Page 1 of A Very Killer Christmas
Chapter 1
Rowley
Shit.
Gerard’s scream cuts off as blood gurgles out of the gash in his throat, down his white button-down, and onto the light gray tiles of the kitchen. In the sudden silence after his shocked bellow, I hear it—another person’s breathing.
It’s fast. Raspy. And it’s right behind me.
I turn, the knife steady in my hand. It’s a woman in her late forties. A large purple towel is wrapped around her wet body, water dripping down her dyed red hair. Her face is slack with terror.
Gerard falls with a dull thud. It seems like everything happens in slow motion, but there’s a horrid inevitability to it. He’s dead. I killed him. And she saw it all.
“He was supposed to be alone,” I mutter to myself, though saying that out loud won’t save me.
The woman doesn’t answer. Her breathing grows even faster, and a low wail builds in her throat.
I have three choices. The obvious one is to kill her. It would be clean and give me enough time to escape while also eliminating the only witness to the assassination. It’s the best solution. And I can’t choose it.
Throughout my career, I’ve had one rule, and it’s sacred to me. I only kill people I am paid to kill. I’ve never broken this rule, not even to save my ass. Today won’t be any different.
I suppose I could tie her up since she’s bound to call the authorities as soon as I leave. But that’s messy. I always strive to leave as few traces as possible, and tying up a struggling victim is chaotic.
I don’t do chaotic. I go in, do what I’m paid for, get out. It’s clean, organized, and it’s served me well for years.
My mind made up, I turn away and step over Gerard’s body on my way to the back door.
“Merry Christmas,” I whisper under my breath, sheathing the bloody knife as the door bangs shut behind me.
I barely make it out onto the street when the woman’s high-pitched scream pierces the night. A neighbor’s dog barks inresponse. I mount my bike and ride away, my jaw clenched tight as I force myself to stay calm.
It’s just past six, but it’s already dark out.
How much time do I have? It’s Christmas Eve. Statistically, fewer calls will be made tonight than on an average Friday evening. If Gerard’s lover gets her wits fast, the area will be swarming with blue uniforms in no time.
I make my way through the suburbs, doing my best to put distance between Gerard’s house and me. I pass peaceful homes bedecked in snow and colorful lights. A large blow-up Santa grins at me from someone’s yard as I whizz past.
My sense of time is distorted. It seems only seconds have passed since I killed him. Not enough time.
Sirens wail from north and east, cutting me off from the city. I curse and take the next right, heading west. Deeper into the suburbs.
Fuck, I should have killed her.
This is bad. In the city, I could quickly disappear in the usual evening crowd that barely thins even on Christmas Eve. But here? The area is filled with cozy family homes belonging to upstanding citizens who are probably drinking mulled wine and caroling right now. I stick out like a wolf in a sheep barn.
The sirens get closer. I lock my body to prevent shaking, since the cold is even worse now than when I rode here. I already know I won’t be able to reach the car that I parked a few miles away from Gerard’s just in case. The bike will have to do, though it’s tricky on the snow despite excellent winter tires.
I turn just a bit too sharply and lose control for a fraction of a second. When I regain it, my heart is in overdrive. This was a bad idea.
Except, I always take my bike. That’s how I’ve done it for years. It works.
My head is hot and stuffy inside the helmet I didn’t take off to kill Gerard. That’s good, at least. All the woman will be able to tell them is that the killer was tall and dressed in black, complete with gloves. No hair or skin color. No face.
But the helmet won’t help me if I’m caught in this area. I take another turn, blood rushing in my ears almost as loud as the roar of the engine. The sirens are further away and then closer. My hands tighten on the handles so much, they hurt. My stomach roils with a sickening mixture of fear and anger.
I can’t get caught. I have enemies, mostly the relatives and associates of people I killed, and if I end up in prison, they’ll get me. I’ll get shanked before I taste the infamous prison food.
The nice, perfectly manicured suburban houses give way to older buildings. This isn’t a seedy area, exactly, but here and there, a neglected homefront spoils the view. I ride straight into an empty lot occupied only by a large shed. There’s some rustyequipment under old tarps, and I lead my bike deeper inside, pulling a dirty sheet over it. There. It’s the best I can do in a hurry.
