3. Kaden

3

KADEN

The blade slices through his carotid artery in one fluid motion. Blood spurts, warm and wet across my hands. His eyes bulge in shock and pain, hands grasping futilely at his throat to stem the crimson tide.

Another mark off the list, another ghost I've created to haunt the earth for eternity.

When I'm satisfied his eyes are soulless, I check the time, the hands of my blacked-out Rolex informing me it's 1:04 in the morning. Pulling a cheap, plastic wristwatch from my pocket, I ensure the time matches up, then remove the battery, freezing this man's final moments, and wrap it around his wrist.

A token, if you will, or a calling card, a kill signature, or most importantly, confirmation to my client that the Scythe met his end of the contract.

Sometimes playing a role in public keeps the real operation hidden to throw off suspicion or create false leads. But true clients? They never see my face.

It's only through a long, twisted binary road that their message can reach me, and I never write back. Once the money is deposited up front, the only answer they receive is the person they wanted dead.

My hands are stained with the blood of the wicked, the corrupt, the guilty. And with each life I take, a part of me dies as well. But it is a sacrifice I'm willing to make for justice.

I leave the body cooling in the basement of its multimillion-dollar brownstone, stepping over congealing pools of blood. The night air is damp and heavy with the promise of rain, diffusing the streetlights into halos. I take a winding, circuitous path to my car, using two buses, a subway, and three outfit changes before I slip into a nondescript black sedan in a pristine business suit and join the interstate exit out of the city.

Back in my spartan apartment, I rinse the blood from my skin, watching the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain, one of my hands black with intricate ink from my fingernails up to my shoulders, and the other as bare as it was when I was born. My inked arm is compromised of an intricate patchwork of symbols and designs, but three always catch my attention. A clock with no hands is tatted on the top of my hand. A phoenix rising from the ashes flows up to my elbow. My eyes stray to the coordinates tattooed on my inner forearm—a place I can never forget, where I lost everything.

Greycliff.

It's as if all the ghosts I've dispatched have clawed their way back to me, howlingas they drag me back to where I lost my little girl. It's not to give me a second chance to save what I couldn't a decade ago. I have too many sins to be given such salvation.

But … Layla Verona.

An innocent caught up in a tangled, lethal web I doubt she fully grasps .

I groan, my steel-blue eyes disappearing as I shut my lids on my reflection.

There was another caught under the legs of a similar spider. Cassandra Black. Cassie. My daughter.

Despite my refusal to make Layla a target, I'm compelled to research why . Why her? What has she done, or not done, to deserve to have her time frozen by the Scythe?

With a hot cup of coffee by my side, I sit at my makeshift desk, my four computer monitors humming to life. It doesn't take long to pull all her public information. Her address, social security number and passport are all child's play. Using that, I spend an hour attempting to access her private data.

I expected to have her personal passwords fifty-five minutes ago.

I grunt, leaning forward on my elbows, my fingers flying like an expert pianist at a concert hall, using all the backdoors I can think of.

Each time I have to restart or try something new, my temper flares. Yet so does my intrigue.

"Come on, sweetheart, drop those firewalls for me," I growl and croon at the same time.

Like stroking a sensitive inner thigh while the woman under my touch whimpers with want. I'm gentle and patient with the promise of tongue.

At last, she opens in submission, and I'm scrolling through Layla's life, from the beginning of her birth certificate (born in Santa Fe, California) to her new internship at Pulse Dynamics, a mediocre tech firm with below-average accolades and a bare-minimum clientele list.

I snort. It's as if whoever named the company thought slapping the promise of a heartbeat and "Dynamic" together would magically spawn innovation. The kind of person who deserves the Scythe at his doorstep .

Within two hours of scouring behind the scenes on her personal laptop, I have all the information I need on Layla Verona. It becomes clear very quickly that Miss Verona is massively overqualified but desperate for a job matching her degree in this flailing economy.

I sit back, folding my arms as I mull over her files, projects, and what catches my eye last—a drive she left open named HR Compliant Files containing recent security footage.

The most recent recording catches my attention first, and within seconds, I get my answers on why she's being offered on a platter to assassins for hire like me.

