Page 1 of Cruel Pawn
1
Priya
Online dating usually made killing people so much easier.
People lived their whole lives for everyone to see, post by post, story by story, and dating profiles were a gift to people like me. It made building a picture of them, their routine, and their weaknesses easy. I guessed over the years, I’d become spoiled, because after two futile weeks of trying to uncover something, anything useful about Arden McFadyen, my latest mark, I had nothing to show for it except a lip I’d drawn blood biting in frustration and a photo pinned to my wall with my least favourite knife.
It did remind me to upload some banal, smiling selfies to my persona’s social media, though, so it wasn’t all pointless. According to Silvio, my only friend, and the only person in the world who I valued the opinion of, people who didn’t have Instagram profiles were either rebels, clinically insane, or serial killers. Ding, ding, ding—he was correct on all counts.
It did make me wonder why Arden didn’t have social media, though. I knew he was from a wealthy family who’d put their name to an insurance company—fucking vultures. Maybe he feared being conned or taken advantage of online. Annoying, since I wanted to con him and take advantage of him. He was also connected to the Marshall family of gangsters, career criminals, and killers, though notactuallyinvolved in any of the fun stuff. I was starting to think Arden shared nothing online because his life was so dull.
He was present in other people’s lives though, albeit tangentially. I found him at a Christmas party splashed all over Raegan Marshall’s feed, and a little light stalking uncovered him with Stefan Marshall, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, both laughing like devils at something out of view. The captain read: SAINT’S GONNA KILL US, BUT WORTH IT. The next photo showed a pool with a flailing man caught mid-splash. Damien Marshall. Better known as the Saint. The bogeyman of London, whose name spooked even people in my line of work.
Shame my target wasn’t that guy. He’d have been more fun to take out. But oh, well. Killing Arden paid my bills and added a nice chunk to my revenge fund. Buying information then hiring a team of kickass killers to help me murder whoever took out my family did not come cheap.
So here I was, lurking by a park’s iron fence and watching the coffee shop across the busy London street, waiting to time my appearance to the precise second it would have the best impact. I could see him through the shaded glass of Weasel Bean, the local coffee shop—the bastard shopped local and supported small businesses, and that didnotfit with the rich, entitled party boy I’d expected when I first started researching him. I’d been following him for two days now, not that he did anything particularly exciting. He went out for coffee every morning,worked, stopped for lunch in the afternoons, returned home at five p.m., and that was it. No lavish parties, no nights at a club rife with writhing bodies and thumping music, no sneaking out to commit murder. So why did someone want him dead?
That wasn’t technically my business, but it was like a hangnail. I kept trying to grab it with my teeth and rip it off to find what laid beneath—could be blood, could be nothing. Who the hellwasArden McFadyen?
I watched him as he shuffled in line, almost to the counter now. He was handsome-ish, but not in a conventional, perfectly symmetrical way. That bothered me too, because he wasinterestingto look at. A face made of sharpness and angles and raw-boned, masculine beauty. High cheekbones, a strong brow over eyes so dark brown they were almost ink-black, a straight nose that led to lips currently turned down in a frown, ending at a pointed chin.
I could cut myself on a face like that. It annoyed me that I wanted to. My jobs didn’t usually involve people worth looking at. Arden was definitely worth looking at, even when frowning. A black, fitted shirt stretched across his chest, clinging to biceps that hinted he was toned and muscular beneath, though not overly big.
I kept my eyes fixed on him as he shuffled closer to the counter, reaching for my phone and dialling the only contact I bothered calling.
“Oh, god,” Silvio exclaimed in greeting. “Is the world ending? Are you dying? Are you already dead and your ghost is calling me? Why are youcallingme?”
“Crisis,” I explained, not taking my eyes off my target. Normal, uninteresting Arden, who had ties to the mafia but no actual blood on his hands, and yet no social media presence. Rebel or mentally ill or serial killer? I was ripping at the hangnail again. “My mark is… intriguing.”
“Intriguing,” Silvio repeated, with a heavier dose of cynicism and attitude than the word required. “How?”
“He’s a mystery. He’s almost impossible to find online yet he lives an ordinary life. He makes his money from a spa subscription box forcatsfor fuck’s sake, but someone hired me to kill him.”
“Usually means he’s a bad dude, Rook.”
“Exactly.” The Rook—that was the only name anyone knew me by. Well, anyone except the monster who raised me from the gutter and trained me to be this. Dangerous. Lethal. Efficient. “He’s ordinary, but he’s my mark. It could be that he’s in someone’s way, maybe an inheritance or company takeover or—”
“Oh, fuck,” Silvio interrupted me. “Not good. He’s not a mystery, Rook. He’s apuzzleand you know how you get with puzzles.”
“Exactly. That's why I saidcrisis.I want to take him apart to see what he’s made of.”
“Rook, I’m saying this because I love you. You need to walk away from this. You’re damn good at what you do, but one day you’re going to slip and get caught.”
I rolled my eyes. Unlikely.
“And getting obsessed with someone you’ve been hired to kill is slipping.”
“Fine.” He had a point. “I’ll just get close and kill him, keep it nice and simple.”
If I happened to sate my curiosity along the way, so be it.
“Rook,” Silvio warned, his concerned voice bathing my insides with warmth. “Be careful. I’m serious. And call me later.”
“I’m always careful.” Silvio was right, though. Arden was a puzzle, and Ilovedpuzzles. Through the coffee shop window, I watched Arden pick up his coffee—something iced and toppedwith whipped cream—and turn to leave. “Gotta go, Silv. Tolerate you.”
He snorted. “Yeah, love you too, Rook.”
I straightened my black coat, swallowing back bitter irritation at not knowing what sort of woman would entice my mark. Usually, I’d adjust my styling, hair, and makeup to appeal to each job, but the only women I saw Arden with were the Marshall girls, and they were basically children. So, I’d had toguess.That word wasn’t usually in my vocabulary. Neither was the word improvisation. I’d been one second away from wearing something low cut and attention-grabbing, but this was a man whose company providedspa products for cats.
