Page 1 of Ride with the Devil

PROLOGUE

KYLIE

Some people kill because they have the urge. They’re twisted, or they’re evil.

Me? I kill because it’sfun.

Money’s good, too. Money’s fuckinggreat. Do you know how much people will pay to get rid of somebody they hate? And not evenhatesometimes. You’d be amazed how often my clients will give me a target for the most ridiculous and asinine reasons.

Do I care what they are? Nope. As long as I have the cash in hand or the full amount wired into one of my three offshore accounts when I’m done, I don’t give a shit about their petty justifications. Though, I’ll admit, I get a better sense of satisfaction if the hit is on an asshole.

I live to eliminate assholes.

Too bad I’m a little iffy on tonight’s target.

Whenever I take a job, I get my kicks putting a little spin on it. I get the name, research the name, and pick a way to kill them that screams poetic justice. At the beginning of my career, I went with a gun nine times out of ten. That was too easy before long. Where’s the pizazz, right? Where’s the statement?

Where’s the signature?

Some little girls grow up and want to be a teacher or a ballerina or a homemaker. Not baby Kylie. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to do until I shot my dad’s .22 and made my first kill. And while that was a clear-cut case of self-defense—and, as a wide-eyed, baby-faced sixteen-year-old, no one would’ve believed IwantedJason to die—something sparked to life inside of me that day. Now, a decade later, I’ve made this my career, and I’m pretty damn good at it.

I’m the Hummingbird. And while I know that my chosen name wasn’t picked out to strike fear into those I’m gunning for, the fact that anyone who knows itwillbe frightened… hey. I get my kicks where I can, and I love how such a seemingly innocent bird can mean death.

Hummingbirds are fast. They’re light. They have big brains, an impressive memory, and are surprisingly territorial.

Plus, I found a box of, like, three-hundred hummingbird crystal figurines at a yard sale back in Westfield when I was seventeen and was just dying for some way to use them. At the time, I never thought they’d be my signature—the token I leave behind at every kill to take credit for the hit—but hey… waste not, want not, right?

I have one in my ‘go’ bag right now. Looking like an oversized canvas tote, my bag is slung over my shoulder. My wild, curly hair is currently tamed by the pair of over-the-ear headphones I have on. I’m not playing any music through the speakers since I need to hear my surroundings, but they’re a perfect addition to my costume.

Between my artfully ripped jeans, the light hooded sweatshirt that would be overkill during a mid-July afternoon but perfect for the late hour, my bag, and my headphones, I look like a mid-twenties art student rushing home after a late night out. Taking the trip down Third Avenue, passing theshops—all closed now—that a woman like me would patronize, before reaching the apartments in this part of the West Side of Springfield.

Only I don’t live in Springfield. Don’t live anywhere, really, since putting down roots would make it easier to get nabbed by those looking to cage up the Hummingbird. I usually find a hotel or two—trading halfway throughout my stay—when I’m plotting a hit, then blowing town as soon as the job is done.

I’ve staked this street out enough over the last two weeks to know that it’s empty once the stores all close up. The costume is just in case, and because while I might have a need for adrenaline and a bit of a death wish, my rep is everything to me. I’ve been in the hitwoman business for four years now, and all it will take is one sloppy kill for the jobs to stop coming. So I have a healthy bank account already. You can’t take it with you, but I can make sure I have enough to enjoy myself before I go.

I’m meeting my client here in about fifteen minutes. Knowing how much of a hard-on he has for this, I wouldn’t be surprised if she shows up earlier. I’ll tack on an added fee if he does—I don’t work with an audience—but for the moment, at least, everything is quiet.

Calm.

Not for much longer.

Hefting up my tote, sensing the slosh of the liquid in its canister, I slow my roll until I’m standing just outside of my target: Sinners and Saints tattoo shop.

The guy who hired me for this hit, Mickey Kelly, claimed that Carlos ‘Cross’ da Silva was a creep who forced himself on an innocent virgin, and when Mickey tried to stop him from raping the girl, the cruel tattooist lunged at him, his teeth taking a chunk out of the poor guy’s dick.

Now, I’m not an idiot. There are so many holes in his story, it’s like a slice of Swiss cheese. To get the tip of his cock bittenoff, that implies he was waving his dick around—so maybe it wasn’t da Silva who was planning on assaulting this Libellula chick. Then again, Kelly said it was, and he was willing to pay me a cool fifteen grand upfront to get rid of a predator.

For fifteen grand now, fifteen grand transferred after I leave behind my hummingbird and Kelly verifies that da Silva’s dead, if the guy says da Silva needs to die, I’ve got it.

And, like always, I’m going to have fun with it.

The hummingbird figurines aren’t my only signature, even if they’re the most obvious ones. When the time allows for it—and the client is okay with it—I like to tailor my kills to the targets. Especially if they seem like they’re a trash person, it amuses me to know that the way I off them is personal.

Just like tonight’s will be.

I did my research. Back when da Silva was a kid, his family died in a fire. He survived, so did his stepfather, but his mother and two siblings died. The stepfather eventually got fingered for setting the blaze, but there were enough questions at the time that made it seem Carlos was in on it, too.

Even if he wasn’t, he’s a Sinner. Literally.

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