Page 96 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
Went underground after their ports were folded into ours, slipped through the cracks with enough money and favors to disappear.
The photos inside are grainy but clear enough.
One at a seaside café.
Another, leaving the market with a bag too heavy for groceries.
A final one taken near the marina, his phone in hand, mouth just slightly open like he's mid-sentence.
There's no audio, but I know the kind of conversations men like him have when they think they've been forgotten.
I wait until the sun finishes climbing the edge of the sky, until the tourists start to hum around the edges of the city like insects around sugar.
Then I make my move.
The steps down to the villa are slick with salt and moss.
My shoes don't slip.
The door is unlocked.
He doesn't expect company.
Or maybe he does, and he's grown stupid with comfort.
Either way, I push the door open with the slow grace of someone who owns the moment and the ruin it will bring.
He's in the kitchen, bare-chested, knife in hand, slicing bread like he belongs to the sea.
He glances up. Freezes.
His face is older than the last time I saw it, back when he was wearing someone else's badge and barking at dock workers like he had real power.
Now, there's resignation in his eyes.
No panic.
Just a tired little smile as he sets the knife down.
"You found me."
I don't respond.
I close the door behind me and step inside.
The place smells like olives and cigarettes, windows open wide to catch the morning breeze.
There's a pistol on the table beside him, half-covered by a folded paper.
He does not reach for it.
Smart enough to know better.
"So," he says, running a hand through hair gone silver at the edges, "who sold me out?"
I don't answer that either.
I don't need to.
