Page 76 of Three of a Kind

I consider myself a pragmatist. I’m logical and calculating, but that’s a necessity of my job.

It’s exactly why I follow the SUV all afternoon, rather than climbing from my car to execute them at the first stoplight.

During their lunch break, I place a tracker on the vehicle that links directly to the only piece of tech I brought with me. It’s smart to be untraceable when committing crimes.

It’s just starting to get dark as I follow the SUV away from the city and toward the warehouse district. Because of the tracker, keeping my distance is easy enough.

Once they park, I wait for the sun to fully set as I gear up.

It’s a hike to where the vehicle is positioned several warehouses away, but the trek gives me the chance to pull the mask down over my face, as well as bring up the hood on my sweatshirt.

This entire area is spread out, and it takes longer than I expect to get to where they are.

The two men I saw exit the SUV to grab lunch earlier now stand side-by-side with their backs to me as I approach.

This feels like a meeting spot, and I’m torn between watching and waiting or acting immediately. If I wait it out, and they’re met by a convoy, I might not be enough. They could disappear to a secondary location to provide an update.

I’d have to spend countless hours waiting for them to be returned to their vehicle.

I decide I’m not going that route about the time I rip my Glocks from their thigh holsters.

These men failed their directive. If the boss isn’t willing to give them another chance, they could be executed before I can question them.

I need information.

Okay, and maybe a little bit of revenge.

My foot extends, slamming into the back of the knee of the guy on the left as my forearm wraps around the idiot on the right’s throat.

I yank him backward several steps, extending my left hand at his friend’s forehead as he spins around.

The guy I’m holding stops struggling when he realizes my Glock is what’s pushing against his temple.

The dick facing me tosses his hands up. “Whoa, what the fuck is this?”

“Who hired you?”

“I told you someone was following us,” the asshole against my chest says.

They’re both young—maybe twenty-five, tops. I still won’t feel an ounce of remorse about stopping their birthdays where they are now.

“I’m not going to ask again,” I growl. “Who hired you? What method was used to contract your services?”

“Come on, man,” the guy facing me says. “You know we can’t tell you that.”

“What were the parameters of your employment?”

“What?” the guy I’m holding asks.

“Who is the job for, exactly?” I snarl, digging my gun deeper into his temple. Neither answers, and my fury rises. “If you want to live through this, you’ll tell me who hired you.” It’s a lie, but I don’t owe them shit.

“That would be me,” a male voice says from behind me.

Two things happen as his men fan out around us.

First, I pull the trigger for the guy standing across from me. His forehead caves in as I tug that arm down, slightly changing the angle of the weapon on the right. The last thing I need is to clip my other arm with a through-and-through.

I slam the guy struggling against my chest forward and pull that trigger too. Blood and bone explode as I twist my head, closing my eyes to avoid as much of the spray as possible.

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