Page 5 of Claimed By the Hitman: Codename Cupid

Fresh out of the shower, I change into a pair of gym shorts and an oversized Harvard sweater. I never attended Harvard. My alias, Clarissa Dumont, certainly did. Still, I’m happy to be out of that dress and into comfy clothes. I sit my Glock down on the coffee table next to my tea, crack open my book, and settle in for the night.

Two days of nothing to do but enjoy my expense card and this lovely room. These transitional periods make the stress worth it. For a while, I can pretend that my life isn’t cloak and dagger.

I’m sure in some convoluted way, Olympia owns the hotel. Shit, they probably own the airline I flew in on. Shell companies. Offshore bank accounts. Fake persons they funnel money through to cover their tracks. The agency’s web is encompassing but invisible. Apart from Zeus, the assets I’ve handled, and the agents who’ve taken me in, I don’t even have a rough estimate of how many people work for Olympia.

Follow orders, and life gets to be unreal. We operate above governments, laws, and international boundaries. We’re gods guiding civilization, eliminating those that need to be snuffed out.

Step out of line, however, and the Underworld awaits.

Three knocks make me snatch up my Glock and chamber a round. I’m aiming at the door to my suite before the final knock finishes. It’s nearly two in the morning—there’s no reason for anyone to be knocking on my door.

Another knock, only this time I realize it’s not coming from the door.

I whip around, training my gun on Cupid through the window of my balcony. He’s standing in the night, eyes wild and hair dancing in the wind. The collar of his white shirt is undone under his black blazer. The Eiffel Tower is erected behind him like distant fire.

He has one hand on his gut, holding himself like he has a stomach ache. The other hand waves a bottle of vodka like an offering.

Open the door, he mouths.

There’s blood trickling between his fingers.

CHAPTER 2

CUPID

Finishing a job makes me feel alive.

Do you see the irony?

I eliminate a target, and it gives me life. I’m sure Olympia has some Greek analogy they’d love to tie that to if they could get me to sit down with one of their psychologists. Those dorks love putting their nerdy bow on everything.

Tonight is different.

Mr. Scar Under Right Ear is dead. Gone. Target eliminated. It was a clean, easy job. I waited for his driver to depart and ended him inside his fancy Paris home. Nice place, great snacks in the pantry. And that wine collection! I used a knife, in case you’re curious. He received a mostly painless death.

No one will ever know it was me.

I disappeared into the night, got myself a bottle of vodka, and perched up on a bridge over the Marne. The river bled moonlight, and I poured out a bit of the clear liquor for the man I’d just killed.

I did not feel alive.

Even as the vodka hit my lips, the burn in my throat was subdued.

I considered jumping into the river. The water would be cold enough to force some feeling into me. A temporary solution. The real answer is waiting for me on the other side of the glass. She’s been waiting for me for some time now, even if she didn’t know it.

Hera points her pistol at me, standing as still as a gargoyle. Maybe she’ll shoot me? I’m sure I’d feel that.

Open the door, I mouth. My hand presses against the knife wound at my side. Warmth soaks my palm.

Her green eyes search me, scan the wound, the bottle, my face… finally, she lowers her weapon and unlocks the door.

“Evening,” I say before she grabs me by the collar and yanks me inside.

She peers out into the night. “Shut up. Were you followed?”

“By who? The target is dead.”

“By whoever did that.” She gestures to my stomach with her gun.

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