Page 15 of Descent

“Fuck off, Ciro. You’re distracting me.”

“Ugh. Moody, moody. Here,” he rolls his eyes, tossing something through the air at me. Then he’s gone.

But, I kinda have my hands full, so…

Catching the knife, I flip it, slash, forcing the guy back. A swift kick to the face sends him sprawling and I’m on my way.

Three blocks farther, I look down at the knife, a little confused.

Not that I get the chance to think it through. I’m still being tailed. At least two gaudy-looking killers that likely work for the Triads, three sleek, suit-wearing Yakuza, a handful of tracksuit sporting gold chains from somewhere in Eastern Europe.

And worst of all, the two that no one else in the world could spot but me…

Long coats. A smear of red on the forehead of the skull masks both of them wear like a second skin. Somehow, I know it’s a fingerprint in blood.

Mocro assassins.

The most talented and ruthless killers in the world. A select group that my fractured memories tell me I was a part of a long time ago.

The sun rises.

And I keep running.

“Ditchface. Wake up.”

“It’s dickface, you fuckwad.” My voice echoes metallically, sounding distant to my own ears.

“Correcting me actually works against you this time, you realize that, don’t you?”

Grainy-eyed and aching to my bones, I shift against the freezing drain pipe at my back. How long was I out?

“Few hours.”

I raise an eyebrow, grimacing at my twin in the dim. Cars pass overhead, thumping the underside of the bridge above us. I mean me, above me.

“Ghost watch?” Ciro snickers, wagging his wrist.

Time loss aside, I know I’ve been running for three days.

And the odds have only stacked higher against me. Almost like every hit man on the freaking continent’s out to get me.

I made it out of the city, hitched a ride, hopped the border into Poland where it only got worse. Surrounded, I managed to vanish long enough to find a hole to hide in, one they would all hesitate to blindly follow me into.

“They’re all waiting out there.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have any bullets left either.”

“Thanks for pointing that out.”

“You’ve got my thoughts and prayers though,” Ciro shows me his teeth, grinning awkwardly.

“I remember you being funnier.”

Ciro’s snarky expression fades for a second, and I see myself sitting across from me, glaring. Then he’s gone.

Great.

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