Chapter 2

Several weeks earlier

Styx

Zeus: I sent you what you asked for. Have you received it?

Zeus? Half my clients had used codenames or false ones at minimum over the years. It was notable in the dangerous world I lived in, the lengths people went to in order to eliminate their enemies. I'd gotten rich from people who had tried every other method of challenging their competition, finally resorting to the expertise I offered. But this was… uncalled for. Besides, I knew the man's real identity as well as the other members of his failing corporation. You didn't become the best without learning every aspect of those employing you. Unless you were stupid.

Liam Jacobs, CEO of a ruthless company that had been on my radar for years. He and his buddies were behind the request. That had been easy to discover. He thought he was so clever, which kept a smile on my face. They were all chumps, their level of entitlement keeping me fully amused.

Me: Received.

I glared at the open envelope on my desk, studying the two photographs I'd been sent along with the dossier on the mark. The possible client was merely assuming I'd sign the contract. I'd yet to decide. In truth, I didn't like the mark on any level, namely because I wasn't in the habit of killing women for any reason. Maybe what little I remembered about my mother had provided a sense that no matter how ruthless a woman could be, she was still the fairer sex and needed to be protected.

And used.

Men? That was something else altogether. How many had I killed in my life? Enough to fill a couple of months of dates on a calendar. And I was damn good at it.

Besides, I hated cowards and, in my mind, the men of the once lucrative partnership were reprehensible, more so than even myself because they were stooping so low. Why not just ruin the man they seemed to hate? Because that would be too easy? Because they didn't want to get their hands dirty? Huffing, I rubbed my tired eyes. This shit was starting to get old.

Several years before, I'd accepted the fact I was exactly like my father, a brutal man with a penchant for seeing blood spilled. I'd been born into a family of vipers, indoctrinated into a world of wealth and sin. I usually thoroughly enjoyed my new passion for causing death, especially when I created the chaos. After all, doing the unholy work of the devil was necessary. There was no loyalty left inside of me, least of all to my father and his memory. He'd been slaughtered because of his atrocities, the once powerful mafia leader reduced to nothing but food for cockroaches.

Good fucking riddance to the man.

In a shocking move in what seemed like a lifetime before, I'd tried to change my life, to become a better man, only to be sucked into the world of extreme darkness and violence a few years later.

The sins of the past had followed me, almost to my grave. Since I hadn't been able to get away from my family's opulence and savage reputation, I'd finally embraced the joy of hunting. A smile crossed my lips. However, breaking beautiful things simply for an act of revenge was a limitation I hadn't known I had.

I'd come recommended to the potentially new customer by a former client from two years before. Unfortunately, the bastard and his followers had made the mortal mistake of providing my contact information without my strict approval. I reminded myself to fucking burn down the fucker's house when I had the chance.

With him locked inside.

I lifted the one photograph, studying the girl's stunning face and smile. It had been a long time since any woman had captured my attention. This girl was magnificent in every way.

Me: Why do you want her dead? Why not her father?

The reasons never mattered to me, at least not really. This time, I needed to know. She appeared so innocent, a little sparrow just learning how to fly.

Zeus: I have my reasons.

They always did, although this time I sensed it was something very personal between the man and the mark's father, Gideon Martin. I'd heard of the man years before when my father had been alive, the prick slaughtering the man who'd mentored him and the man's son to gain possession of his mentor's chain of command and his wealth. I almost admired Gideon's benevolent attitude toward anyone who rose against him. Except that I'd learned he'd had no love for his own child, his wife tormented before being murdered. I wondered if the beautiful girl had any idea her own father had ordered the hit himself.

Oh, the ruthlessness of man predicated by greed. My father had been the same way.

Perhaps the people seeking revenge believed Liam had something more than tolerance for his own flesh and blood. Or perhaps it was nothing more than an eye for an eye, a life for another life. In any case, the entire situation had already left a bad taste in my mouth.

Women and children were off limits. There was a code even within respectful crime syndicates. And while the beautiful girl with a sweet name like Emily might be considered an adult, she was far from being a threat.

Maybe I should have followed in my footsteps after all, running the family's powerful mafia organization. Really? And take the fun away from my brother? I snickered from the thought. We were already at odds as it was.

There was no reason to address Zeus' comment and in truth, I shouldn't give a shit about his reasons why he wanted the girl dead.

But I did. More so than I would have even a few months before.

Zeus: When can we expect activity? I need action. Now.

Now the fucker was demanding. If he was standing in front of me, I'd snap his neck into two pieces with ease. While I bristled, I resisted lashing out at this point. It wouldn't do me any good.

Those determined to hire the notorious Talon, as those in the industry had started to call me, were always careful with their messages, but texting was off limits. I preferred email, which I changed often. While I had a handful of untraceable phones, the potential client's inability to follow directions truly pissed me off. Enough so I would normally toss the opportunity aside. I didn't need the money, plus there was a higher level of risk with this particular job. And I was a fucking killer, not a goddamn babysitter.

Me: If and when I decide whether to take this job, I'll let you know.

Emily. The name suited an angel.

