Natasha's Last Hit chapter 1

No matter who you are or what you do, no matter how much money you make or what you accomplish, one fact remains the same: we all have to go sometime.

Death is the great equalizer. Young, rich, poor, old, healthy, sick -- you're gonna die. It can come for you on the street, in a fancy restaurant, in the shower, in your own bed. It can come the form of an illness, from a freak accident, at the hands of a stranger or even the hands of a lover. We live our entire lives on borrowed time, doing whatever we can to either ignore or stave on the inevitable.

Don't get me wrong, I do the same thing. I work out, eat clean -- most of the time, anyway -- and I have a lot of hobbies, too. I'm an active member of Portland Parkour Club, I rock climb whenever I can, and I've logged more hours and the shooting range than even the devout gun enthusiast.

I also make damn good money, if I do say so myself. It paid for my own a wonderful and energy efficient home in the Arlington Heights neighborhood of Portland, Oregon. I find my career fulfilling and, indeed, feel it is the only thing that I was meant to do.

In truth, I live my life to the fullest because I am intimately aware of the fact that it could be taken away from me in an instant, without warning. But you can't have the good does without the bad. For instance, my career does fuel my preoccupation with death and dying. Seeing as my job is to make people dead with extreme prejudice, I feel that I am a little justified in my slight morbidity.

Tonight, my assignment was taking me about a thousand miles south from my home to the constantly sunny and thoroughly polluted basin known as Los Angeles, California. I looked out my windshield taking in the moderate foot traffic of well-dressed club goers winding their way nonchalantly around the depressing homeless and goofy looking tourists taking pictures with celebrity stars on the Hollywood walk of fame. The bright lights of Sunset Boulevard gave the glared brightly, highlighting the incongruity of the ritzy nightclubs and bars that sat side by side with run down tourist shops selling cheap quality trinkets and overpriced novelties.

I have nothing against LA in particular, more that I hate large and overpopulated shitholes in general. The constant smog producing traffic, persistent smell of stale urine, and lack of a clean water supply put my teeth on edge. I made sure to drive down with an ample supply of bottled water, feeling that the non-reusable bottles were worth the avoiding the deluge of chemicals they put in the water here to make it supposedly drinkable.

I pulled into the paid parking lot on Sunset Boulevard, only a five minute walk from my destination, the Chateau Marmont Hotel. While the Hotel did have a reportedly excellent valet service, I didn't want to risk being recognized. Seeing as I was going there to murder one of the hotel's patrons, it was safe to say the fewer people that saw me, the better.

Well, I suppose murder is a strong word. It implies malicious intent, some kind of personal motivation. Killing Hank Farrell, notorious henchman for the Los Angeles based Malta crime family, wasn't personal at all. He's simply a name in a file marked "make dead." Okay, the file doesn't actually say that. I suppose that would be a little inconspicuous in my line of work.

Sure, I find his habits of torture and casual murder fairly repugnant, but I am also pragmatic enough to understand that I can't exactly throw any stones. I'm sure on some weird level that Hank Farrell had the same notions about his actions as I did mine.

The key difference between me and Farrell is that he reveled in dealing out pain. Offing a mark didn't give me any pleasure outside of job well done. I didn't hurt anyone unless I was getting paid to do so or if they interfered in my mission. I do have my standards.

The engine of my Toyota Prius turned off with a soft click as I disengage the engine. Technically, it wasn't exactly mine, it belong to my family's company, N83.

We at N83 have a strong sensibility about protecting the environment and our duties with regard to reducing our carbon footprint. Just because we took out human trash for a living didn't mean we had to destroy the planet while we did.

It was also an issue of money. My mother, a veteran operative and the head of N83 and a woman who would sooner shoot a man in the face than waste a penny, did the math acted accordingly. Her conclusion was that flying me down, shipping my gear bag separately, then renting a car that no one could guarantee would remain unscathed, cost more than having me make the sixteen hour drive. Frugality almost always won out with her, save for when it compromised the mission. At least she saw it as frugality. Some, including myself, would call her a cheapskate. While my mother may charge exorbitant prices for N83's services, she singlehandedly created the notion of budget assassinations.

