Page 2 of Stalking His Assassin

I guide my Ducati into the garage under my building and to my private lot. The gate opens with a press of a button,allowing me access. I park my bike in its spot between my matte black Bugatti Divo and my pristine ’71 Barracuda. She’s a beaut painted candy pearl black raspberry. It’s been forever since I’ve taken her out for a ride. My Ducati and my Range Rover get the most drive time. My bike is for speed and precision, and the Range Rover is practical because it’s bulletproof.

I climb off my bike and stretch. Even though I cut the three-hour trip between Portland and Seattle in half by speeding, it’s a long ride. Especially after multiple sleepless nights and time changes, fucking jet lag sucks. That’s not even taking into consideration the damage to my body from taking out multiple trained soldiers and other assassins. I’d like to say I’m an actual ghost, as people claim, but I’m very much flesh and blood. I’m bruised all to hell, and the stitches in my thigh are itching to high heaven right now.

The asshole that managed to cut me pissed me off and died by his own blade. Still, the damage was done, and I’ve got yet another scar to add to the collection that mars my pale skin. I drag my aching body to my private elevator and put my hand on the reader, then key in the security code that changes every time I leave on a job. My penthouse fortress is locked down entirely until I return. No one can access it without my hand and the code, which only I know. It would take even the best hacker days to break, and if they did, it would just create a new code and start the lockdown process all over again.

It's tech unlike anything on the market. One of my own creations. I own and run the most prestigious security firm in the world. Shield Security is the go-to for both corporate and private security systems. My cyber tech and security systems are top-of-the-line and nearly impossible to override. It takes a damn good hacker to get around my products, but it’s happened. I consider it a challenge and enjoy it when there’s a breachbecause I get to play the game and fix it, and depending on the who, sometimes I get to flex my other talents… bloody ones.

The tech that protects my home is a little overkill, but I know how easy it is to grow complacent in your safe space. I’m trained to take advantage of that complacency, and because of that, I have created my own personal security system.

After I brought Potato home, I created a failsafe for him in the event that I don’t come back. I have automatic feeders and self-cleaning litterboxes that keep him taken care of for seven days. If I don’t return on the eighth day, Harper will be sent instructions on how to get inside my home. She is also the sole benefactor for my estate—well, the legal side of things—and Potato’s new guardian even though they merely tolerate each other’s presence. I couldn’t trust his care to anyone else.

All of my other assets will be funneled into Hope House and various other places that do similar work worldwide. It might seem dramatic for a twenty-five-year-old woman to have her death planned out in such detail, but I know that life is short, and my life expectancy is less than average based on what I do. I suppose the fact that I want to make sure Harper and Potato are taken care of when I die is further proof that I have a heart.

The elevator ride is blessedly quick. A retina scan and another security code open my penthouse door—more of the over-the-top security I put in place for when I leave. While I’m here, the security is less intense. Palm readers and my regular security codes will be in effect now that I’ve disarmed the system. Of course, even that is beyond an average hacker’s capabilities. The lockdown program is triggered as soon as someone tries to gain access. It’s a beautiful piece of tech. It’s almost a shame that the world will never know the level of security that can be obtained.

Unfortunately, those who would acquire such tech are the type of people who don’t deserve this level of security. No oneshould be untouchable. I know this is a pot-kettle situation. I figure I get a free pass not only because I'm the creator of the tech but also because I use my skills for good, not evil. I don’t kill innocents. In fact, if someone hires me to kill an innocent, they end up on the wrong end of my favorite blade.

I don’t even make it two steps into the penthouse before Potato makes a running jump into my arms. I grunt as I catch him. He’s no longer the skinny little thing he was when I found him. Now, he’s a pampered fat cat. I like to think of him as pleasantly plump. The vet says he’s healthy despite his weight, so I see no reason to ration his treats.

Potato bumps his head under my chin, rubbing himself against me while purring that broken purr of his. The vet could only guess that his voice box was somehow damaged; that’s why both his meows and purrs sound broken. It only made me want him more, knowing he was permanently damaged, likely by the same asshole that taped him up in that box and left him to die.

“Hey, buddy. Did you miss me?” I coo, rubbing him behind the ears. His purr gets louder and more broken at my words as he leans into my hand. “Sorry I was gone so long. The job took an unexpected turn.”

He meows as if he understands. I carry him to my bedroom, telling him all about my trip to Germany. I set him on the bed, much to his annoyance. I scratch under his chin in apology and continue telling him about everything that happened while I was gone. I go into great detail on how I killed the jerk that cut my thigh.

