Page 1 of Drawn to Death
Chapter one
Talon
My phone buzzes, slicing through the hush of my apartment. Vincenzo’s name lights up the screen, and my insides drop. It’s never good news when he calls after midnight.
“Yeah, boss?” I answer, already resigned to whatever he needs.
“I need to see you.” His voice is rough; he’s clearly tired, but there’s something more. Something is worrying him. “Meet me at the usual place in an hour.”
“Understood,” I reply without thinking. My brain is already halfway out the door; my body just needs shoes to catch up.
Vincenzo’s problems usually become my problems, and I am good at fixing things. That’s why I hang up and get moving. Shoes. Jacket. The gun goes in my waistband, cold against my skin. Vincenzo’s late-night summons don’t always end in blood, but the later the call, the more likely it is.
I grab my bag, already packed in case tonight goes sideways. Clean underwear, rope, a toothbrush, knives. The familiar weight of it all settles on my shoulders as I head out. I check myself in the mirror, straightening the tie I’d already loosenedonce I thought I was done for the day. Killers like me don’t really get to clock out.
It's a quiet drive. The radio is low because my usual station only plays techno garbage at this hour, but changing it is too much effort. I stick to my routine. Changing things means mistakes, which mean people die who I don’t get paid to kill.
I could find a cheesy pop song, maybe let it put me in a better mood, take the edge off. But I don’t.
The barn where Vincenzo likes to do business is just as I remember it. Someone is definitely going to die tonight. I tuck a few extra knives into hidden places, in case it’s me.
Vincenzo is waiting, and he hasn’t come alone. Four men stand with him. My nerves light up. Most of the barn is swallowed by shadows, with just one overhead bulb burning, but I know every place a man can hide. Tonight, no one is hiding.
“Talon, thank you for joining me so late.” Vincenzo speaks in a measured, calm voice, as if my presence is a pleasure, almost friendly. He looks relaxed, but I know better. I'm outnumbered, but the math is in my favor, Vincenzo knows I'm fast. If he tries anything, there is a strong chance I could take him down with me. “We have a tiny problem with your last kill.”
“I am very thorough.”
“You were seen.”
“That isn’t possible.”
Vincenzo’s eyes narrow, and he doesn’t hide his skepticism. No one contradicts him, not if they want to keep breathing. But what he is saying makes no sense.
“What’s the evidence?” I let my posture loosen, careful to sound cooperative. Disagreeing directly with this man is a fast way to end up dead, even if he won’t manage it tonight.
I need him to believe I’m on his side, that I’m ready to fix whatever he thinks I’ve done wrong. He moves with the smoothness of a predator, jacket swinging open, showing mehe’s unarmed before he even reaches into his pocket. My fingers twitch, ready, like a gunslinger in a saloon waiting for a showdown that can’t possibly end well. He pulls out a folded sheet of paper and holds it out to me.
“What’s this?” I ask, taking it, fingers brushing his for a second. I unfold the page.
It’s obvious the second I see it. A printed copy of something hand-drawn, with the lines and shading so good you could almost feel the moment. He isn’t showing me this because of the art. He’s showing me because the figure in the drawing is my latest target, John Windsor. Kneeling, arms twisted behind his back. The angle doesn’t show the bindings, but I know his wrists are tied. I’d tied them myself, so tight they’d cut off his circulation. The target’s eyes look up, pleading. Wet at the corners.
“I don’t get it. This is the exact moment before I finish him off.” I stood over John as he begged, but it didn't matter. My job is to get answers, then end him. Forgiveness isn’t my business; that’s between him and whatever god he believes in.
“You tell me what it means.” Vincenzo folds his arms, watching. If someone blinks right before I fire, this is what they’d see. The angle is mine. If I’ve been watched, they would’ve seen it from the side or behind. Not like this. Not through my eyes.
“I took him to my room, locked the door, and put him in the center. If anyone saw anything, it wasn't this.”
“Good.” Vincenzo’s breath is cold against my ear as he passes behind me. “I have a special assignment for you, Talon. One that needs your… unique talents.”
“The artist’s name is Quell,” Vincenzo goes on, his voice making my nerves itch. “He has a bad habit of seeing things he shouldn’t. His drawings are becoming a problem for us.”
Vincenzo nods at one of his men, Tim. Tim looks like a wall, all muscle and no flexibility. He hands me a stack of papers, not even folded. I flip through them, page after page. Every one is a perfect freeze-frame of someone’s last second. Mostly men, a few women. Beaten. Bloody. Some were desperate, some resigned. None of them want to die, but they all know it’s coming. It’s almost a waste, using this kind of talent for something so dark.
At least five of the faces are mine exactly as I remember them.
My head is spinning, trying to make sense of what I’m looking at. This Quell guy, this artist, how the hell does he know so much? Every detail about our hits, the way they looked as death looked them in the eyes, the exact expression, the terror in their eyes. It’s all there, sketched out in rough, unforgiving charcoal.
“If you know who the artist is…” I don’t even know what Vincenzo wants from me. Usually, if he wants someone dead, he just hands me a name and a box full of cash.