It was always funny to see the look on the faces of new operatives, who likely came into the business with expectations of Mission: Impossible gadgetry, have their hopes dashed when there were handed a fifty dollar meal per diem and told that they better save every single receipt to justify their costs. If they wanted that extra Snickers bar, they better damn well do it on their own dime because if the penny-pinching bulldogs my mother used as accountants got even a whiff of a non-sanctioned expense.... The operative would soon learned that hell hath no fury like my mother operating under the notion she'd been ripped off.

I was born and raised to work with N83 along with my twin sister, Natalie. The problem with only wanting to do one thing with your life is that one would expect that you would be excel at it. While I do like to think that I am, at the very least, good at my job, saying that I excel at it would probably be an overstatement.

At the age of twenty-six I still hadn't been promoted to covert status from assassin. On top of that, I was on an indefinite probation. Natalie, on the other hand, was seven minutes younger and already a three star covert. She only needed two more stars before she would be a master covert -- the most coveted position within N83.

Natalie got to globe hop, going on missions I didn't even have the clearance to know the details of. Meanwhile, I'd been helping scumbags gain their wings for the last seven freaking years. The problem isn't in the results -- I almost always got my mark. But the finesse with which I did could probably use a little work.

I had a mishap here and there, but I nearly almost got the job done on time. Perhaps not in the most orthodox of ways, but if the target got dead in the end, what was the harm? Usually it ended in a verbal cut down from Mother and loss of a portion of my commission.

But then there were times that the target wasn't eliminated. Such as the case with gig that put me in the unfortunate position of being a hair's breadth away from permanent administrative clerk duty.

The battle royale with the three thoroughly intoxicated and justifiably pissed off bikers hadn't gone over too well. They took great exception to my trying stab their leader in the throat with a broken beer bottle. They'd also been annoyingly hard kill. In the end I was left with a chipped tooth, two broken ribs, and fractured clavicle all while the original target had sped away on his Harley Davidson, unfortunately and inconveniently alive.

Last I heard, he'd hightailed it to Mexico and showed no signs of coming out stateside. The whole affair had been bloody and messy and in the end Mother had to pay a King's ransom to the local sheriff to make it all disappear. Not to mention my medical and dental bills.

Remember that frugal nature I mentioned earlier? When my mother had gotten the final tabulation of my misadventure she was so furious that I am still a little shocked that she didn't die of a rage-induced stroke.

I pulled out my encrypted cell phone and pressed in the code. It was specially designed to function like a normal phone should it ever be confiscated by law enforcement that could not be bribed. Any hint of tampering and a background application would nuke any incriminating evidence.

I scrolled through the information regarding Hank Farrell, wanting the information to be fresh in my mind.

Name: Hank Donald Farrell

Height: 6'1

Weight: 242 pounds

Eye color: Brown

Hair: Black primary, gray streaks

Distinguishing Marks: Missing right pinky finger, tattoo of skull on right pectoral

Occupation: Gun smuggler and enforcer for Malta Crime Family

Offence: Murder of Gregory Child

Bounty: $500,000

Underneath all this information was a mugshot taken of Farrell about five years ago. Had he actually been arrested for beating and murdering Gregory Child, son of wealthy financier Julien Child, I would have had a more recent picture.

Though, I suppose if I were being technical, if the system had done their part in getting justice for Gregory, I wouldn't be here at all. It had taken him three days to die, and even then only when his family decided to pull the plug. The brain damage was so extensive that there had been no hope.

But Farrell had never even been booked for the assault, let alone convicted of any crime. He was trusted and effective within the workings of the Malta family's criminal empire, and they had deep pockets. I didn't give a damn about his crimes. In my line of work one had to develop a thick skin toward the darker sides of humanity.

I studied the face, committing it to memory as much as I could. The bounty on Farrell was the biggest N83 had gotten all year for a single hit. More than anything I needed this to go right. This was my big test.

