Page 7 of Stalk

Tomorrow?Christ, whoever needs to be assassinated must be somewhat pressing, flexible deadline or not. That, or like Zìa said, perhaps the request was put in a while ago, and time is of the essence.

“Uh, I think Monday would be best. I’d like to rest up and take my time to pack to ensure I have everything I need.” Suddenly, it feels like there’s a giant layer of dirt stuck in the back of my throat. I force myself to breathe. I’m not thrilled about leaving. I’ve always been somewhat of a homebody, because I love Venice. I remind myself that this will be temporary; that I will return as soon as I’m finished with the kills.

“Grande,”Zìa says, beaming at me. “I will get everything arranged in the meantime.”

Yeah,I think.Great.

CHAPTER 4

Ren

An obnoxious noise slowly pulls me from my dark, comfortable slumber. The pounding in my head quickly heightens as I emerge into the conscious world. After blinking several times and staring off at my bedroom wall, I realize it’s my alarm making my hangover worse. I curse under my breath, then manage to grasp my cell phone, yank it from the charger, and turn off the alarm.

With a grunt, I roll from my side onto my back, staring up at the ceiling for a long while until I feel like I can move my limbs. It’s already several minutes past nine, and I have a meeting with Catherine at ten. Which means I need to be there ten minutes early, because punctuality is the second most important thing to Catherine Burdick, right after her love for being in the assassination industry.

Luckily, my mother’s home is conveniently only a block away from the Burdick House, so I can take some time. Most of the other assassins live in the house, but it’s not required, thankGod.The last thing I need is to be surrounded by people who actuallywantto kill others for a living.

Normally, I would be up already and in another shower. I’ve always been hygienic, but ever since I started working this job,I make it a habit to shower twice a day. My body screams at me to hop in and scrub myself down, but I resist the urge. My head hurts too much, and though a shower might help, I decide to go without. At nine thirty, I force myself up and out of bed. I take a bottle of Advil from my bedside table and swallow two pills without water, even though I’m in desperate need of hydration and my throat feels bone dry.

Once I manage to get dressed in a pair of pressed jeans and a dark green button down shirt, I slowly make my way down the stairs. I slip on the shoes I discarded after coming home last night, and then move into the kitchen. Usually, I’d make a smoothie or a protein shake, but the thought of hearing the blender go off doesn’t sound like a good idea, so I opt for a tall glass of water and a newly expired protein bar I find in the cupboard.

As soon as I exit the front door and lock up behind me, the familiar wave of nerves washes over me. My body knows what’s to come. I should be used to the post-kill meetings with Catherine by now, but I’m not. Each time I’m near her—hell, anytime she evencallsme—my heart rate spikes and my anxiety multiplies tenfold. Catherine is just that kind of person. She watches over me like a scary insect, always observing my every move, ready to dissect my actions each time she has the opportunity. Sometimes, she makes me feel like some sort of failed science experiment. She wanted me under her wing because of how good my mother was at killing, and all I’ve done since I began working for her is disappoint her time and time again.

The walk to Burdick House is pleasant, at least. It’s a humid day, but the pounding in my head starts to fade the longer I walk, and for that, I’m thankful. The city streets in the heart of D.C. aren’t as busy at this time of morning, with most people already at work. I take a shortcut through a narrow alleyway, and thenmake it to where the Burdick House peeks out at the end of the street, in between several trees.

The house is an old business building that was renovated in the nineties to house Catherine’s employees upstairs—there’s even a secret entrance on the backside of the building so employees can come and go as they please without drawing any unwanted attention. From the public eye, the house is a small, private legal firm, specializing in criminal law. Which is true, in a sense. Catherine has a handful of lawyers at her disposal, and several of them do take criminal cases. But all of that happens on the ground level. The middle level of the building is Catherine’s domain, and the only place I go when I’m forced to visit. The third floor is where the assassins live, roommate style. I guess some of them like it that way.

