Page 83 of Shark Bait

I don’t dump them in the trash like a wasteful snob. I’m considerate of any public servants who might want to snack on them when they come to clean up the scene, so I transfer the pickles into a clean container that I find in the cabinet and return them to the fridge. On the second shelf. The first shelf holds capsules and liquids.

I recognize a few of those items.

The door clicks, telling me someone’s unlocked it from the outside. I tuck the bottle of water into the front pocket of my black cargo pants and slip behind the door just as it opens, hiding me.

A man enters. He’s six foot two, about eighty kilos (about one hundred and seventy-five pounds) wearing a light charcoal suit and brown leather shoes, carrying a brown leather briefcase.

He drops the briefcase on the kitchen counter, spots the pickle jar, picks it up, and looks it over as if wondering if it will reveal something to him. For a man who’s profited off conningpeople for the past decade, he’s shockingly unaware of his surroundings.

Or maybe I’m just that good at my job.Hush, Pickle Daddy, don’t get yourself started on praise now. You can do that later.

Seeing as how the empty pickle jar offered no explanation, he opens the cupboard under the sink and tosses the jar in the trash.I could’ve done that. Recycle, you negligent craphole. Oh, you’re gonna get it now.

La Falena whistles as he opens the fridge. “Hm,” he mumbles, and comes away with the pickle container. He opens it and eats a pickle while nodding approvingly. See that? He wouldn’t have gotten a snack had I not opened the jar and transferred the pickles into the container. I didn’t make him go to his death hungry. I’m a very thoughtful assassin.

Resisting accolades is becoming harder and harder the longer I stay hidden in the room.

The man heads for the living area. I wait in the shadows of the hallway for the moment he sees the guitar on the desk along with my tools.

He’s still whistling.

He stops whistling.

I walk out and wrap the guitar string around my fist to get a good grip on it just as he says, “Dren? How did you get in here?”

There’s a name I file for later, to be sure.

Before he turns, I wrap the string around his neck and tighten it, whispering in his ear, “Troy Montgomery, the girl with the guitar, got herself a boyfriend. Guess who?” I release his throat so he can speak. When he coughs, trying to clear his airway, I tighten it again. “I said, guess the boyfriend.”

“You,” he wheezes.

“Good. Good. Now, guess what I do for a living.” I loosen my grip, but instead of answering me, he reaches for the weapon from his waistband. I let him palm it, but when he spins around,I disarm him and clear his weapon. He staggers back, trying to regain his balance.

I hold up the magazine and pop one bullet out, then pin the man against the curtains, my body pressed against his so he can feel how hard the prospect of his death makes me.

A slight widening of his brown eyes tells me he’s felt my erection, and now he understands he’s well and truly fucked. His darkness recognizes mine, and I smile. “What’s your best guess?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wrong answer.” I grip the bottom of his jaw, pry it open, shove the bullet into his mouth, then close his jaw. “Swallow it like a vitamin.” I give him a second, but when he won’t swallow it, when I see defiance in his eyes, I jump up and down in joy. “Yippy-ki-yay, this will be more fun than I thought.” I whistle the same tune he whistled in the kitchen. “You’re a music fan, huh? That’s good. You will sing through two razor blades stuck between your teeth. Welcome to hell, motherfucker.”

TWENTY-NINE

THIS IS HOW IT’S DONE

SHARK

After almost five hours with La Falena, I’ve extracted the names of every one of his “clients,” associates, and even the (likely innocent) nail tech who drew five stars on his big toe.

Since he started rattling off names before I started carving out his kneecaps, I had to multitask and take notes on the hotel’s notepad while using the scalpel at the same time. Any surgeon worth his salt will tell you that a focused rather than a multitasking kind of approach to surgical removal of body parts is far more efficient, but I made do with what I was given.

I check my watch. It’s almost eleven, and Troy’s brother should walk into the hotel room any moment now. The local police units set up next door will finally get the correct feed on their monitors, and boy, are they in for a surprise.

I take a seat next to La Falena, whose body is propped up in a sitting position on the couch. I watch the twinkling lights of the beautiful city of Venice. At this hour, young people dressed to the nines wake up the old streets, looking for love, lust, and everything in between, not knowing that men like the one next to me are preying on their desires.

From now on, there’s one less man who women like Troy have to worry about.

This service to humanity won’t buy me a ticket to heaven, but I might get pinned with a bleeding heart medal down in hell. Not bad for a little refugee boy even the orphanage gave up on.

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