Page 8 of Blood & Snow
I knock twice and wait, expecting someone to answer and invite me inside for the interview.
When no response comes, I try the door handle.
Unlocked.
I'm getting a bad feeling about it but I push the door open and call out.
"Hello? I'm here about the cleaning position."
The smell hits me first.
It's metallic and thick, coating the back of my throat.
Then I see the blood smeared across the floor in dark, crimson streaks.
So much blood that it pools in the spaces between floor boards and puddles in thick globs that are coagulating.
It's nothing I haven’t seen in textbooks and crime scene reenactments, but in real life it's shocking as hell.
A man lies face-down near the kitchen doorway.
He's middle-aged, wearing expensive clothes that can't disguise the bullet hole in the back of his skull.
His arms are spread at unnatural angles, fingers still gripping what looks like a briefcase.
All of this happens in such a short amount of time, I can barely breathe or try to scream, but my hands react like lightning, shaking as I fumble for my phone.
The police emergency number, 102, appears on my screen as I begin to dial, but a dark voice makes my blood run cold.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
The voice comes from behind me with such sinister control, it instantly paralyzes me.
I spin around to find a man stepping out of the shadows near the apartment's entrance.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with pale gray eyes that examine me the way a butcher studies livestock.
Dark hair, trimmed beard, expensive black clothes that fit too perfectly to be coincidental.
He holds a pistol pointed directly at my chest.
"You're not here for an interview," he says, closing the apartment door behind him.
"You've just been hired."
3
XANDER
The girl stares at the corpse for thirty seconds before her survival instincts override her shock.
She doesn't scream or faint or do any of the predictable things civilians do when confronted with violence.
Her breathing becomes rapid and shallow, but she remains standing.
Useful information—she's not weak.
"What's your name?" I ask, keeping the pistol trained on her chest.
