Page 9 of Assistant to the Assassin

“Ricky helped me do some digging and we found out the head of the group is led by his ex-SAS twin brother, Johnathon. The rest of the group are made up of ex-MI6 and ex-military. Besides the brother, there’s eight members.”

I go over to my desk and write my email and number down on a sticky note, then I hold it out for Simon to take, which he does with a curious expression. “Any other information you have, send it to me. I’ll start doing research of my own and once we’ve done a profile on the Harrison twins and their mercs, Mr. Cai will take care of him.”

“How much does he charge?” Simon asks, stuffing the sticky note in his pocket.

“Depends on how time-consuming the job will be. After I do some research, I’ll email you an invoice. We require you pay half before the job and the other half after.”

He gives a little smile. “Of all the clients Ricky has, he always says you’re his favorite. I can see why.”

Ha. “You’re a rotten liar.”

He chuckles at that, then shrugs. “A rotten liar in our line of work is a dead man walking, but I’m still kicking.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way.”

Ricky’s rival, a man named Erik Colt, lives in a shitty apartment complex in Richmond. All the hallways are outside, with only a metal railing to stop anyone from falling to their death, and the security cameras haven’t worked properly since 2005. Beth was able to hack into the system in less than a minute, shutting down the few cameras still operating.

Colt has made a name for himself making and selling different kinds of drugs, and lately he’s been dabbling in chemicals as well, which is why Ricky wants him gone. According to what we could find on him, which wasn’t much, he comes from a background of privilege; his mother was rich, and his father started smuggling drugs throughout the East Coast, a hobby he got his son into. Dad overdosed, mom kicked Colt out the minute she learned about the drug smuggling, and now he’s on the verge of hitting gold in the black market. Ricky doesn’t do drugs, only chemicals and ammo, and he knows he needs Colt gone if he’s to achieve his goal of monopolizing the substance side of the black market.

No matter what side you work for, there’re always moves and countermoves. Despite all the bureaucracy in place within governments and their institutions, the same games happen that give the black market their reputation. At least people like Ricky and Colt know who and what they are.

The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and I start down the hallway towards Colt’s apartment: 22D.

When you’re on an assignment, you have to stay focused and emotionally detached. The second you let your personal feelings get in the way is the second you put yourself and those around you at risk. I’ve always prided myself on being able to compartmentalize during a high stress situation. But when I open Colt’s door—which was unlocked—I am met with a sight that blows that composure out of the water.

The man in question is wearing only a pair of gym shorts and socks; in his hand is a syringe needle filled with a resin-colored liquid, and I watch a bead of it fall down onto the exposed shoulder of a girl in a bra and underwear. She can’t be more than eighteen, and I would venture to guess that she is far younger than that. She has a busted lip and a bruise along her cheek. Her eyes are red and puffy, though I’m not sure if that’s from crying or drugs. Maybe both.

Colt’s gaze lifts to mine, and I am vaguely aware that he’s demanding why I’m in his home, but I can’t hear him. I can’t even see him. The edges of my vision blur as a new scene replaces what my eyes are viewing.

A syringe needle is sticking into her neck, with his finger pressing down on the plunger. He notices me only after half of the syringe is already in her body. Shock appears in his eyes, then that gives way to indifference. He has the audacity to shrug at me.

“We all must make the most of the shitty hand we’re dealt. It wasn’t personal.”

I can barely hear, feel, or process any thoughts, much less my actions as I zero in on Erik Colt, who has now let go of the girl and is reaching for the gun tucked into the waistband of his shorts. I’m quicker than he is by a long shot though, and by the time his fingers graze the handle, I’ve already put a bullet in his shoulder, sending him reeling back. I put another in his calf, which sends him tumbling to the ground, crying out in pain. I lean down and grab hold of his gun, stealing the mag in case he gets any ideas.

I turn my head to the side to check on the girl, who is looking at Colt in utter terror. It doesn’t take her long to realize I’m staring at her, and I understandably see fear in her eyes as she looks me over. She walks backwards until she falls onto the stained olive couch, then she lifts her hands up in a sign of surrender. “P-please don’t hurt me.”

I shake my head, trying to soften my voice. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help. You got a name?”

She gives a small nod. “Arabella.”

“How old are you?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“Sixteen,” she whispers.

With flaring nostrils, I grip my gun tighter. “How long have you been here?”

Her lip wobbles as she shakes her head. “I don’t know. I-I want to go home.”

I pull out my phone and call one of three contacts I have. The line answers on the third ring. “You’ve reached the Human Trafficking Hotline, how can I help you?”

“There’s a sixteen-year-old girl named Arabella in the Cardinal Apartment Complex on Silver Avenue in Richmond. She’s been drugged and possibly assaulted.”

There’s a pause, then “We’re sending a call to the FBI now. Are you being held at this location as well?”

“No. She’ll be waiting for you in the lobby.”

I hang up, stuffing my phone back into my pocket, never once taking my eyes from Colt. “Go get dressed and head down to the lobby,” I direct to Arabella, who seems to be a little less uneasy around me now. “People are coming to take you somewhere safe.”

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