It was supposed to be an easy hit. Fletcher Lane, my mentor and the assassin known as the Tin Man, had taken out drug lords like Peter Delov dozens of times before. Breach the perimeter, get close to the target, and twist the knife in until he was good and dead before slipping back into the shadows once more. Simple. Clean. Easy.
But it hadn’t worked out that way at all.
I’d helped Fletcher gather intel on Delov for weeks, and I supposed him bringing me along tonight was my reward for all of that hard work. Plus, now that I was fifteen and two years into my training with him, Fletcher had said that it was finally time for me to see exactly what being an assassin really meant—and all the bloody violence that went along with it.
As if I didn’t already know all about blood and violence from living on the streets—and watching the murders of my mother and my older sister.
But Fletcher had said that soon I’d be ready to start doing solo jobs and that these dry runs with him would help me prepare. I didn’t really understand what he was talking about, though. On the few jobs I’d been on so far, all I’d done was stand in the shadows, watch him get close to the target, wait for him to deliver the killing blow, and then leave the scene of the crime with the old man. Not exactly the hands-on method I’d imagined.
But that had all changed tonight.
Fletcher had learned that Delov had sent his giant guards on down to his Miami mansion that afternoon, while his personal staff was at the airport, readying his private plane. Delov was leaving early in the morning to meet with his drug suppliers down in the Keys, and he was the sort who’d want everything picture- perfect for his trip.
Without the usual guards patrolling, it had been child’s play for us to climb over the stone wall that ringed the estate, creep through the woods that surrounded the mansion, and then slip inside the structure. We hadn’t seen a soul, not even Peaches, Delov’s pet Pomeranian. Clear sailing all the way up to the third floor, where his bedroom was.
Only the drug lord hadn’t been sound asleep like he was supposed to have been, given that it was one in the morning. Fletcher and I stood in the shadows that blackened Delov’s bedroom, staring at the enormous, empty bed with its rumpled silk sheets.
“Where is he?” I whispered. “We’ve been watching him for two weeks now. He’s always in bed by this time.”
Fletcher shrugged, but I could see the tension in the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But we have to find him and do this tonight. We won’t be able to get this close to him again this easily.”
Fletcher crept over and put his hand down in the center of the bed. “The mattress is still warm, which means that he’s probably on this floor somewhere. Where do you think he went, Gin?”
The old man was always giving me little pop quizzes like this, always making me put myself in my target’s shoes, always drilling into my head that it was better to think ahead, to plan, to act rather than to react, no matter what situation I was in.
I thought about all the things the old man had taught me and everything I’d learned about Delov while we’d been watching him. “The most common places for people to go in their own house late at night are the kitchen and the bathroom. So either he got up because he was hungry or he needed to take a leak. I’d vote for the kitchen, given his enormous appetite. He’s always munching on something in all the surveillance photos I’ve taken.”
Fletcher nodded, agreeing with me. “Okay. Now, stay close to me while we go see if you’re right.”
Together, we tiptoed over to the bedroom door and slipped out into the hallway. The third floor of the mansion was devoted to Delov’s personal quarters, and each room was more opulently furnished than the one before it, all with slightly oversize chairs and tables, the better to accommodate the giant’s tall frame. One by one, we peered into the rooms we passed, but they were all as empty as his bed had been.
Finally, we reached the last room on the floor—the kitchen. The double doors were thrown open, and light spilled out into the hallway. A soft snick sounded, like someone opening a refrigerator door, followed by the faint rattle-rattle of dishes. Fletcher grinned and gave me a thumbs-up.
Fletcher and I eased up on either side of the doorway, still keeping to the shadows as much as possible, and peered inside. The kitchen was just as large and spacious as the other rooms and featured two of everything, including twin refrigerators situated side by side along the left wall. The doors on both were wide open, and Peter Delov stood in between them, perusing all the items inside.
Delov was big, even for a giant, topping out at almost eight feet. His back was to us, but I knew from my surveillance that he had tan skin, brown eyes, bushy eyebrows, and dark brown hair that was always slicked back over his high forehead. Delov considered himself to be a handsome man, and given his massive drug empire, he treated himself to the very best of everything, from clothes to cars to women.
But his main passion was gourmet food, and both fridges were stocked with bottles of pricey champagne, tubs of expensive caviar, and wheels of exotic cheeses. I wrinkled my nose. Very smelly cheeses. Several packs of crackers were crowded onto the counter to the right, along with a tray of cold cuts and another one piled high with an elegant arrangement of chocolates, strawberries, and kiwi slices. Looked like Delov had developed a hankering for a late-night snack. I hoped he was enjoying it, because it would be the last meal he ever ate.
Maybe it was wrong, but I didn’t feel bad about plotting Delov’s death. Not bad at all. I knew exactly what kind of scum he was. The giant sold drugs, which was sleazy enough, but he specialized in getting kids hooked on the stuff. He had a whole network of dealers whose sole job was to push his product to the local middle and high schools. A few weeks ago, a thirteen-year-old girl had died after getting a bad batch of Delov’s drugs, and her nine-year-old sister had also gotten sick and almost perished. The girls’ parents had somehow reached out to Fletcher, and now here we were, about to get payback for the dead girl, her sick sister, and her grieving parents—permanently.
Fletcher gave me a hand signal. I nodded, understanding that I was to hold my position in the hallway and watch our backs, just in case there was anyone in the mansion who wasn’t supposed to be there. Fletcher palmed one of the silverstone knives he carried for jobs like these, slid into the kitchen, and crept closer to Delov.
I was so busy studying Fletcher that the faint click-click-click of toenails on the hardwood floor behind me didn’t register for a few precious seconds. When it finally did, I froze for a moment, then slowly turned my head to the side and looked down.
A fat, fluffy Pomeranian with golden fur sniffed my left boot like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
I bit back a curse. We hadn’t seen Peaches while we’d been skulking through the mansion, and I’d thought he must have curled up on another floor and gone to sleep for the night. I liked dogs, really I did, but they’d screwed up more than a few jobs Fletcher had taken me on. Still, I couldn’t kill the curious fluffball. Peaches was innocent, even if his owner wasn’t. No pets, no kids—ever. That was the code Fletcher had taught me and I was determined to live by it.
I eased down to my knees and held out my hand, hoping that would distract the dog long enough for Fletcher to kill Delov. He was only about fifteen feet away from the giant now and closing fast. Ten more seconds, and he’d be in range. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .
Peaches sniffed my fingers and gave them a tentative lick. And then he started barking—loud, yippy, there’s-someone-new-new-new-in-the-house barks.
Oh, no.
Delov immediately whirled around at the sounds. Clutching the butcher’s knife he’d been slicing cheese and cold cuts with, he slashed out at Fletcher with it. Fletcher managed to jump out of the way, but Delov came at him with the knife again. Back and forth, the two men fought through the kitchen, knocking over dishes, silverware, and plates of food. I winced at all the noise they made. Good thing the guards were away for the night,
