
The target is too clean. Too easy. And easy gives me chills. But this is my job, and if there’s one thing I never fuck up—it’s the way I kill people.
CHAPTER 19
VICTORIA
The video the sitter sent of Cat should disgust me with how cheesy it is, but it doesn’t. I shouldn’t care that I’m not home, but I do.
I want to be right there in my apartment, not in fucking Canada, facing the absence of something I never asked for but got used to.
“You’re pathetic, Victoria,” I mutter to myself, shoving the phone into the hotel safe, wanting nothing to do with it anymore. It makes me feel even sicker, and this is the last thing I need right now. I have more important things to do.
The hotel room I rented is three floors above the kill zone. Not a literal zone, but I like the sound of it. ‘Kill zone.’ So professional.
It is nothing special, just the usual too clean-too soulless room, cold light, and monochromatic curtains, but the line of sight is perfect, and the walls are thick enough to scream without consequence.
I unpack everything. Tools, backup tools, three changes of clothes, one burner and two pre-sets with GPS cloaking. I evenbrought the bottle of wine I was supposed to drink two nights ago.
Still unopened. Still mocking me. I hadn’t touched a drop in over a week. That alone should’ve told me something was off.
I am off.
I’d prepared for this more than I usually do, if that was even possible, conditioning myself to suppress every thought that shouldn’t be there.
I have to stick to my plan, to keep the same routine: I eat the same things before a job, do the same stretches, wash my face with lukewarm water twice, use cleanser twice, and brush my teeth once. No music. No caffeine after nine o’clock. And definitely no contact with Alex until the job is done, except for confirmation of coordinates.
My head is all over the place. I can’t seem to focus on what’s right in front of me, and it’s starting to freak me out. I’m pacing the room like a maniac. I took the elevator down to the lobby and back up three times just to time it. I’ve gone over the schedule so many times I can see it when I close my eyes. I checked the target’s file again, too, just in case I missed a detail. I didn’t. He is clean. Perfectly, irritatingly clean.
Which means the flaw isn’t him.
It is me.
I hadn’t felt like this in years. Maybe ever. Useless, almost pathetic, and quite…fearful? No, it cannot be, I don’t dofear. But whatever this is, whatever Azrael ignited in me, is something I don’t recognize.
I pace again. Twice clockwise, once counterclockwise. I know better than to act like something isn’t wrong, but I also can’t afford to admit it either. That would make it real. That would make me compromised.
The night arrives, and the job is scheduled for 8:05 p.m. sharp, give or take fifteen seconds. The target likes routine, bless his uptight soul. Same T-shirt, same sneakers, same protein drink. He makes it too easy. It got to the point that I can trace his path without GPS.