Page 37 of One Secret

She's hiding something...

If I wasn't already convinced, I'd be sure of it now.

No one talks that way about life, about survival, without having learned its significance.

"...we just make the best choices we can with what we have at the time"...?

The words hit hard and it's like my chest opens up to their truth; allowing them in and swallowing them deep.

No one grows up wanting to be a killer. "Assassin" isn't an option at the kids' costume store. "Ninja" and "Cowboy", maybe, but never "Executioner".

But, after my father collected me from Germany like baggage, I'd grown up in Italy's criminal underbelly. Like any kid, I'd gravitated toward what I was good at. It's just that... instead of those talents being soccer, painting, or mathematics... They'd been with a heavy trigger and a set of crosshairs.

I'd pivoted and adapted depending on what was useful to the family and where I could succeed.

I'd survived.

I'd had to pivot again later. Eight years ago when I left the Machellis, left the world of a hired gun behind.

But I came back, didn't I?

'All right...' Darcy says on an exhale. She sounds sleepy and, for the first time, I notice dark smudges beneath her eyes. 'So, we get to this island... You play like you want a contract with the Carusos but, in actuality, you're probing for information on this other killer so you can hunt him down... simultaneously completing a mission for your real client and clearing a competitor from the board. Have I got all that correct?'

'In a gist, yes. That's the plan.'

'Then, can I share my plan with you now?'

'You want to find something damning on them, I know.'

'No. Well, yes... but, given your description of these people, I suspect I'll see and hear more than enough whilst I'm there without having to actively go looking for it... I meant that I have a plan for when we get back from the resort.'

For a minute, I think the plane's engines have died. Everything in the cabin seems to fall quiet. I meet Darcy's gaze head on and there's absolutely nothing in that stare that seems willing to back down.

This can't be good...

'What do you mean?' I ask.

'I'm going to be making a change, Cyrus.'

'A change?' I repeat dumbly.

'For one thing, I'll be moving.'

'Moving?' I feel like a broken toy, unable to do anything but repeat back sound bites.

'Yeah.'

I wait for more. When there is none, I get a sinking sensation in my gut. If you have to ask, she probably doesn't want to tell—

'To where?' I ask, anyway.

Her eyes harden.

'It doesn't matter.'

Aaand there it is.

My heart is thumping against my ribs and I take a calming breath. The kind I use to settle my nerves before pulling the trigger on a high-profile target. My palms are itching too. Like the spike in my adrenaline makes them crave some defensive ammunition. My mind automatically ticks off the pistol strapped to my ankle, the piece in the small of my back, the two rifles in the hard case at my feet, and the numerous assault weaponry in my duffel bag.

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