Page 50 of The Queen
“Tomorrow,” I promise the silent walls, “tomorrow, I fight. But tonight, I breathe.”
23
JAMES
I checkeach part of the rifle, fingers running over metal and polymer like I’m checking for a pulse. It’s got to be perfect. Dad’s voice is in my head, “Precision, James. Always precision.” I nod to myself, even though he isn’t here to see. The weight of the Blackthorne family sits well on me, perfectly suited, but there is no time for reflection. The job’s got to get done.
Magazine? Full. Scope? Clear as day. Barrel? Clean enough to eat off, not that I’d try. Each piece clicks together with a sound that makes my cock hard. Giving the assembled weapon one last once-over before dismantling and tucking each piece away in the case, it’s just another day, another job. Keep it professional and detached. There is no room for errors or emotions.
As the rest of the house is in downtime, sleeping and relaxing, I’m moving out silently. I step out of the townhouse; the door closes behind me with a soft click. The white sedan waits at the curb, as plain and unremarkable as they come—perfect for blending in. I slide into the driver’s seat, feeling the comfortable seat under me. The engine starts up at the turn of the key, a quiet promise of anonymity when I head into thecity, half an hour’s drive away on this Saturday morning in late September.
As I pull away from the curb, the townhouse becomes just another blur in the rearview mirror. The streets are quiet; some people are already starting their day, walking their dogs and going to the shops, unaware of the darkness tucked away under their noses. I drive with purpose, but not enough to draw attention. I am just another guy in a car going places.
The landscape shifts as I near the location, and my grip on the wheel tightens. Game time. I park a block away on an open air carpark, just another faceless vehicle in the sea of morning traffic.
It’s showtime.
And I’m ready.
Purchasing my pay-and-display ticket, I place it in the windscreen and grab the hardbacked steel case from the passenger seat. It’s small enough to not look too out of place.
The building in question looms, quiet and unsuspecting. It’s odd to see it so still on a weekend when the hustle of the weekday seems like a permanent fixture. I slip around to the side entrance, away from any prying eyes that might be out this early. A lock stands between me and my goal—just a minor inconvenience. I kneel down, tools in hand, and get to work.
The tumbler clicks, the sound nearly inaudible. That’s my cue. I pocket my tools and ease the door open, slipping inside. The corridors greet me with silence, the kind that amplifies every little noise. My footsteps are not even a whisper on the tiled floor. I move through the unlit hallways, each step calculated, avoiding the patches of light from the occasional window.
Up ahead, I see the stairwell door, exactly where my dad’s plans said it would be. I take the stairs two at a time, quiet as a shadow. The designated floor comes into view, the numberetched on the metal door. Pressing the door open with the side of my fist, I peer through the gap before I step out.
Empty. Just like it should be.
Doing a sweep through the floor, room by room, making sure there’s no one around, I conclude the place is a ghost town.
Good.
Can’t afford any surprises—not today, not ever.
Walking along the bank of windows facing the busier street now, I find the spot to take the shot. Kneeling, I open the case and pull out the rifle pieces with care. Each part slots together with a reassuring ease—just as it should, just as it always has in the hours I’ve spent breaking it down and putting it back together. Memory guides my hands as I assemble the weapon, the metal cool and familiar beneath my fingertips.
It’s all about precision. Every piece has its place; there’s no room for error in this line of work.
The rifle is ready, and so am I. Now it’s just the waiting game. But patience is part of the gig, something Dad drilled into me since I could hold a gun. We may operate in the shadows, but we’re bound by the same unshakeable code: honour the family, complete the mission, protect what’s ours.
The cool breeze brushes against my skin as I ease the window open, just enough for the muzzle of the rifle and an unobstructed view. My eyes dart across the street, a concrete jungle awake and becoming more vibrant as the minutes tick on.
But I’m not here for the atmosphere—I’m here for the hit. I scan the area, seeking any hint of movement, any sign of the target. I know they’ll appear soon; I’m bang on time.
Seconds pass, each one ticking by like a heartbeat. I stay still, my breathing controlled, my senses razor-sharp.
The tension coils inside me like a spring, tight and ready to snap. Every muscle in my body is primed, every nerve ending alight with anticipation. This is the part of the job that tests you—the waiting, the unknown stretch of time before the action. But I thrive on it, the adrenaline simmering beneath my skin, the silent promise of the endgame.
My finger rests lightly on the trigger, ready to control death with a single squeeze. It’s power, raw and uncompromising, and I wield it with certainty.
I shift my weight slightly, keeping the blood flowing and staying alert. The target will show, and when they do, I’ll be ready. Ready to do what needs to be done. Ready to honour the legacy passed down to me.
The waiting game ends.
A figure strides into my line of sight, confident that this will be just another regular day. They don’t know I’m up here, eye pressed to the scope, life and death cradled in my hands. They don’t know someone has paid for their death in blood money for actions I neither know nor care about.
I lock on the target, steady as stone. They’re just another mark, another name to cross off a list—nothing personal. But that’s how you survive in this game. You don’t think about the whispers they’ll never breathe or the ground they won’t tread again. You think about survival.
