The likely killer accepted some coffee from the waitress with a frown, tension lines marring his face.
Shay stifled a laugh. When she’d worked the job, one thing she’d learned right away is that looking tense made you stand out and attracted the wrong kind of attention. Even an idiot could get the drop on you if they noticed you.
Surprise was one of the greatest weapons when it came to a successful kill. Is Mr. Defensive Seating new or just bad at the job? The thought vaguely offended her.
So, I’ve made him, and he doesn’t know I have. Seriously, asshole, you thought you could take me out that easily? I’m insulted.
“Auf wiedersehen,” said a snow-haired old man to the waitress. He’d been inside the café before Shay even arrived, slowly working on some sort of dark soup. He grabbed his cane and limped his way to the door.
Shay pulled out a few Euros and tossed them on the counter. She could finish off Mr. Defensive Seating in an alleyway, or at least somewhere without security cameras or drones, but she needed to push things along at her tempo and not his.
She hurried to the door and threw the old man a large fake smile before opening the door for him.
“Danke,” he said, and stepped through.
“Bitte schön,” Shay offered back, keeping the pleasant smile plastered on her face.
She spotted Mr. Defensive Seating’s reflection in the glass of the window as he made his way from his table. He’d barely had time to finish his coffee and was already standing. Any doubts she had about him being a hitman vanished.
If you were going to be this obvious, you should have just set up with a sniper rifle from a building and shot me when I stepped out, asshole.
A grin wanted to break out on Shay’s face. Excitement, not fear, flowed through her.
Taking out a single hitman would be a nice way to maintain her practical combat skills without any serious risk. Even if her new job didn’t always require her to kill, if she let her instincts rust, she’d be dead the next time a mercenary squad got the drop on her.
The old man headed up the sidewalk to the left, leaning heavily on his cane while he joined the light flow of the evening foot traffic. Shay moved the opposite direction where the walkers were less dense. Fewer people meant fewer complications. It also meant delayed police response.
Far fewer police drones patrolled the skies of Munich than she was used to in large American cities. Whether that represented German naivete or simply safer cities, she couldn’t say. Considering some of the serious magic-related incidents she’d read about, she doubted the latter.
The hitman emerged from the café and straightened his tie. Is it some sort of nervous tic? His tell. She walked down the street for a few yards and lifted her phone as if she were taking a selfie, but mostly to check behind her, and frowned.
The hitman wasn’t following her; he was following the old man.
Really? You needed to hire a professional to take down an old dude with a cane and a limp? I could hire some 12-year-old Girl Scout to take out that guy.
Shay rolled her eyes. She wasn’t overly impressed with the hitman. Arrogance on her part, perhaps, but an arrogance earned through skill. Shay doubted most people could successfully assassinate themselves, disappear and still collect the payout.
The tomb raider slowed her pace, waiting for both the old mark and the hitman to go around the corner. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. She turned and hurried in their direction, maintaining a brisk walk but not fast enough to be running to avoid drawing any attention.
Curiosity fueled her now, not concern. The old man’s fate wasn’t hers to decide, but somehow watching a hit go down appealed to a dark part of her. The same vicious side of her soul that reveled in using her skills to defeat and take the life of another. She couldn’t deny that she’d fallen into being a professional killer after finding out on her first kill – she liked it.
She’d always told herself it was more about control than enjoying the kill. Not completely true. She pulled her soft light wool jacket tighter against the biting wind as she slowed down at the corner.
It didn’t matter, really. Shay knew how fucked up she was. In a way, the Nuevo Gulf Cartel had done her a favor by putting the contract on her life. Now, she had a chance at some sort of halfway decent human existence instead of being nothing more than a paid weapon.
Not that her soul could ever be redeemed, if there even was such a thing, but at least now she wasn’t sliding farther and farther each day into becoming a complete fucking monster.
Of course, maybe my dead marks would disagree that I’m not a monster.
Shay stopped at the corner and peeked around. “Son of a bitch.”
The old man now held his cane and all but jogged along without any sign of his former limp. He glanced over his shoulder and picked up the pace, hurrying away from the hitman.
Shay smirked, impressed the old man had managed to fool her.
See, Mr. Defensive Seating? That’s how you surprise people, but now the guy’s made you because you’re so damned sloppy.
Shay jogged toward the men but kept her distance. Even fewer people walked in the narrow side streets, and it was clear the noose was tightening around the old man. She glanced around and spotted a ladder running up the side of a nearby building. After chancing another glance at the men, she ducked in an alley and grabbed onto the base of the ladder, easily scrambling up the side.
Those gym