The footage continues to play after the preening supervisor, Emmitt Dawson, gets his throat worked over by a cleverly concealed attacker. I switch cameras when the attacker stalks out of the office and into the main area.

All my training should have me focused on the back of the attacker, taking note of his gait, his approximate height, and any habitual tics or marks identifying the man. Fuck, I should be able to tell if they're male or female at least .

I can't tell you a thing.

Because all my attention goes to the light-haired beauty darting around the cubicles like a lost, wingless dove as she attempts to hide from the attacker.

And I think, Hide. Come on, conceal yourself before he finds you.

My chest tightens when she slides under her desk and cowers just in time for the attacker to pause at her cubicle. With my lashes providing the only flicker of tension on my expressionless face, I note the pale sliver of her hand pulling a USB stick from her computer tower before huddling deeper into her small crevice of safety.

And I release a long exhale as the attacker leaves the frame, a stumbling Mr. Dawson following suit a few minutes after .

Layla pokes her head up after fifteen minutes of no movement. I watch every millisecond of her pulling herself together, collecting her things, and tentatively making her way to the exit, her head twisting and turning under the threat of getting jumped.

She has no idea that as easily as she overheard and made personal copies of this conversation, she signed her death warrant. The sheer danger of knowing about this piece of tech could bring every crime lord down upon her pretty head. I should take her copy from her, give it to whomever wants it, and bargain to keep her out of harm's way. Yet ... that is not my first thought.

She intrigues me, this gentle wraithling with her moon-pale skin and wide, supernatural eyes.

Not a single muscle in my body moves as I watch her on the screen as if I'm hiding in the shadows behind her, sharing her same air.

I replay her movements ten times before I decide to rewind and give the attacker a better look. Inexplicable rage uncoils from my gut toward the man who put the fear of God in her, a woman too smart for her job, too innocent to acquire such information, and too beautiful to wear such terror on her face.

And when I dig deeper into company security footage history, that rage becomes an inferno.

Mr. Dawson has some explaining to do, touching her the way he does.

Feeling her the way he wants to.

Trailing fingers across her shoulders, holding her arm too tight when he stops to converse with her in the hallways, ensuring his palm brushes across the side of her breast…

The small tent inside his pants when he turns to leave.

He deserves death .

It's a simple thought. Unbidden. And similar to the one running parallel to it: no one touches her.

I rise from my chair five hours later, only now registering my full bladder and growling stomach. I relieve both before resuming my online prowl, beginning with Emmitt Dawson and finishing with the attacker.

My blood runs cold once I use my personal facial recognition software on the millisecond when the attacker turns his head and scans Layla's cubicle before pocketing his gun and taking the elevator. It's enough to make a 60 percent link to a face in my diligently collected crime files.

When that face stares back at me through the screen, I can't blink. I stand completely still, holding my breath until the silence becomes unbearable, and I break my rule of never drinking while hunting. I search through my kitchen until I find a dusty bottle of whiskey and take a long sip that burns all the way down my throat.

It lands on my counter with a shatter, my fist clenched around broken shards of glass and blood-soaked cuts burning with whiskey fire.

Frank Morelli.

I've caught your trail, motherfucker.

The attacker on the footage is an associate of his. Morelli is shrouded in near-mythical status and has mastered the art of remaining unseen despite leading a vast criminal empire. Unlike other capos, he rarely appears in person at his clubs or establishments. Instead, he uses a complex network of proxies, doubles, and encrypted communication. I've been tracking and losing him for years.

He is the man who killed my daughter.

With a shaking, blood-soaked fist and my head bowed over the counter, strands of dark hair falling into my vision, I make a vow not to lose him. Not again .

Cassie deserves her justice.

I start by packing a multitude of weapons in a plain canvas duffel, using a second bag for my electronics, wrapping the expensive equipment and vicious weapons with clothes I'll need on the go.

I changed my mind. I'm traveling to Greycliff for selfish reasons because my return to that godforsaken city isn't about saving or protecting Layla.

I confess this to myself as dawn eats the shadows on my floor with cheerful orange and pink teeth.

She's marked by Morelli. Therefore, the Scythe's next move is clear.

Haunt her every step.