wasn’t set. I opened the wallet Lester had put together for me, thumbed past photos of a woman and two children I’d never met, and removed a rewards card from a grocery store local to the address on my fake ID. Thinner and more flexible than my alias’s credit cards, it slipped easily between door and jamb, and popped the latch as effortlessly as if I’d used the key.
I opened the door a crack and listened. The clamor of the AC unit aside, I heard nothing, so I entered the room. The cold, processed air was a shock after the desert heat. So was the gun barrel that pressed against the nape of my neck.
I turned my head slightly and caught a glimpse of a woman in my periphery, half hidden by the open door. She must have been standing in the corner nearest the hinges when I peeked through the window. As I moved, she jabbed me with the gun barrel, so I stopped.
“Easy,” she said. “And keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
“Are you Destiny?”
“Depends who’s asking.” She shut the door behind me and took a step back. “Now turn around.”
I complied a little more enthusiastically than she would’ve liked—pivoting on one heel and quickly closing the gap between us. I wrapped my hand around the wrist of her gun arm and wrenched it toward the ceiling, squeezing as hard as I could to keep her from pulling the trigger. Even in a dump like this, a gunshot was liable to attract attention.
With my free hand, I grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her head toward me. She bent at the waist and fell to her knees—her arm still pointed skyward thanks to my grip on her wrist. As the strain on her shoulder built, she let out a cry and dropped the gun. I released her with a shove and retrieved it. She wound up sprawled across the threadbare carpet.
“Relax,” I told her. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
She sat up. Tested her arm’s range of motion gingerly. Winced. “Yeah? You coulda fooled me.”
“I’m not here to get shot, either.”
Outside, the motel’s neon lights blinked on and cast long shadows onto the far wall. Now that the sun had fully set, the room was dark save for the neon’s glow. I considered turning on the lamp beside the table, but decided against it. The illumination would only serve to make a target of us both.
“What are you here for?”
“To offer you my services.”
“What kind of services? Breaking and entering? Assault?”
“If need be,” I replied. I engaged the safety on her gun and set it on the table. Then I helped her to her feet. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”
I sat down on one side of the table, in the chair facing the door. She dropped into the chair opposite. I never sit with my back to an entrance if I can avoid it.
Her gaze flitted from me to the gun on the table between us and back again. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” I said. She frowned and looked away.
The next part’s always the hardest. Some folks need a little hand-holding. Others want to hear it straight. She seemed like the latter to me, so I dove right in. “Are you aware that there’s a bounty on your head?”
“Would I be holed up in this piece of shit motel if I wasn’t?”
“Fair point,” I said. “And you knowing makes this easier.”
“Makes what easier?”
“My sales pitch.”
“What, exactly, are you selling?”
“A second chance at life.”
“Meaning what?” she asked.
“Meaning—for a price—I’ll put the guy they send to kill you in the ground.”
“That sounds less like a second chance than a head start on the next guy who comes gunning for me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. In my experience, once one hitter winds up dead, others are disinclined to pick up the contract. And the mess a failed hit leaves behind usually leads the cops right back to the guy who put the hit out in the first place.”
“What do you know about the guy who put the hit out in the first place?”
“A bit.” The truth was, I knew plenty. Ronnie Blaze—real name
I opened the door a crack and listened. The clamor of the AC unit aside, I heard nothing, so I entered the room. The cold, processed air was a shock after the desert heat. So was the gun barrel that pressed against the nape of my neck.
I turned my head slightly and caught a glimpse of a woman in my periphery, half hidden by the open door. She must have been standing in the corner nearest the hinges when I peeked through the window. As I moved, she jabbed me with the gun barrel, so I stopped.
“Easy,” she said. “And keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
“Are you Destiny?”
“Depends who’s asking.” She shut the door behind me and took a step back. “Now turn around.”
I complied a little more enthusiastically than she would’ve liked—pivoting on one heel and quickly closing the gap between us. I wrapped my hand around the wrist of her gun arm and wrenched it toward the ceiling, squeezing as hard as I could to keep her from pulling the trigger. Even in a dump like this, a gunshot was liable to attract attention.
With my free hand, I grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her head toward me. She bent at the waist and fell to her knees—her arm still pointed skyward thanks to my grip on her wrist. As the strain on her shoulder built, she let out a cry and dropped the gun. I released her with a shove and retrieved it. She wound up sprawled across the threadbare carpet.
“Relax,” I told her. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
She sat up. Tested her arm’s range of motion gingerly. Winced. “Yeah? You coulda fooled me.”
“I’m not here to get shot, either.”
Outside, the motel’s neon lights blinked on and cast long shadows onto the far wall. Now that the sun had fully set, the room was dark save for the neon’s glow. I considered turning on the lamp beside the table, but decided against it. The illumination would only serve to make a target of us both.
“What are you here for?”
“To offer you my services.”
“What kind of services? Breaking and entering? Assault?”
“If need be,” I replied. I engaged the safety on her gun and set it on the table. Then I helped her to her feet. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”
I sat down on one side of the table, in the chair facing the door. She dropped into the chair opposite. I never sit with my back to an entrance if I can avoid it.
Her gaze flitted from me to the gun on the table between us and back again. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” I said. She frowned and looked away.
The next part’s always the hardest. Some folks need a little hand-holding. Others want to hear it straight. She seemed like the latter to me, so I dove right in. “Are you aware that there’s a bounty on your head?”
“Would I be holed up in this piece of shit motel if I wasn’t?”
“Fair point,” I said. “And you knowing makes this easier.”
“Makes what easier?”
“My sales pitch.”
“What, exactly, are you selling?”
“A second chance at life.”
“Meaning what?” she asked.
“Meaning—for a price—I’ll put the guy they send to kill you in the ground.”
“That sounds less like a second chance than a head start on the next guy who comes gunning for me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. In my experience, once one hitter winds up dead, others are disinclined to pick up the contract. And the mess a failed hit leaves behind usually leads the cops right back to the guy who put the hit out in the first place.”
“What do you know about the guy who put the hit out in the first place?”
“A bit.” The truth was, I knew plenty. Ronnie Blaze—real name
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