I studied the photograph again, taking a deep breath as I traced her beautiful face with my index finger. The way the bright wash of sunlight highlighted her porcelain skin and long strands was incredible, her long blonde hair like spun gold. She appeared so vulnerable and virtuous but looks could certainly be deceiving. Some of the greatest wars on earth had been because a woman had been allowed to get under a man's skin. Women could be a true weakness. I'd ended that portion of my life the day my entire world had been burned to the ground. The reminder was exactly what I needed.

Unfortunately, my balls were tight, a strange and very dark hunger pooling in my system. It was impossible to take my eyes off the photograph, my throat tightening.

If she belonged to me, I'd defile her endlessly, driving my cock into every hole at least three times a day. I laughed and returned the picture to the folder. Fucking a young girl was the last thing I needed on my mind. I had another contract to finish before I took a long-awaited rest.

Zeus: Then we'll use someone else.

Me: You do that.

I would ordinarily end the relationship before it began but there were other assassins who would take the job without hesitation. Emily would be killed. Fuck. I wasn't certain I could allow that to happen.

However, I was far too annoyed, turning off the phone and tossing it across my desk before reaching into one of the drawers and grabbing a new cellphone simply because I didn't want to be bothered.

The fuckers would try to contact someone else but even if they were successful in entering into a contract, they'd come back like scuttling rats.

After all, I was the best at what I did. I had to put my filthy thoughts about Emily aside for now.

It was time to head into the killing zone.

Why was I bored to fucking death?

Hunting.

It felt different than usual. There wasn't as much… intensity in the chase or the same rush of exhilaration I usually experienced.

The initial stalking and subsequent catching of my prey usually brought a moment of peace as well as a dazzling hint of satisfaction. Yes, it was also a twisted reminder of my past, but at least a portion of the darkness forced on me that I learned to excel in.

Yet tonight, I didn't have the same sense of unbridled joy as usual. There was no fire surging through my veins, no blood pumping to the point I had difficulty breathing.

Maybe I was simply bored with the business of murder altogether. Well, I still had a job to do. I'd need to shove my questions into a cold, black box until I was finished. My five-million-dollar paycheck was on the line.

I'd reminded myself earlier I didn't need the money. That was true enough, the empire I'd inherited along with my two brothers was worth billions and growing every year. So, maybe I still did enjoy getting blood underneath my fingernails as well as the sound of the marks begging for their lives.

I'd often wondered why my clients paid so much to have someone eliminated when they could pay me so much less and I'd still do it. The love of the chase and kill was in my blood, something taught to me by my father when I was a small boy. I'd abhorred his methods of training, his requirements to sit and watch documentaries on serial killers and methods of using various weapons boring the hell out of me. Of course, I'd been a child, longing to play football and go to baseball games, chasing after pretty girls who'd never given me the time of day.

Only a few years before had I truly begun to appreciate my father's genius.

What everyone would call his extreme madness.

That had been after my life had been turned upside down from tragedy. Psychiatrists would say I'd snapped. So what?

"Oh, God. Oh, God."

Sighing, I scanned the room quickly. The stench of urine was already present. That I didn't like. Be a fucking man, for Christ's sake.

"Who… Who are you?" the stupid fuck dared to ask as he backed up a few additional steps, managing to trip over his own feet in his effort to provide some distance between us.

There was something to be said for extreme darkness, the absence of light, especially when there were no shadows created by the glowing warmth of the moon floating in through open window blinds. My eyes were used to the blackness of night, most of my work done in the wee hours of the morning when the hush of the dawn was at least two hours away.

Some might call me a vampire because of the time spent in the darkness and my absolute adoration of bloodshed. In fact, my best handiwork, deeds that had captured me the nickname of Talon had been done under the cloak of darkness.

Something I was very proud of.

"Does it really matter, Michael?" I asked a few seconds later after inhaling and enjoying the scent of his terror, which was able to block out the other reprehensible odor.

"Please. Please don't hurt me. I have money. Lots of money. I'll pay you anything."

There was nothing I loathed more than a whiner attempting to buy me off. Why couldn't men be men without resorting to bribery or threats? Next, he was going to tell me he was a church-going citizen with a family. "I don't want your money, Michael."

"Okay. What do you want? I'm a law-abiding citizen with a family. I got to church every Sunday, for fuck's sake."

And there we were.

I'd forgotten all about the law-abiding part. Those carrying a guilty conscience were almost always guilty of the crime they were being accused of. And this time, Michael Wellington was accused of a doozy of a crime. I was simply here serving as judge and jury. Only in my world, there was no such thing as a pardon. I snickered inwardly from the thought.

"What do I want?" I asked and inched closer to the man's desk where he likely kept trophies of his conquests, although I had a few to show him in case he still wasn't certain why I'd hunted him down like the dog he was.

His labored breathing was the only answer. It was time to bring some light into the situation. I flicked on the desk lamp, shocking the pipsqueak of a man standing in front of me. He winced, cowering down a few feet as if I'd shot him in the temple. Not yet. In truth, I was bored to fucking death with my usual clean method of killing another human being. Maybe tonight I'd allow it to get messy.

