Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
While Carrie went straight into working with computers, I joined the military, served for four years, then got out. I hated every minute of it, but it taught me discipline and gave me an opportunity to meet people I probably would have never met otherwise.
My first boyfriend was actually part of the reason I left the military. He offered me a lot of money to do stupid shit, and I accepted.
And then I got hooked on money.
At least it wasn’t drugs. Well, that’s what I like to tell myself.
Nexon, my ex, who I stayed with for three years after leaving the military, continued my training in combat and stealth. And, damn, he excelled in hand-to-hand combat. I was good with pretty much any weapon, but I crushed it with a knife. Which Nexon loved. He relished pinning me to the ground, my weapon pressed against his throat as he fucked me.
Now, that was some good sex.
Not mind-blowing, but solid all the same.
It felt like the sex would never end. He could never come, which I later worked out was because of the drugs in his system.
But thanks to Nexon, I found a different calling. One that paid well, and that I was good at. I learned about contract killing, and how handsomely someone would pay to take another’s life.
He worked for the mafia, with tactics that were more … bloody. I didn’t want to go down that road. I wanted to be more ladylike, cleaner. Sophisticated, if you will. And I also never wanted to come in contact with whomever was to hire me.
No one suspects a delicate-looking, five-foot-two, high-heeled, blue-haired woman of killing a powerful man.
Oh no, of course not.
Surely, she’s too small, and men are so large.
Detachment came easily to me, a byproduct of an upbringing under adoptive parents whose dealings were as shady as they were instructive. That’s where Carrie came in. I told her one night about what I’d been doing. At first, she was shocked. Then she immediately went into business mode. She was clever like that. She’d created a whole business model for me, making me almost untouchable.
All the contracts go through Carrie. She’s basically what they call my handler.
I do nothing but the killing.
I don’t ask why. I don’t ask who hired me. I’m hired to do a job, and I do it well.
So fucking well.
People always assume assassins are in it for the blood, the violence. But that’s so messy and chaotic, and not at all what I like.
That’s not what I do.
I like it clean.
Precise.
Refined.
A kill should feel like a transaction, not a crime scene. No screaming, no collateral, and no unnecessary mess. Everything in its place, as if it were always meant to happen that way.
It’s the control that fascinates me. The way the world narrows to one target, one strike, one outcome. Everything else disappears behind clarity, focus, and efficiency.
And when it’s done … silence. Nothing left behind but the proof that the job was completed.
I don’t linger.
I don’t celebrate.
I don’t feel guilt.
It’s just business, done with style.
And I am very, very good at it.
I’ve even earned a reputation for myself, exclusivity if you will.
I’m hard to reach, and even harder to hire.
My fee would scare the most steadfast of men, but luckily, those aren’t the people who hire me. No, my clients are just filthy fucking rich assholes who always want someone dead.
The streets have a name for me.
Venom.
Which I find highly amusing.
TWO
BOSTON
“Fuck, they really did a number on this one,” Rolland says from behind me. I bend down and get a closer look, careful not to touch anything. The asphalt beneath my boots is slick with rain, reflecting the wash of red and blue lights that pulse across the alley. It’s two in the morning, and the city hasn’t quite decided whether it’s asleep or just pretending to be. Sirens hum somewhere in the distance, not urgent anymore, just part of the background noise of a night gone wrong. The air smells like damp concrete and the tang of fresh blood.
“Do you think this is the same person as Highball Street?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say without a doubt. It’s too clean, despite the mess of blood. There is no trace of whoever did it, and that’s an issue we have with these high-profile kills. My gaze traces the wound again. There are no defensive marks on his body, and no signs of struggle in the surrounding area. Mr. Sand barely had time to realize what was happening. That’s a signature in itself, showing the killer’s control and confidence.
“Fuck, reporters are here,” Rolland grumbles, then turns and walks off as I remain crouched next to Mr. Sand’s body.
Gawkers stretch their necks, phones out, hungry for something they can post before the body is even cold. Flashes go off behind the tape, mixing with the patrol lights, turning the whole scene into something almost theatrical. I tune it out—you have to learn to do that in this job. After so many years on the force, you either learn to narrow your world down to the details or you drown in the noise.