He watches me pace the room as I strip off my clothes and ramble at him. I must admit having someone to come home to is nice. I can talk to Potato and not feel like I’ve lost my mind. It’s been good for my mental health… cat therapists should totally be a thing. I head to my bathroom to wash off my day of travel. I don’t have to look to know that Potato is following. I let theshower heat up while I work my long black hair out of its braid. I rub my scalp, enjoying the freedom of having my hair down for the first time in days. I step into the open shower and tilt my head under the spray. Hot water beats down on my head, pulling a moan from deep inside me.

“God, Potato, nothing beats a good shower. I swear bad water pressure and lukewarm water should be illegal.”

He perches on the short ledge that keeps the water from spilling onto the floor and meows. He hates the water but follows me in here anyway. I’m pretty sure that’s what love is. Doing something you hate just to make someone else happy seems like something one would do for someone they love.

“Did anything exciting happen here while I was gone?” I ask, even though I watched on my security cameras and know he moved from one sleeping spot to another depending on the time of day. He’s definitely predictable.

Despite the idiocy of asking my cat what he did, he meows several times as if holding up his side of the conversation. If my enemies could see me now. Eris, the mighty ghost assassin, is having a full-blown conversation with her cat while washing her hair after getting home from a killing spree. No one would take the threat of me seriously ever again. It would be stupid of them, but I would totally lose my street cred. The thought makes me laugh because I don’t care about such things. That’s something Harper would say.

I finish my shower and towel off. I remove the waterproof bandage from my wound and look at the stitches. A perfect row of seven stitches that look as good as any plastic surgeon could do. No one would ever believe that I did them myself in a shitty hotel room in Germany after cleaning the blood of multiple men from my body. Another skill I can thank The Agency’s facility for teaching me. Knowledge of first aid in the field is a must. It'snot like you can walk into a hospital with a stab wound without throwing up red flags.

After confirming the wound is healing well, I cover it with a new bandage and walk naked into my closet. Potato silently follows me like a shadow. He jumps up on the shelf I cleared off for him after he kept knocking my things down to hang out in here with me. I look through my secret pajama drawer until I find my favorite set. A soft tank top and shorts in a pretty lavender color. It’s girly and pretty. I love it. It’s the complete opposite of my day-to-day wardrobe but is more me than the blacks and grays that make up my regular clothes. Only Potato knows that I secretly love all things girly. It’s something not even Harper knows, and she’s been in my closet dozens of times.

“Okay, Mr. Potato Cake, let’s go to bed. I’m beat.”

He meows and jumps into my waiting arms again. I crawl under the covers and let out a bone-weary sigh as I melt into the mattress. Potato noses under the blanket and curls up beside me, his head under my chin. I fall asleep to his broken purrs.

two

CHRISTOS

“Fucking asshole tookout the whole damn operation. Killed a dozen operatives, the trainers, and a fuck-ton of German soldiers. Not to mention torching the whole damn place until all that’s left is a giant black hole where the building was,” Willy complains.

I have to bite back my laughter because this dumbass assumes, like most do, that the assassin known as Ghost is a man. Very few are left alive who know the truth of who the Ghost is… anyone whispers the name Eris into the wind, and they disappear like they never existed. I can hardly blame her for disappearing like she did all those years ago. Not after what fucking Steve Sheridan did to that poor girl.

I doubt she remembers me. We met several times over the years she lived with Steve, but never as me. No, I was a gentile businessman from a privileged background. A trust fund kid investing the family fortune in various businesses. In reality, I didn’t have parents. I grew up much like Lucy Granger, a.k.a. Eris the Ghost. I was raised to be a killer. A weapon made of flesh and blood.

When I learned little Lucy wasn’t sent to a cushy boarding school like Steve claimed, I wanted to swoop in and save her. Shewas a sweet girl and deserved a happy childhood, but I wasn’t in a position to save her at that time. The men who I was forced to work for still owned me, and saving her would have just added a target to not only my head but hers as well.

I watched her in secret, though. I watched her train and grow into a beautiful woman. I nearly lost it when I learned they were teaching her to be a Lolita. I would have intervened at the first sign of someone touching her, but sweet little Lucy never let it get to that point, and all her training was in a practical sense, not a hands-on approach.

When she came home after “graduation,” I was out of the country on my own mission… the one that saw to my freedom. I was finally ready to cut the head off the snake to the organization that owned me. I planned to take care of my business and then come for Lucy. I liked to lie to myself and say that I was just going to set her free, but the truth is, I planned to keep her for myself.

---