Page 2 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“Zuza, we’re on. His apartment.”

She laughs from the other side of the line. “I guess I owe you dinner next time I see you.” She wasn’t convinced of my assessment that Soós enjoyed the company of men when he was alone in the city.

“You bet you do.” I don’t tell her that’s unlikely to happen.

“I’m inside his building’s security system. It never ceases to amaze me how it’s always the people with more money that spend the least on their security.”

“You might want to check the bar security cameras too.”

“Already done. They haven’t noticed it yet, but their cameras have been down with a technical fault since before you got there. I was even kind enough to report it to their IT team. Now, remember what I said about the street cameras. Keep to the right side of the street until you get to his place.”

“And his building?”

“There must be a bug going around. Their cameras are also off.” The way she says it like this is child’s play makes me laugh. I’ve been working with Zuza for almost five years. She’ll be the only thing I’ll miss after tonight.

“Thanks, Zee.”

I put the phone away and reach for the high shelf above the toilet where I hid my gun earlier. I double-check the suppressor is attached properly, holster it at my hip, and exit the bar.

Viktor is standing on the corner of the street, smoking a cigarette. When he sees me, he starts walking. It was still daylight when I arrived at the bar, but it’s now fully dark, and the old street lights are my best friends, especially when Viktor stays on the right side of the road.

I hate feeling like a job is too easy because that’s when I can get distracted and make mistakes, so I keep my focus. Anything can happen to derail this job.

The apartment is just as I’d seen in the surveillance photographs—high ceilings, expensive furniture, and a wall of windows that frames the Danube like a painting. The city lights shimmer on the water below. It’s a genuinely beautiful view.

Viktor pours drinks from a crystal decanter while I stand at the glass, gazing out at the city.

“Come away from the window,” Viktor says, crossing the room toward the large white couch between us with both glasses. “You make me nervous, standing there.”

“Do I?” I take the glass from him, sit without being too close, and hold his gaze. “You don’t seem like the kind of man that ever gets nervous.”

“Everyone gets nervous around the right person.”

Despite his words, there isn’t an ounce of uncertainty or nervousness radiating from him. I know from my research he’s not a fan of heights, which makes me question the location of this apartment, but to each their own.

No. The way he’s studying me like he wants this part to be over so we can move on to better things is everything but nerves or reluctance. In fact, the outline of his hardening cock is quite a tell.

Sadly for him, it does nothing for me. Murderous drug lords aren’t really my type.

“I’m tired of talking.” He takes a large swig of his drink and sets the empty glass on the table, then grabs my full drink and does the same.

“I could argue we haven’t talked all that much,” I say, running my gaze over his body.

He pulls me to straddle him, and I let him.

“Talking is … how you Americans say, overrated.”

“I’m Canadian.”

He runs his hands down my chest, opening the buttons on my shirt. “Same thing.”

Poor Canadians, undeservedly tagged as Americans.

His hand heads toward the wrong place.

The gun is beneath the jacket. Another two inches and he will find it.

I catch his wrist in a smooth and fast move and lean into him before taking his wrists, one in each hand, and pinning them behind his back. “Patience,” I whisper into his ear. “Good things come to those who wait.”