Page 18 of Stalk

The mystery assassin walks to the other side of the couch and picks up a stained throw pillow. Then, he walks back around to the other side where Helena’s head is, around the coffee table. With both hands, he grips the pillow, raising his arms to his chest as he hovers above her. He concentrates on Helena for about ten seconds, then inch by inch, brings the pillow down over her mouth and nose.

At first, she doesn’t move, but as the seconds tick by, she twitches. Then, her hands come up to her face and sluggishlyclaw at the pillow. Within a minute, she’s screaming and clawing at the guy's hands, her body convulsing with whatever fight she has left in her weakened state.

He tries to hold her down, but Helena is much stronger than I ever would have thought. Eventually, he gives up. He removes his dominant arm away from the pillow, pushes all of his body weight down on the other arm, then retrieves the needle I brought with me from his back pocket. With his teeth, he takes off the cap of the needle, then spits it out.

Instead of going for the jugular like I would have done, he holds Helena down just enough to find a vein in her arm. One that she’s probably used to shoot up before, if I were to guess. Despite the situation and obvious horror I’m bearing witness to, I can’t help but feel a little impressed. No coroner will proceed with an autopsy if an overdose isthatapparent, and though addicts shoot up all over their bodies, we both know Helena primarily smokes her dope. Shooting her up in the arm is a much better way to make this look like an accident.

After struggling for a while, he finally gets the perfect spot and injects the contents of the needle, all while still holding the pillow in place. It’s not long before she goes limp. He waits a while, keeping the pillow on her face, then removes it and tosses it to the other side of the couch. After that, he reaches into his front pocket and puts on a glove. His fingers feel around for a pulse on her pale neck.

“It’s weak,” he says at normal volume, making me jump. “Let’s clean up while we wait, then check it again in five minutes.” He wipes at his brow. “The sooner we get out of here, the better. I need a drink.”

Who the fuckis he?

CHAPTER 9

Mattia

Ican’t explainwhyexactly, but I really, reallywant to bash his face into the wall. When I finally got a good look at him in the kitchen with my hand wrapped around his slim throat, he looked up at me with terrified eyes that threatened to bug out from his eye sockets. The phrase that Americans use comes to mind…like a deer in the headlights.At first, I couldn't tell if he was a man or a woman. There’s this…androginolook to him. After I first looked him up and down, I thought he looked more feminine. Confused as I was, I don’t really care about appearances.

What Idocare about is that he acts as though he is too stunned to do his job, and that is fucking odd for an assassin.

As we make our cautious escape from Helena’s apartment, down the hall and down the stairs, I keep stealing glances at him. Not only is he quite feminine, but there is an admittedly appealing multi-ethnic look to him. I don’t want to stare, despite not being able to help my annoying, wayward glances.

My annoyance overpowers whatever curiosities I may have. He was not supposed to be there tonight. Even more aggravating, though, he put up no fight when I trapped him. He didn’t even ask to kill Helena. All the assassins I know would have fought for the pleasure of taking a life. I know I wouldhave if he’d argued. Paranoia tingles in the center of my chest. Perhaps I was too trusting of this stranger? Maybe he isn’t an assassin. Maybe he’s been playing me the whole time. The paranoia grows and ignites anger inside of me. The second we make it to the ground floor and are about to exit, I grab him harshly by the wrist.

“What now?” he seethes, grinding his teeth together.

It takes a lot of self-control not to bitch slap him. Instead, I force in a ragged breath. “We need to talk. Somewhere public.”

“Um.” His brow furrows. “No.”

I can’t help the broad grin that stretches across my face. “I was not asking. Take us to a restaurant. I don’t care where. Otherwise, I will follow you all the way home and you will be my second soul to take tonight.”

He audibly gulps, and a couple of thin veins bulge in his neck. “Fine.”

Without elaboration, he leads us out of the apartment, back onto the city streets. The sky is almost dark now, with a vague hue of daylight still lingering like an afterthought.

As I follow the stranger in front of me, weaving in between friends and lovers walking to dinner and swerving around trash in the street, it occurs to me that Marco is more than likely tracking my location. He’ll either show up before we get to wherever we’re going, or he’ll give me the benefit of the doubt and wait for me to contact him. All I know is I can’t send a simple text message to him now, not with my trying to follow whatever his name is who’s walking like he’s being stalked by a serial killer or some shit.

Well, I suppose that’s not too far-fetched, really.

Finally, after racing around for six blocks, he comes to an abrupt stop outside of a tiny Mexican restaurant. The aroma of fresh salsa and gooey cheese leaks out from the open door to thesidewalk, and my mouth waters despite knowing I’m not here for pleasure.

Without sparing me a backwards glance, he walks into the restaurant with me on his heels. He may be shit at the whole killing thing, but he’s fast, I’ll at least give him that.

Before I know it, we’re being guided to a small, rickety wooden table in one corner of the restaurant. As soon as we’re seated, my knee bumps the table and it shakes. I exhale a sigh of relief, happy to finally bestillfor a minute.

The host passes us a couple of greasy menus, then takes his leave. When the host is gone, I send a quick text off to Marco, roll my shoulders back and stretch my arms above my head. When I come back to reality, pensive green eyes stare back at me. He crosses his arms and his nostrils flare. He’s pissed and doesn’t want to be here.

I couldn’t care less.

“Are the margaritas good here?” I ask, curious to see if my casual demeanor will push his buttons even more.

The nostrils flare again, and I bite down on my lower lip to keep my smile at bay. He makes it so easy to fuck with him. Almost like he’s asking for it.

“I’ve only been once, so I don’t know,” he bites out.

I nod and scan the menu. Eventually, a waitress comes over to us with two glasses of water, a basket of chips, and a small cup of salsa.

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