I had a little time on my hands, even if my stomach had already started to rumble as it did every time I went to work.

"I think it's time I show you why I'm here. Would you like that, Michael?"

"Uh-huh." He was sweating profusely, his eyes glassed over as he tried to focus with the wash of light filtering across his desk. The man had good tastes, the bloodwood surface rich in color, whatever the woodworker had used to protect it adding to the deep sheen.

Then his eyes opened wide as if recognizing me. Men like me were considered urban legends, ghosts with no identities.

With one exception.

The scar I carried with me.

He touched the side of his face, as if the marred tissue on my cheek hurt. His lower lip was quivering, his mind reeling from the understanding that I was the thing nightmares were made of. I'd originally worn a mask when I'd shifted careers, but the scar allowed my presence to be known, another layer to the legend created and expanded on. People did so love to tell horror stories about monsters crawling through the darkness.

There was something incredibly exciting about the way he was staring at me, unable to put his words of terror into a sentence, let alone a profound one.

While he was shifting from foot to foot nervously, I took my time pulling a folded set of pictures from my Armani suit jacket, pushing both sides open as I laid the photographs out carefully in front of him. I had to admit whoever took the pictures was fairly skilled, the vivid images leaving nothing to the imagination. They were also real. I always took the time to ensure I wasn't being provided a load of crap.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh… Fuck. Where did you get these?" At least he was beginning to understand the error of his ways, as horrible as they were. Sweat dripped down his nose mixing with the blood I'd created on his face when I'd knocked him to his knees after he'd tried to assault me with a butcher knife. Who did that any longer when there were so many more refined methods of killing someone?

"Does it really matter?"

He twisted his mouth in frustration, staring at the photographs as if they were ready to bite him. Oh, they were. "No. What do you want? Is this about blackmail?"

I snorted, unable to help myself. "Hardly. This is about you being the worthless piece of scum that you are. Preying on young girls that way. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"I am. I swear to God, it won't happen again. Please. Just give me one more chance."

His pleas were almost identical to two dozen others I'd heard recently. They always promised to do better. He was lucky I hadn't gouged out his eyeballs with my sharp knife for fun or ripped off his fingernails one by one.

Yet, anyway.

I was still uncertain exactly how I wanted to handle this particular contract. It was more than obvious I was bored. Maybe I needed a vacation, something one of my clients had advised me to do. But where would I go?

"It's not up to me, Michael."

"Then who?" The dickhead was genuinely confused.

"Your partners. They grew tired of covering for you."

"Bu… But…"

"But what? This isn't you in these pictures?" I held one up and he looked away. I didn't usually snap at anyone. That simply wasn't necessary but this fucker had already tried my patience. "Look at the goddamn picture, Mickey boy. I don't want to be forced to tell you again. You won't like me if I get pissed off. Capisce, brother?"

He nodded five times then planted his unfocused eyes on the photographs. I might enjoy the hell out of killing people for a living, but I did have integrity. I drew the line at human trafficking of any kind, especially when minors were involved. One day I might have a daughter and the thought of a fucking worthless predator snatching her off the street, selling her to the highest bidder was reprehensible.

Even to a man like me.

"Okay. Okay. I get it. I can pay you anything. I'll walk away. I'll never touch another girl again."

"No, you won't." I was going to be nice, let the guy off the hook, and only put a bullet in his brain, clean and easy. But then the bastard decided to snatch a paperweight from his desk, smashing the hard crystalized rock against my forehead. That was going to leave a bruise. I was clocked to the point of seeing stars, which was what good ole Michael was hoping for as he attempted to race around the other side of the desk.

This was a no-brainer.

I grabbed his arm easily, tossing him down on the desk, momentarily placing the gun on the wooden surface so I could reach for my knife. The air was knocked out of him, his eyes opening wide in another wave of terror as I drove the serrated blade of my favorite knife into the side of his neck, angling it up just enough to slice through his carotid artery.

The blow would be fatal, the bastard eventually dying on me, which was the point to the signed contract, but slow enough I'd have the joy of watching his miserable life drain from him. The fucker was pathetic, gurgling apologies as blood sprayed across my hand and arm.

Damn it.

I liked it messy, but I'd forgotten how much a heavy pulsing vein could flow. I'd need a shower, but not before stopping by and picking up a couple of my favorite cheeseburgers. I was now famished, my stomach rumbling.

I kept him pinned to the desk, although it wasn't necessary, watching his eyes began to fade, knowing he was envisioning every wretched sin he'd committed over the years. That's what happened with the life blood was drained from someone. I truly believed there was an afterlife, only this fuck would be headed to where the sun didn't shine and there was continued anguish every single fucking day of eternity.

When he finally slipped into the silence of death, I pulled the knife free, tugging out a handkerchief I'd brought with me just in case I'd changed my mind about using my Glock.

After wiping the blade carefully and returning it to the sheath in my pocket, I backed away, shaking my head.

Still, there was no satisfaction in the kill, no feeling of heightened power whatsoever.

The rush just wasn't there any longer.

What the fuck was I going to do?