Page 1 of Marked

CHAPTER 1

A laugh erupted in the crowded pub. The obnoxious prick yanked a shot off the server’s tray and slammed back the liquid.

Sitting at the bar, Cole wrapped his fist around his glass of gin and tonic. Music bumped from the speakers, some kind of rackety shit he wouldn’t listen to at gunpoint—not loud enough to drown out the noise of the drunks, but enough to be annoying as fuck.

Rage simmered beneath the surface of his skin. He rocked his jaw back and forth as he watched the dude get to his feet. The man clapped his friend—who was wearing a black T-shirt and a silver chain—on the back and then staggered toward the restrooms at the rear of the pub.

Now.

He hated being sloppy. Ditching a plan was a sure-fire way for things to go sideways. But this dumbass had to go tonight. He didn’t have another minute to waste. Besides, the longer Cole hung out in public, the greater the chance someone would identify him.

Tugging down his baseball hat, he stood and peeled some bills from his wallet. After dropping them on top of the bar, he tucked his chin and made his way toward the men’s washroom.

Icy calm settled over his body. A familiar feeling. It always came before he completed a hit. His heart rate slowed. The dampness on his palms evaporated. Even the tension in his jaw loosened.

This was when he was most at ease. Before a kill.

And that wasn’t even the most fucked-up thing about him.

He’d already scoped out the place. There was one camera in the main room and one in the kitchen. None in the hall. Keeping his head down and his chin angled to the left would ensure his face stayed out of the footage.

The gun irritated the skin at the small of his back. He’d come prepared, the silencer already intact. He had to do this quickly and with as little mess as possible. Entering the men’s room, he immediately spotted the loser, facing the urinal.

Cole glanced at the bottoms of the three stalls across the room—empty. After flicking the lock on the restroom door, he strode in slowly.

Arson Friedman turned from the porcelain tank, zipped up his fly, and teetered on his feet as he crossed the room. His gaze flitted over Cole. “Hey, man. ’Sall yours.”

He’d already committed the photo of Arson to memory. Another thing he was damn good at. He never forgot a face.

Cole advanced.

In one swift movement, he seized Arson by the throat. The man’s eyes bugged out of his head and his hat fell to the ground. Shaggy brown hair spilled out. As the punk grappled with his wrists, the scent of marijuana wafted to Cole’s nose, floating on a wave of rum.

Cole carried him into one of the stalls, loosening his grip only a fraction when he shoved him against the thin metal wall. Arson swung pathetically.

“I-I’ve got the money!” he stammered. “Tell him I’ll bring it tonight.”

Irritation brought Cole’s blood to a boiling point. Shit, he didn’t care about petty things like this. Wasn’t his usual type of gig at all. But a friend had asked for a favor, and he’d follow through. “Banks says hello.”

He fit his palm under Arson’s chin, grabbed the top of his head with his free hand, and jerked it sharply to the side.

The guy’s eyes grew huge, and a gurgling sound erupted from his throat. His stoned-looking green orbs rolled back as his body went limp.

Cole dropped him on the toilet seat, exited the stall, and strode to the door and unlocked it. As he breezed into the hallway, a man bumped past him. Black T-shirt, silver chain...

Shit.

Cole picked up the pace.

Several beats passed. Maybe Arson’s friend wouldn’t check the stall—

“Hey! You! Stop!”

Cole broke into a run. Rather than going through the crowded pub, he made a beeline for the kitchen straight ahead, just past the women’s room.

He’d have to make it to the back exit.

“Help! Someone call an ambulance!” the friend screamed as Cole charged into the noisy kitchen.

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