Page 1 of Dirty Hit
Prologue
Dominic
Ialwaysnoticetheeyesfirst.
I don’t mean that in some poetic way people write about in books when they’re trying to make something ugly sound beautiful. I mean it in the most practical sense possible.
His eyes are green, bright, and frantic. They search mine for mercy; a sign that this is a mistake that can be undone. I give him nothing and watch the moment he realizes that. I watch theexactsecond hope drains out of him, and fear settles in its place.
Fear is loud, acceptance is quiet—the quiet always comes last.
“You don’t… have to do th…is,” he whispers as his hands try to grip my wrists, but I can feel him losing strength. The damage is done. This part is just the ending.
I tilt my head slightly, studying him. “You’re wrong,” I say, and my voice sounds almost conversational. “I do.”
I tighten my grip without thinking, thumbs braced along his jaw to keep his head steady. I don’t want him looking anywhere else. I don’t want his last sight to be the trees or the empty stretch of road at my back—I want him looking at me.
I’ve always believed that if I’m going to take something from someone, I owe them the respect of being present for it. I owe them that much honesty.
He starts to speak again, but whatever he means to say dissolves into a wet, broken exhale.
“Shhh,” I murmur. “It’ll pass.”
The wind moves through the trees behind us, carrying the scent of damp soil, metal, and the piss slipping down his jeans. My gloved hands are slick, but I don’t look down at them. I keep my eyes on his so I can see the exact moment the light leaves his eyes.
His fingers slide from my wrists and fall uselessly at his sides. The green in his eyes dulls; the light dimming in slow increments until it finally goes out.
I hold him a second longer than required, just to confirm it. I’ve learned patience and not to rush conclusions. When his weight shifts fully into me, limp and unresisting, I let him go, and he hits the floor with a heavy thud.
The sound echoes slightly in the space around us, but we’re far enough from the main road that no one hears it. The building is half-demolished, and I learned through my research that it’s scheduled for renovation, but the work keeps getting delayed.
I stand there for a moment, staring down at him. Blood from the stomach wound spreads beneath his body in an uneven pool, creeping across cracked concrete. It’s darker in this light, almost black.
This used to feel different.
I remember the first time I killed a person. How my heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack them, how my hands trembled afterward.
Now, I’m standing over another body, and all I can think about is how quiet it is, how empty my chest feels, and how the silence presses in instead of exploding outward.
I look at my hands, flex my fingers, and watch the blood slipping from the latex. Someone’s lifeblood is on my palms, and it hits me with a strange kind of clarity that my own life feels just as dead as the corpse at my feet.
I step back, creating distance between us, and I try to search for something inside myself that reacts—guilt, satisfaction, regret.Anything. There’s nothing there but a dull awareness that this is done, and I need to move on to the next part.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
I crouch beside the body and wipe my hands on his jacket briefly before pulling off the gloves and stuffing them into a sealed bag in my backpack.
I work methodically, the way I always do, and strip him of any identifying marks. Wallet. Phone. Watch. I pocket the phone and empty the wallet, separating cash from cards. The cards I’ll dispose of later, but the cash goes into a different compartment. I don’t take trophies or keep sentimental reminders. That’s sloppy, and I am not fucking sloppy.
His face is slack now, unrecognizable from the panic it held minutes ago. I drag him a few feet to reposition him, careful about the blood trail. I remove and unfold the thick plastic sheeting from my backpack, lay it down in the corner, and roll him onto it.
The process is practiced and precise. There’s a rhythm to it.
I finish wrapping the body, securing it tight enough to prevent leakage but not so tight that it looks obvious from a distance. I step away from the mess before pulling a small burner phone from my pocket. I don’t store numbers in it; I memorize them. The line rings twice before someone answers.
“Yes.”
“It’s done,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Same location protocol.”
