I bet if contract killers had a union, there’s no way I’d be let loose already. Good for me though, I guess. Arlie said I’m a good shot; she’s given me a laundry list of tips that I’ve remembered at least three of, and tucked into the back of my jeans, under my fake leather jacket—I really, really need to do something nice for Elle after all these supplies—is a ghost gun similar to Arlie’s.

No fingerprints, no serial numbers, no worries.

I pull out my bright pink flip phone, whack it twice with the heel of my palm to get the display to work, and check the time. I’m lurking in the shadows outside of this nightclub, and I won’t be able to hang around too much longer before I’m spotted.

With any luck, this won’t take more than one bullet, considering how impressed Arlie was by my aim. The first few shots went fucking haywire, but once I got used to the weight and the movement, there wasn’t a single thing I couldn’t hit.

I’m killer with a pew pew.

There’s one problem though.

The last two jobs I went on, I ended up with cold feet. Worse, even. Frozen feet. I’d lifted the gun, looked my mark in the eyes, and all the fear and panic that flashed through them hit me right in the chest like they’d fired their own weapon.

I couldn’t do it.

So with an apology and a pinky swear, I sent them both into hiding.

It felt like a win-win-win. They get to live, I get paid, and Luther trusts I’m a capable hitman and gives me more jobs.

Unfortunately, there are only so many times I can get away with that, and tonight, I’ve made myself the promise that I’ll do it. I’ll fire my gun for the first time. And I’ll kill a guy.

I’ll kill St. Clare.

He owns a hotshot nightclub—the same nightclub I’m watching—in downtown Seattle, and lucky for me, he’s recently had a feature written up on him, so I know exactly who I’m after. Conventionally good-looking with that blond hair, smoldering eyes combo, and then add to that, he’s probably rolling in money. It’s ninety-nine percent likely that he trades drugs and kicks puppies and cheats on his wife.

And yes, my statistics come from mafia movies, but the whole art imitating life must have started somewhere, and I swear when I tilt my head just right, the photos of him have red eyes. Which means he’s evil. I don’t make the rules, but if he’s evil and I kill him, I’m arguably a hero.

Now, that would have to make Margot proud of me.