Page 2 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
She grips the gun hard, her knuckles whitening as she tries to disguise her weakness.
My fists tighten at my sides as our eyes lock.
“If you cannot defeat your opponent, then you are not worthy. Out there—” he points toward the door—“if you are defeated, you die! Right here is no different.” Nicholai’s hardened gaze shifts to me. “You are an assassin, not a savior. Do you understand?”
He pins me a pointed glare, waiting for my response, and I nod.
“Una, Sasha clearly does not think you are truly Elite. He believes you need saving. Shoot him.”
Without blinking, she lifts the gun and pulls the trigger. A blinding pain tears through my thigh, and I fight the urge to drop to the ground and grab my bleeding leg. Instead, I force myself to bear weight on it, to stand there without flinching.
Nicholai moves closer. A mask of indifference covers his pale features as he stares me down. “Do you know remember how I found you, Sasha?”
I say nothing because we are both well aware of how I came to be here.
“Only nine years old, wandering the streets of Moscow. Orphaned, alone, unwanted…digging in dumpsters for your next meal.” His roam over my features before he reaches out. His thumb swipes over the corner of my lip, and I stiffen, wrestling with the instinctive, raging urge to react and lash out. He lifts his blood-covered thumb, allowing me to see the crimson smear that now mars his skin. “I took you in because I saw resilience in you. Greatness. I gave you a home. I made you strong.” He inhales a deep breath, releasing it on a long sigh. “Do not disappoint me again. Next time, I will not leave my orders open to Una’s interpretation.” He turns, giving me his back. “Dismissed!”
I move away, following the rest of the trainees. A sick feeling sinks in my gut. Shame. I’ve disappointed Nicholai, my mentor, and worse, I’ve failed myself.
1
Sasha
A cool breeze cuts through the balmy air, bringing with it the distinctive scent of the harbour; brine, and engine oil. A gull caws from one of the nearby rooftops, and the stark sound cuts through the silence of the night. Checking my watch, I shift slightly, trying to wake numb muscles. Any minute now.
Adjusting my rifle sights, I stare at the restaurant. The tables and chairs sprawl across the cobblestone harbor front, illuminated by a lone street light overhead. The amber glow casts light around the area and dances on the nearby black waters. The restaurant itself is suspiciously empty. No one walks by, and though the lights are on inside, there’s no sign of activity.
I focus, waiting just as I have been for the last hour. I like to be in position early. Ready. I can never be too prepared for a job. Angles, viewpoints, escape routes, it all has to be mapped with a plan A, B, C and D. This particular job has taken weeks to plan, and although I’m calm and collected, there’s always a certain anticipation, a high of sorts that comes from the prospect of executing a job flawlessly. It’s more than just a kill; anyone can pull a trigger. No one can know I was ever here—no witnesses, no evidence. Clean and untraceable. My clients pay dearly for that anonymity—one mistake can be catastrophic.
From this distance, the engine can’t be heard. It’s not until the vehicle is almost in front of the restaurant that I’m aware of its approach. The black Mercedes rolls to a stop, and the lights cut off. The amber that bathes the sidewalk now reflects off the shiny black paint, creating a glare and making it hard to see clearly. For long moments, the car idles until finally, the doors open. My sights are trained on the two men in dark suits as they exit the driver and passenger seats. They glance around before opening the rear doors of the vehicle to allow a young woman and an older man to step out. She threads her arm through his as they move toward the front of the restaurant.
I’m fairly certain this is my mark, but I need to see his face in the light to confirm, but he doesn’t turn back to give me that opportunity. Once inside, someone greets them and then seats them by the window. A minute or two later, the other men join them—the scene is set; the trap sprung. I adjust my sights, getting a closer look at each one of them. Confirmation. It’s my mark. His face sits in the center of my crosshairs. One breath, a fleeting second, the twitch of a finger over the trigger. That’s all it takes, and his life ends. I wait.
Minutes drag by, though I never look away long enough to check my watch. Finally, my phone rings, and I glance away to see the number I’ve been waiting for flash on the screen. It rings twice—as agreed—and ends.
