Page 2 of Mine

The man scrambles backward, slamming his sweaty, flushed body against the headboard.

I pull the knife from my pocket as I cross the room. “Mr. Whitlock, I hear you’ve been sharing secrets.”

“W—what? No. No. Who—who are you?”

I stop at the edge of the bed and stare down at him. “Are you a religious man?”

The blood drains from his face. He knows what’s coming.

“Yes,” he whispers, tears falling down his cheek.

“You have fifteen seconds to make peace with your death.”

I turn my face and close my eyes as he begs for mercy.

Ten minutes later, I meet Cillian, my right-hand man, at the back gate of the home. He glances at the blood dripping from my knuckles, then at the knot swelling on my cheekbone. “Is it done?”

I nod, wiping the blade on my pants before slipping it back into my pocket. “The girl?”

“Paid her five thousand cash with a threat of framing her if she speaks. She’s his mistress—prostitute, I think, and scared shitless—nothing to worry about. You ready for me to clean up?”

“Let me make the call first.” I pull the SAT phone from my pocket and turn my back to Cillian.

I’m aware that I can’t feel the lacerations on my knuckles or the contusions on my face.

I’m aware that my breath is calm, my pulse normal, my conscience unbothered.

I’m aware that the act of killing no longer affects me. And, in an ironic twist, this is what unsettles me.

The phone connects with a secure line to the US Department of Defense.

“Vice Chairman. It’s done.”

“Loose ends?”

“Taken care of.”

“Great. I’ll transfer the payment into your account within the hour. As always, it’s a pleasure working with you, Mr. Stone. Expect your next package next week.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Leaving Cillian, I kill the call, hop the fence, and disappear into the shadows.

Where I belong.

Two

Astor

Hands in my pockets, I stroll the empty halls of my penthouse suite. Aimlessly, as has become my habit on sleepless nights.

Rain ticks against the wall of windows that overlook Manhattan, the drops rolling down the glass in a distorted kaleidoscope of color. They remind me of long, skinny witches’ fingers, slowly, sneakily reaching, eventually seizing everything I’ve built.

I watch each drop slither with aloof detachment. Same with the pops of lightning, the cracks of thunder that rattle the windows.

For a moment, I have a flashback of myself as a child, curled on my mother’s lap, watching a thunderstorm with awe and wonder. But as quickly as the memory comes, it drifts away, like the smoke of a cigarette, cruelly reminding me that those days are gone forever.

It’s only then that I’m jolted by a sharp pain in my forearm. I look down at my fingers that have slid up the cuff of my dress shirt, and at my nail that has dug into the flesh of my forearm. A thin line of scars mar my skin, each serving as a checkpoint to make sure I still feel. To confirm that I am not dead on the outside.

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