She eyes me, her hood pulled up, covering her dark hair. “I think you’d be in the two percent.”

“Ouch.” I clutch my chest. “You’re throwing out some hard truths tonight.”

“You bought coffee.”

“Would it have made a difference if it was brought from home?”

“No. The less you have on you, the better.” Her eyes fall closed for a second as she groans. “You brought your wallet, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“With your ID?”

It clicks where she’s going with this, and I don’t want to confirm her suspicion. “No?”

I get the look again. “Still think you’re not in the two percent?”

“It’s possible I see your point.”

“Right. Can we get on with this now?”

This being kill someone. I purposely haven’t asked any questions about the mark or thought too deeply about them and having a family. In fact, the coffee and the cards and the snacks were all because I’ve been actively not thinking about it. But I need a job, and this is all that’s paying right now, so I’m going to have to suck it up.

I nod and follow Arlie to the edge of the rooftop. “You’re pulling the trigger, right?”

“Right. And you’re not actually getting paid for tonight. This is purely to see if you can handle it.”

“Okay.”

“And, Perry?”

I pull my attention from the street below to where she’s watching me. “If you rat any of us out, if you get cold feet and want to tell someone, if you betray me or any of the people I care about … they will kill you. Immediately. Luther’s just the messenger, and the real people behind this operation are very well protected. Guys like Carson Alexander, you’d be an easy target for them.”

I manage a half smile. “There you go with the trust again.”

“I want to make it clear.”

“Message received. Besides, like I said, I’m desperate for the⁠—”

Before I can finish my sentence, Arlie tugs up her black mask, takes aim, and shoots.

The chick-et, chick-et sounds like a really loud, well, stapler. Then, she lowers the gun.

“It’s done. Let’s go.”

It’s … done? Just like that? A cut-off thought, a millisecond of concentration, and someone’s life switches from on to off as easily as me tossing breadcrumbs to Sir Squeakerton.

I stupidly turn to the street below, and it takes me a moment of searching through the lack of panic to realize that she wasn’t aiming for the street. She was aiming for the apartment across and down three flights from us. With an open window. And a dead guy sprawled out on the floor.