Once the house is a few yards away, I stop in my tracks to catch my breath. Well, make myself breathe, anyway. I gaze up at the dusty blue painted brick of the three story Victorian house while I count to ten.

… seven… eight… nine…t en. Time to get this over with.

Because it's daytime, I make a beeline for the front door. When I occasionally meet Catherine outside of regular business hours, Ialwaysenter through the secretive back door as instructed, but there’s no use in doing that at ten in the morning. With an easy pull from the heavy door handle, I enter into the foyer. The secretary of the legal practice, Jeanine, flits her eyes up and away from her phone to look at me. She sends me a subtle nod, then resumes tapping away on her phone. She’s used to everyone who works for Catherine coming in and out, and only makes verbal communication if an actual client comes in.

I nod back to Jeanine, then make my way into the small hallway in between the foyer and legal offices, then take the narrow stairwell up to the second story. Whereas the ground level is bright and inviting, the second floor is much more toCatherine’s taste. Once my feet are planted, I’m immediately submerged into Catherine’s office, which takes up the majority of the second story aside from the private area she lives in.

Her office is dark, even though the windows bring in plenty of natural light. The walls are painted a rich, emerald green. Catherine’s desk, which rests near the back of the room, is sleek and black. A black velvet computer chair rests on her side of the desk, and two matching armchairs sit on the other side. The dark hardwood flooring creaks underneath my feet, but I don’t bother being quiet. Catherine already knows I’ve arrived, even though she isn’thereyet. Her office is decked out with the best high technology security available. I’m not sure how it all works, but I know she’s alerted each time someone comes in. I also know that she has employed security guards who monitor the property at night. Can’t be too careful in our line of work, I suppose.

I walk across the room, across the dark green and turquoise rug until I reach her desk, and then I take my usual spot in the armchair on the right across from her chair. Within seconds, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills my nose, and my mouth waters. The only good thing about these mandatory meetings with Catherine is that she always,alwaysmakes us fresh lattes before sitting down and getting down to business. I guess she has one of those fancy espresso machines in her private kitchen. I’ve never cared much to ask, because my relationship with Catherine Burdick is anything but personal.

My heart beats wildly in my chest, but the feeling is anything but foreign to me. At this point in my life, it’s second nature. So, I force a deep breath in through my nose and ignore it. Soon enough, I’ll be leaving this house, and my heart will still act as though it’s jacked up on adrenaline—but for a different reason. There will be one split second of peace right after I tell Catherine all about my last hit, and then it will all fade away when she givesme my next assignment. The cycle continues, on and on, without reprieve.

The only door in the room opens, and I straighten my back, quickly sitting up from the semi-relaxed position I had when I was alone. Catherine floats in, both of our lattes held in her pale hands, and sits the matching turquoise mugs down atop her desk before greeting me.

“Good morning, Ren,” she says coolly. She sighs, as though my existence annoys her, then sits down in her seat.

I gulp. “Good morning, Catherine.”

I know that Catherine must be in her sixties, but with her platinum blond hair cropped just above her shoulders paired with her complexion unmarked by sun exposure, she looks a decade younger. Her crystal blue eyes stare me down, and I stop breathing. As usual, Catherine is dressed to impress. I’ve never seen her any other way—even on the late nights she has me meet her here. Today, she wears a silk white blouse paired with a charcoal gray pencil skirt, black Louboutins, and her usual diamond necklace.

Catherine nods to the latte she set in front of me. “It should be cool enough to drink.”

I pick up the mug immediately, as if her words are a demand, and take a sip. Of course, the temperature is perfect. She does the same, and then turns her desktop on. In silence, I wait for her to get situated. Catherine doesn’t like to wake up until nine, due to all of her late nights, and because I’m her first meeting of the day, I know better than to start going over my assignment from last night until she’s ready.

I’ve finished off half my latte by the time she returns her attention to me and asks the same question she always starts off with. “Any complications?”

With a shake of my head, I say, “No, ma’am.”

She clicks on her mouse once, then scrolls on her screen, filling out her report. “Approximate time of extermination?”

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