Page 16 of X's and O's
Scythe chuckled. “Nope.”
I shrugged. “Eh, same thing.”
Gray seemed like he wanted to argue, but the doorbell rang, and he moved to check the peephole. He opened the door while explaining. “I called everyone else in on my way over here.”
Whip walked in, followed by Trigger, Ace, and Torch.
“The gang’s all here!” I eyed them. “None of you get credit for my kill though. Just so you know.”
Whip dragged his gaze up from the mess on the floor. “Do I get credit for killing you though? This is a mess.”
I waved a finger in his face. “Nuh-uh. I’m not a preapproved target on the list.”
Whip took a piece of paper from his pocket and turned to the others. “Anyone got a pen? I need to make an amendment.”
I slung an arm around his shoulder and turned to Scythe. “He jokes. He loves me. We’re BFFs.”
Whip shrugged me off and took a step away. “No, we’re not.”
I glanced at Scythe. “Apparently I’ve got a bestie opening. How about it?”
Scythe grinned. “In.”
Gray glanced over at him. “You going to join your bestie at our meetings too? Because I’m pretty sure I heard you were out of the game…and yet, this looks a whole lot like you’re back in it.”
Scythe shrugged. “Do I get a copy of that list if I do?”
Gray nodded. “That could be arranged. If that’s what you really want.”
Something dark and malicious glinted in my new best friend’s eye. “I’ll think about it. Vincent probably won’t like it.”
Scythe and his alter couldn’t have been more different. Vincent was calm, quiet, and well-spoken. Still deadly but in a completely different way from Scythe, who was as much of a frog in a blender, attracter of chaos, as I was.
Ace, Torch, and Trigger had brought supplies with them. Plastic to wrap the body in. Clean-up supplies to get rid of the blood. We’d all done this plenty of times. The three of them moved like a well-oiled machine, getting rid of the evidence.
Gray talked to Scythe, patiently explaining to him that he was triggered and most definitely needed meetings. That this desire to kill that all of us had was no different to any other addiction. Alcoholics had AA.
We had Murder Squad. At least that’s what I liked to call it.
Whip came to stand beside me, folding his arms over his broad chest, the two of us watching the guys work. “Heard you left a witness.”
“Witness. Wife. They both start with W.”
Whip, older than my thirty years by at least fifteen, if the lines around his eyes and his graying hair was anything to go by, gave me that disappointed Dad look I was used to getting from him. “You fucked up, X.”
I sighed. “Yeah. I know. But I’ll fix it.”
He shook his head. “You leave that woman alone.”
I didn’t say anything. Gray might have been our shrink, trying to keep a bunch of murderers on the straight and narrow by only killing people who deserved it. But Whip was the unofficial leader of the group. The eldest. The most in control of himself. He was the one who really kept us in line.
Because Whip could kill a man before he even knew he’d been targeted.
And none of us ever forgot that.
We were all as much a danger to each other as we were to the targets on the list.
It’s why we didn’t go by our real names. Why we knew nothing about each other’s lives, families, or friends.
