Page 12 of Assassin Anonymous

“Twelve grand isn’t enough?”

She takes her hands off the needle. “You can finish if you want. Makes no difference to me.”

“I appreciate this, and I appreciate you,” I tell her. “But I’m going to be really honest here: the less you know, the better.”

“Is it going to blow back onto my doorstep?”

“I made sure I wasn’t followed.”

She smirks, seemingly satisfied, and resumes sewing.

“I thought you’d found someone else,” she says.

“I got a pretty bad paper cut a few weeks ago but figured I could handle it on my own.”

“Hmm,” she says. That’s it, “hmm.” I’m left to wonder what it means. Instead of asking, I watch her hands. They’re long and elegant and they work with the speed and precision of a concert pianist’s. A few more minutes and she’s done. The wound suddenly looks a lot less intense.

She pulls off the gloves, tossing them in the tub at my feet. “As long as it doesn’t get infected or show signs of bruising, which would mean internal bleeding, you should be in the clear.” She sits back on the floor, looking at everything in the room but me. I lower myself a little and try to get comfortable in the tub. We both take a moment to breathe.

I dig my boxy black cell phone out of my pocket and, after it registers my fingerprint, plug in my ten-digit access code. Astrid smirks. “Still got that hunk of junk? All the cool kids have iPhones.”

“This hunk of junk,” I say, thumbing through my contacts, “is unhackable and untraceable. Try to break in and the data wipes. You can roll over it with a tank. Now, I have to make a call. Can I have a moment?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

Astrid fixes me with a hard stare. “I get that the less you tell me the better, but you’re also not keeping me completely in the dark.”

“Fine. I’m calling a friend. If he picks up, I can have him get the money from my apartment and meet us here. If he can’t, I’ll go get it.”

Kenji picks up on the second ring. “Mark? Is everything okay?”

“Not really. Can you talk?”

He doesn’t respond right away. He must be moving to a safe space. Kenji has a normal phone, so even given the level of encryption on mine, it behooves us to keep things short and obtuse. When he speaks, his voice is hushed. “What happened?”

“Got a surprise visitor after everyone left. Russian, tall, tattoo of five dots on his forearm. Very disagreeable. I’m safe for now, but I could use a hand. Can you pick some stuff up from my apartment?”

He pauses. “I’m indisposed. But I’m glad you’re safe. That’s the most important thing. Until we know what’s going on, it’s probably best to keep some distance. Maybe you should get out of town?”

“What do you mean, get out of town? I need to find out what’s happening.”

“You need to be safe.”

“I don’t run from fights.”

“That sounds like something the old Mark would say.”

I try to respond to that, but find I can’t. “Okay, listen, can you check on the others?”

“I’ll put out a draft, and I’ll see if I can find anything about the Russian.”

“Fantastic. Be safe out there, okay? Head on a swivel and all that.”

“You too. Keep me updated.”

I click off the call. Hopefully this is just on me. It has to be, right? It’s either someone looking for revenge, or someone looking to keep me quiet. Could be a family member or friend of someone I killed, could be any number of people I used to work for, or against.

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