Page 3 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“I’m tired of waiting. Don’t mess with me.”

His breath catches when I roll my hips. “I think you like being messed with. Am I wrong?”

He shakes his head.

I run my nose up the side of his face. “Let me put a show on for you.” I stand up and move away from him.

“You have too many clothes on.”

“Let me fix that.” I carefully shrug off my jacket without breaking eye contact.

The moment he registers the gun is already too late. With one shot to his head, the world is a better place.

I grab my coat, drink the whiskey and pocket my glass—it’s the only thing I touched in this apartment—and then I’m out.

The elevator takes me all the way down to the garage unseen. The door is unlocked, so with a single flight of stairs up, I’m back out onto the street.

I walk two blocks before I call Zuza again. She picks up on the first ring.

“Done?”

“Done.”

“Good.” I can hear her typing. “Their security system is about to go back online. I pulled footage of him coming home alone earlier and replaced the time stamp. As far as anyone checking the security footage is concerned, Viktor Soós arrived at his apartment alone at nine thirty-five. No visitors. No anomalies.”

“Other than the bullet to his head.”

She laughs. “Goodnight, Silas.”

I pocket my phone and keep walking.

My hotel is a forty-minute walk from the upmarket Gellérthegy area. There’s a light chill in the August air, but it’s pleasant. The crystal glass is warm in my hand. When I walk past the first trash can, I drop it in and keep going.

This was the last job.

I’m the boy who was nothing until I became the man who is something. A weapon. A tool.

And now? Now I don’t know who I am. I’m free. No longer at the service of a secret international organization whose purpose is to do what others can’t.

I should feel relief, but with each step toward my hotel, I don’t know any more.

There’s a Chinese restaurant next to the hotel, so I grab some food and take it up to my room. Inside, I set the security bar on the door and sit on the edge of the bed. I need to grab a shower first to get rid of the overpowering smell of Viktor’s cologne.

My phone rings. The number is a string of digits that changes every time, but I know who it is.

“Draven.”

“Silas.” His voice is measured as always. It’s hard to tell how old he is from his voice or if he is capable of emotions. After ten years of being my handler, I’d have thought we’d have grown closer, but he always keeps a distance. He doesn’t have a face, just that monotone voice that tells me where I need to be next. “Zuza confirmed the job is done.”

“Yes.”

“Excellent work. Your payment will be processed as usual⁠—”

“What happens to his family now?”

Silence.

“Draven.”