Page 18 of Vas

Or so she thought.

Who?

Being a terrible liar, she avoided doing it at all costs. Thankfully, Vas couldn’t see her face or he’d know she was full of shit when she typed the first thing that popped into her head.My mom.

What did you message her?

Why did he want to know? It didn’t matter she was making the whole thing up, that was still rather personal. She could just ignore the question but she didn’t want to seem like she was hiding anything. Even if she totally was.

She must have sat thinking too long because she got another message.You still there?

Sorry, I—she what? Damn, now she had to think of another lie to cover the first one. This whole conversation was snowballing, and she was the poor schlub at the bottom of the hill about to get steamrolled by the big, white ball. She deleted and retyped,We’re meeting for lunch tomorrow and I needed to find out at what time.Sorry I bothered you. Good night.

She waited a full minute for a response. Satisfied the conversation was over, she set her phone back on her nightstand, swearing never to touch it while drinking ever again.

Chapter 7

The motel room Vas occupied was a dive. Yellowed walls, most assuredly stained from nicotine if the smell of the room was anything to go by, and threadbare carpeting with its own questionable stains were just the tip of the iceberg. He hadn’t dared sleep on the bed without delousing it first.

But the place did have one draw—anonymity. Slip the desk clerk some cash and he handed out a key, no questions and—even better—no ID asked. Not that Vas ever travel under his real one, but paperless trails were always best.

He'd been on the job for a week and most of that time had been spent casing his target, Franklin Charles, AKA Frank Love, and in even smaller circles, Frankie the Bull. An on-the-rise two-bit crime boss with a small crew, he was making a name for himselfin South Bronx, dealing arms and putting guns into the hands of young children. Someone—who Vas suspected was actually the Russians—had a lock on the arms deals coming out of that territory and didn't like that ole Frankie boy was undercutting their business. Normally, Vas wouldn’t have taken the job suspecting it was from an organized crime boss but checking Frank out and discovering his fondness for girls of less than legal age had encouraged him to make an exception in his case.

Of course, Vas hadn’t traveled across the country without taking care of a little business at home first. Business by the name of Russ Hamilton, the fucker who had attacked Anya. For the first time since he’d started down his road of moral ambiguity, he enjoyed using his skills. Did that bother him? Not one fucking bit. He would rest easy knowing the piece-of-shit motherfucker wouldn’t be hurting her or any other woman ever again.

His thoughts turned to the woman he missed—Anya. The feeling was new for him and he was struggling with a way to compartmentalize it. He shouldn’t have responded to her deleted text the night before. He’d planned to go back to the way things had been before the night of the attack, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. He wished it hadn’t because her nervousness had been apparent even over text. His gut told him she hadn’t been telling the truth, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she’d lie. Well, he could hazard a guess, but thinking about Anya texting another man was a road he didn’t want to go down. At least not then when he needed his senses sharp.

The room had grown dark while Vas sat and brooded. He checked the time. He needed to get a move on. Like flicking a switch, he turned off all his emotions and went to the closet and the duffle on the floor. Unzipping it, he slipped a pair of gloves into his pocket, pulled a neck gaiter over his head, wearing it like a turtleneck for the time being, and secured the Bowie knife and small handgun he acquired his first day in town at the small of his back. Then he grabbed his black leather jacket from the back of the chair, slipping it on to conceal both weapons and headed out the door.

Frank lived and did business out of a small warehouse off Drake Street. If he wasn’t there then he was out on the streets, mixing and mingling. But Vas wasn’t anything if not patient, and after a week of observation, he found an in. The man had a shitting problem and could spend up to thirty minutes alone in the john after a meal.

Vas walked the two blocks, passing by two auto junk yards, a Caribbean market, and a titty bar before reaching his destination—a mid-size, red-brick building covered in graffiti. Turning into the alley at the back of the warehouse, dodging puddles of questionable substances since it hadn’t rained since he arrived, Vas stopped when he reached the fire escape associated with Frank’s property. He’d already scoped the area for video surveillance. There was none, but he still pulled the material of the neck gaiter up over his nose until only his eyes showed, then reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out his gloves, sliding them on. Being as quiet as possible while scaling the old, rickety, metal contraption, he grasped the first rung and climbed to the second-story window, peering through the dirty glass to be sure all was clear before testing the lock. The guy was either an idiot or too cocky for his own good because the window raised with only a little elbow grease to help it along.

He stepped over the ledge and into a makeshift bedroom that smelled of dirty socks and other things he’d rather not think too closely on. A bare mattress with a messy pile of blankets lay on the floor in one corner and had a table crafted from boxes sitting beside it. The only other piece of furniture was a lone dresser with a bunch of junk piled on top against the far wall. The rest of the room was empty and dark, the only light source coming from the bright streetlights shining through the twin windows.

Stepping carefully so the rubber soles of his combat boots didn’t squeak on the wooden floorboards, he made his way to the open door that led to the bathroom. The space was cramped with the sink, toilet, and small free-standing square shower taking up most of the space. Not ideal for his mission, but it had enough light shining through the only window which was positioned over the toilet and room enough to do what needed done if he positioned himself against the wall to the right of the door. Bonus, he’d be shielded as Frank walked in, giving Vas the element of surprise.

Vas may be patient, but he grew bored as fuck waiting, ears trained to hear the slightest noise of Frank’s arrival. Finally, the sound of footfalls thumping up the stairs could be heard and the bedroom door squeaked open then clicked closed.

He unsheathed his knife, keeping alert as Frank stepped into the bathroom, giving Vas his back as he went to close the door.

That’s when Vas made his move.

He’d learned a lot in the past thirteen years since he’d made his first kill. Stepping into his victim, Vas hugged Frank around the middle, at the same time stabbing his knife deeply and firmly into the back of his neck between the vertebrae at just the right angle to slice through the connecting disc to sever the spinal cord.

His victim was instantly incapacitated—paralyzed and unable to make a sound—a dead weight in Vas’s arms as he gently and soundlessly laid him on the floor. He was dead within seconds.

Vas left just as covertly as he’d arrived, ditching the knife on his way back to the motel. Stripping out of his clothes, he took a shower then logged onto his computer to book a flight home. That done, he typed in the URL for his dark web account and sent a message to his contact, letting them know the job was complete and giving them instructions to make the final payment to his offshore account within the next twenty-four hours. He wasn’t worried they wouldn’t follow through. One never knew when they’d be in need of his services again and no one liked to burn bridges.

That done, he called a taxi, packed up his shit, and got the fuck out of dodge.

Vas had a three-hour wait for his flight, so after checking in, he headed for the nearest airport café. Taking his sandwich and coffee to a corner table, he took out his phone and pulled up his text thread with Anya. His only intention had been to reread their conversation, but when he couldn’t get the thought of her lying to him out of his head, he found his thumbs flying over the screen.

Did you have a nice lunch with your mom?

Being only seven p.m. on the West Coast and not sure if she was working, he wasn’t surprised he had time to polish off his sandwich before getting a response. What surprised him was her answer.

I have a confession to make.

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