Page 30 of One Secret

'I'm here, aren't I?' I say, trying to divert the—

'I'm a killer, Darcy.'

We both fall quiet.

Had I been anyone else... had our association been anything other than what it is... I might have been shocked.

Within all reason, I probably should be. Any sane individual would be running for their life, Uber-ing it the hell out of there, or, at the very least, assuming the entire thing to be a joke and laughing in Cyrus's face.

Instead, I just sort of stand there and stare.

Because it's hard to pass judgment on those who break the cardinal sin of murder when you yourself have a body count.

As an ex-soldier, I've killed before. Under the right circumstances and with the law on my side, of course. But it's still a death. It's still a loss on someone.

Still a wound on me.

And when the authority that sanctified those losses turns on you? When they denounce your actions and change the color of your actions from patriotism to homicide...?

Yeah... it's kind of hard to believe that one killing is any different from another, after that.

So, who am I to judge Cyrus?

'The people I'm flying out to meet'—Cyrus is speaking slowly as if to test my silence—'are members of a crime syndicate. A mafia group.' He takes a step closer to me, his hands low and palms up. 'I work for mobsters...

'...And I'm a killer.'

The scale of this admission is not lost on me. The trust Cyrus's giving: that I'll not turn tail and immediately run to the authorities. The chance he's offering: for me to change my mind about going with him and hightail it back to Rome.

Given he's just driven me an hour from my home before offering said chance, it strikes me that he's probably been wrestling with his confession the whole way here.

I take a slow breath and try to look him in the eyes, despite the blazing sunlight.

'"You're a killer..."' I quote back to him. 'As in... you've killed people in the course of what you do? Or killing people is what you do?'

One eyebrow inches above the frame of Cyrus's sunglasses.

'Is there a difference?' he asks.

'To me there is.'

There's an awkward pause. Until:

'It's my primary occupation,' Cyrus admits. 'I'm a contract killer.'

'Specialising in?'

Again, my question seems to throw him off-pace.

'Sniper rifles mostly. I'm a sharp-shooter.'

The long hard case slung over his shoulder—the one I'd had to avoid when getting on his bike—suddenly makes a lot more sense.

I find it curiously comforting that Cyrus doesn't execute his business up close and bloody. Nor poison his enemies from afar like a coward.

Once more, I'm reminded of that knight in tarnished armor analogy. Inflicting death from the long end of a lance.

A small voice in the back of my head warns sinisterly that my libido might be making allowances for crimes I'd otherwise find abhorrent. But I'm not easily convinced.

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