I need a new plan.

I harness my fury to stay focused as we maneuver around a couple of gentle turns and settle into a steady speed. When I’m sure Batman must feel confident that I’ll behave myself, I bang my fist on the roof of the trunk in a riot of flesh against metal.

“Not sure if you’ve heard this before, but you’re a total asshole,” I yell, tears still leaking from my eyes. My banging becomes a percussion to punctuate my chant. “Ass-hole, ass-hole, ass-hole.”

“Pipe down,” he snarls before applying more pressure on the accelerator.

“Come make me, I fucking dare you.” I bang again, and he finally turns the music up to drown me out. The moment it’s on, I soften my blows and protests, and then I let them fade away.

When I’m satisfied he thinks he’s won this round, I turn on my phone’s flashlight and rummage in my bag.

My maniacal cackle is drowned out by the engine and music as I pull out the screw-in whammy bar for my Jackson guitar with my sweaty, shaking hand. I may have been born a Montague, which comes with its own set of batshit-crazy history, but I’m a Covaci too, and my stepdad taught me all kinds of useful tricks, like how to break free of cable ties. How to tie a hangman’s knot. How to load a gun.

And how to escape the trunk of a vehicle.

The vintage latch is a little tricky, but on the plus side there’s probably no warning light on the mechanical dashboard to tip my crusty chauffeur off when I manage to pop it free on the third try. I hold on to the mechanism to keep the trunk’s lid open just enough that I can watch the road fall away behind us. We’re still in the middle of nowhere—no traffic, no pedestrians, hardly any houses. It’s just the forest. Me and the dark and the red taillights that bleed into the black night.

The car slows. The driveshaft disengages as Batman shifts gears and brakes. The taillights brighten. One blinks, signaling a right-hand turn.

I pop the lid just enough to slip free of the trunk before we’ve rolled to a stop. It’s not a graceful dismount. I smash a knee on the asphalt and tear a hole in my sweats. The exhaust fumes spill across my face when I kneel behind the bumper. I gently hold the lid down so that he won’t notice it in the rearview. The old hinges are stiff enough that it doesn’t spring open when I lessen the pressure. I can’t close it completely, but if Batman doesn’t spot me as he turns, I might have enough time to disappear.

The lights dim as he takes his foot off the brake. With a growl and a puff of gray smoke, the engine revs. The car coasts around the turn and rolls away.

I linger for just a breath of time, crouched on the empty road. And then I rise, wipe the cooling tears off my face, and walk away in the opposite direction.

You don’t know me, I think when I cast a final glance to the car before it disappears around a bend.

And he’s right.

He doesn’t want to.

OceanofPDF.com

BULL’S-EYE

Lachlan

… ONE YEAR LATER

“We haven’t had a happy hour like this in years,” Leander says as he tosses a dart. An instant later, a garbled cry bounces off the concrete walls as the metal point lands in Robbie Usher’s cheek. A few more darts quiver in his face as he shakes with fear and pain. His sobs escape from the gag that stretches back the corners of his mouth to reveal his swollen, bloodied gums. His top and bottom teeth are gone all the way to his molars. Bleeding gums aside, the dart hanging from his lower lip looks especially painful. Naturally, that one is Leander’s favorite.

So far.

Can’t say this is the life I imagined for myself, pulling teeth with pliers and playing darts with some guy’s face in my boss’s basement on a Friday night. Who does, I guess? Come to think of it, I probably didn’t spend much of my childhood imagining what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was too busy figuring out how to survive. I don’t remember dreams of being a firefighter or a police officer or a teacher or anything at all. The most vivid daydreams I can recall were how to get away with murder. I even wished for it on my thirteenth birthday, when my brothers cobbled together enough money to buy ingredients to make me a cake.

And we all know what they say about wishes.

Leander offers me a fresh dart on his upturned palm. I stare at it. Swallow my distaste. Catch an irritated sigh in my chest. Try to keep my apathetic mask from slipping. But Leander Mayes has known me since I was seventeen, when he appeared like an angel in my darkest hour.

Little did I know that angel would turn out to be the devil in disguise.

“Come on now, Lachlan. You know how much I love darts.”

“Right …” I say, taking my time to raise my glass to my lips and down a long sip of water. Goddammit. I wish it was something stronger, but I learned the hard way to not indulge in Leander’s extensive supply of thirty-year-aged whiskey on a Friday night when he’s in the mood for a “happy hour.” Last time that happened, I came to three days later, stuffing my face with watermelon as I sat on a curb in Carlsbad, New Mexico, with literally no recollection of how I got there. New Mexico. Motherfucker.

Leander grins like he’s crawled into my feckin’ brain as I pick up the dart and toss it in Robbie’s general direction without taking my eyes from my boss. Judging by the clatter of metal against concrete, I’ve missed and hit the wall.

Leander sighs and drags a hand through his silver hair. His eyes twinkle with amusement even though he tries to look disappointed.

“You know,” he says as he lays another dart on his open palm, “I’ve always kept my promise to you. I’ve never given you an innocent person to kill. And you know as well as I do that Robbie is no saint.”

He’s right. I do know. I’ve heard Robbie Usher’s name pop up over the years. My brother Rowan even brought him up once as someone he wanted to kill before the reckless little shit started his annual murder competition with Sloane and lost interest in drug dealer assholes like Robbie.

“Yeah, I just prefer to get these things done and over with. Cleanly. Not like … this,” I say, waving a hand in Robbie’s direction. When I glance his way, he tries to beg for freedom. Tears and snot collect blood in their rivulets as they streak down his pale skin. “My job is a contract killer. Not a cleaner. Not a torturer.”

“Your job is whatever I need it to be.”

When I meet Leander’s gaze once more, the amusement in his mossy eyes has burned away. Only a warning remains.

“As I recall, the last time you forgot your job and your manners, it ran you into a little bit of trouble. I definitely don’t recall instructing you to piss off one of our most valuable customers, did I?”

Though I often think I should be impervious to emotions like shame or embarrassment, sometimes they sneak up on me and burn in my cheeks. Just like now, when I remember the aftermath of the cleanup job he sent me to do last year on Halloween night. That particular contract shriveled up after that night, along with my hopes of getting out from under Leander’s thumb.

And the part that annoys me the most? I’m not even sure why I acted like such a prick to that woman whose mess I was sent to fix.

Maybe I was already annoyed that I had to leave Fionn behind at that goddamn party when he was a blubbering mess to do cleanup when that isn’t my job. Maybe it was the way she acted like the death and chaos she’d just caused were no big deal. Maybe it was even the fact that she was clearly injured when I’d been told she was fine. She was definitely not fine. And that inexplicably made me almost as irate as being called out to scuba dive in dark and frigid waters on Halloween night. I’m not really sure what it was that tipped me over the edge. I just know that Blunder Barbie slipped right under my skin. And I fucking let her. Worse still, she slipped away and I don’t even know how.