Page 9 of Pretty Threats

The road buzzes by when we’re on the highway. There’s no conversation on the way over. Dead quiet works for both War and me. Unlike Jamie.

The three of us have infiltrated the hallowed halls of Granthorpe University on behalf of a sleek crime syndicate an hour outside Boston. The C Crue.

They’re a modern version of the Mafia, complete with killers who can hack computers and carry out ops with military precision. Under them, we’ve learned to choke out opponents in hand-to-hand fighting, like fucking Navy SEALs. We had months of intensive training, both physical and procedural, their version of gangster boot camp. And now we’re among the ivy-covered walls of one of the first established universities in the country.

My math SAT score alone could’ve put me in contention for a spot on my own, but rumor has it two factors figured into getting us all in right before the term started. First, the university was looking at more openings than usual because of a recent black mark left by a serial killer’s reign of terror. Also, the syndicate gave a giant shot in the arm to the endowment fund. Money works.

War and I pull up to where the bastard Wilson’s been hiding out. He’s closer to campus than anyone realized. Jamie and I are the ones who tracked the former frat boy’s ass down. He’s living under an assumed name in a shithole neighborhood where he can pay cash to rent a house. The address must be giving a rich boy like him hives.

Wilson’s got bad intentions or he wouldn’t be practically squatting seven minutes from GU. And his bad intentions make me happy. Not because I’m only okay with killing bad guys, but because bad guys are a bigger threat. And if you’re gonna hunt the big game, the tougher the better to cement your reputation in stone.

With our hoods up and masks on, War and I are silent as we leave the truck.

Once the front door’s lock is picked, we’re inside. War stations himself at the bottom of the stairs. Wilson’s not gonna get by me, but if something goes sideways, like I find a dozen armed men guarding him, War’s there as backup.

My goggles are on, but I’m gonna need to lower them because I see light and hear a television. The bastard’s awake. My heart beats a little harder.

Bigger the better. Murder goals. Let’s get this done.

I pull the goggles down and adjust my mask, then open the door and come in sly.

Wilson’s in his underwear, watching porn and whacking off. Nice. Literally caught with his pants down. The arrangement of the furniture means there’s no way to come up behind him, so I advance quickly.

He drops his dick and rolls toward an end table where he’s got a pistol.

I put a bullet in his chest, and his hand misses the gun as he slides off the couch.

The silencer worked perfectly. No neighbors should be ringing the cops.

“Moran, you son of a bitch! Yours is coming,” he rasps as blood bubbles from the wound.

The name Moran is familiar, but I don’t know if he’s the guy who ordered this party or not. That information is above my pay grade at the moment.

I line up the head shot.

Wilson’s eyes narrow, and he leans forward. “No, you’re not Moran,” he sputters. “New dark knight? The bastard Callahan?”

My finger hesitates, and my muscles tighten. There’s no fucking way he should’ve guessed it was me standing here. I squint down at him with a hard stare. Did whoever contracted the hit telegraph our moves? If so, that’s fucking bullshit.

“Yeah, you’ll get yours, too, Callahan. We know about you.”

What the fuck?

I wanna interrogate him, so I take an involuntary step forward to grab him by the throat. Then a groan from the television behind me jerks me back to reality.

What kind of dumbass gets close to a dying mark? Step the fuck back, Killian.

Widening the gap between us, I try to center my thoughts. Clarity returns after a couple of beats of raging curiosity.

Finish it. Twenty fucking questions is not part of the plan. We’re on a tight clock.

I pull the trigger, and Wilson’s head snaps back.

Standing still is hard now. After a double tap, I’m ready to go.

Hanging tight, I wait the moments it takes for Wilson to stop breathing.

There you go. See you in hell, mother fucker.

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