Page 3 of Soft Tissue Damage
Mercer laughs softly. “What grudge? You can’t hold a grudge against a dead man.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t murdered anyone on my list.” I tap the rim of my coffee cup.
Yet.
Not that I intend to, but it’s pleasing to think about. In the clear light of day, I’m able to push my demons away. At three a.m. when I wake in the dark from dreams of blood and screaming, it’s a different matter. Dreams, not nightmares. I feel no fear. I crave to get my hands bloodied. The city of Blackport is a dangerous place with a high homicide rate, and every mutilated corpse reported in the news makes me jealous of its killer.
“Getting through that list of yours would be a full-time job,” Mercer tells me.
“Maybe I’ll retire early and take up a new hobby.”
Mercer grins. “You’ve got the right look for a successful serial killer. It’s always the ones you least expect. Cullan Grant, a killer? But he’s a family man. Always keeps to himself. Yada yada.”
I feel a surge of frustration, like I’m not living up to my potential. That I’m wasting the strongest, cleverest years of my life on not killing people.
How did it feel when you killed your father?I want to ask him.Did his bones crack satisfyingly in your hands, or did you stab him with a knife until you were soaked with blood and there was nothing left in his veins?
Mercer would have no problem telling me, but the fact that I dearly want to hear all about it is not something I want anyone to know. “How much does the job pay?”
“It’s just the kind of money you’ll need for alimony payments and that fancy-ass divorce lawyer.”
“You’re fucking irritating today. Do you want to go on my list?”
But Mercer’s not wrong. I could do with a healthy injection of cash right now. Installing home security systems is a good living, and installing them for dangerous men is even better. But a specialist job like this pays in fat, untraceable wads of cash. I have a baby daughter to think of. She’ll need a college fund sooner rather than later, and I’m going to make sure she has the best of everything.
Leon was the first good thing in my life, and nineteen years later, Rosie is the second. Everything in between has been pretty shit, including my marriage to Rebecca. My exnever did anything big and hurtful like screwing my friends, but a lot of little things added up to a nasty divorce. Giving me the cold shoulder. Nitpicking. Ignoring me. Minimizing my hurt and concerns. I tried to make it work between us. Probably I tried too hard, and I should have pulled the plug a long time ago. I’m a chronic workaholic, and I never know when to quit. I also have too many secrets, which made her suspect I was having affairs. I never looked at another woman, though I sure as hell wasn’t getting much at home. Now there’s enough sexual frustration coiled in my body to power the city.
But I don’t want casual sex. Nothing feels as heavenly as being obsessed with someone.
Across the restaurant, Elena wipes down a booth.
“One more thing,” Mercer adds. “How well you’ll be paid depends on your level of commitment.”
“What does that mean?”
He gives me a long, silent look. “They want you to lead the infiltration on the night.”
“You know I don’t go out on night jobs. Rebecca…” I was about to sayRebecca gets suspicious. I suddenly realize why Mercer has come to me with this job out of the blue.
Cullan is single. Time for crime.
Mercer gives me a mischievous smile.
I think about the offer, my mind racing. “I have Rosie most of the time. What if these people need me when my daughter is at home?”
“Haven’t you got a nanny?”
“Only for the daytime.”
“Then ask Leon to watch her for the night. Get a babysitter. Any more excuses?”
My son holds Rosie like she’s a bomb about to detonate, but I suppose I could use a babysitter if I know they’re trustworthy.
Lead the infiltration. Actually go on the job. Armed robbery is far fucking riskier than being the intel guy who’s safely at home by the time the job begins. I used to be the guy on the ground going on jobs, and I was good at it, but when you have a wife and a kid and want to protect them from that world, it’s easier to be man who puts on a tan sweater and a trustworthy smile. The man who fades into the background long before security systems are hacked, locks are broken, and the cops are called.
“I don’t make excuses. I assess risks. This is fucking risky.”
Mercer leans forward in the booth. “When I came here tonight and saw you, I thought, here’s a man who needs to feel alive again. Live dangerously. Get your hands dirty.”