For the last three months I've been given small jobs - taking out cheating spouses, fraudulent business partners and intimidating low lives. I wanted back in on the big game. I wanted to prove that I had the skills to be a covert.

A message pinged on my cell phone. I read it and groaned aloud. I could almost hear my mother's grating and slightly nasal voice, the tone of censure and disappointment that she used only for me.

DON'T MESS THIS UP, NATASHA!

Did the message really warrant all caps? I threw my phone onto the passenger seat in frustration. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't quite blame my mother. The childish part of me wanted to stomp my feet and wail at the unfairness of it all, to say that it was her lack of encouragement and faith in me that caused me to fail. But at the age of twenty-six, I knew better. I kept failing because no matter how much I dearly loved the rush that came with pulling off a nearly impossible mission, I failed miserably when it came to the "covert" part of being a covert.

Calm under pressure just wasn't in my vocabulary. Try as I might to reign in my temper and the panic, I lost it and blew the mission. My sister didn't have that problem. Natalie could be dropped into a mission and seduce and charm and finagle her way to success with minimal casualties. I would be dropped into that same mission and leave a trail bodies. In the end, we came home with the same end result, but mine was always messier -- and more expensive.

But there were times that I felt I was treated a bit unfairly for circumstances beyond my control. There was the minor slip up with a mission last month, where the body wasn't properly disposed of. But honestly, how was I supposed to know that an annual marathon to benefit pediatric cancer would take the runners down that particular patch of deserted park trail? If Mother had just let me dismember the damn corpse and dissolve it in acid like I'd wanted to, no one would have been the wiser.

I scooped up my purse and checked my reflection in my visor mirror. The tiny light showed that my black mascara that framed my hazel eyes hadn't smudged. Neither had the red lipstick. My foundation had done a good job at covering my distinctive freckles and the light brushing of peachy pink blush complimented my dusky honey skin tone.

My slinky red dress was alluring, clinging to all the right places necessary to drive home the fact that I was female, but loose enough to hide the empty syringe strapped to my thigh. It also softened my muscular frame so that my target would see feminine curves instead of instead of biceps and quads that would make the average gym rat weep.

I felt like a damn fool in this getup. I looked like a mid-price call girl, which was the point, but still I much preferred my normal clothes. I didn't like wearing clothing that could hamper me in case I had to pummel a much larger person to death with my bear hands.

My dark brown hair, shoulder length and vigorously straightened with a flat iron, framed my face in a glossy wave. The handle of my tiny red clutch was a special made detachable brass knuckles and my matching red heels didn't have ankle straps, meaning I could kick them off in a hurry if I had to bail out.

I wouldn't be bailing out, though. I didn't dress up like a hooker just to go back to Mother with empty hands. If I didn't make Farrell good and dead, I would be clerking for the rest of my natural life. Being a clerk meant never setting foot in the field. You provided back up to real agents and were generally chained to your desk. I'd die of boredom.

I got out of the car and the cool night air cut through the thin material of my dress, causing gooseflesh to break out on my arms and hardening my n*****s painfully. I felt overly exposed, especially with all of the garish artificial light and heavy foot traffic. Wasn't LA always supposed to be warm? Damn grimy city was good for nothing. I fought the urge to shiver and rushed past the parked cars to pay the nominal parking fee, keeping the interaction short. Once I placed the parking permit on my dashboard, I began the trek to the Chateau Marmont Hotel.

The Bar Marmont, the small bar within the hotel, was my destination. After what actually turned out to be a seven minute walk in the biting Santa Ana winds, I managed to make it there mostly unruffled.

A bellman greeted me kindly at the entrance. I didn't even glance his way as I walked in without a word, carrying myself with all the haughty entitlement of the kind of woman that belonged there. Guilt bit at me. I had to ignore him as part of my job was not being memorable but rudeness had always been against my grain. .

Decorated and rich browns and golds with carved wooden crown molding and study yet elegant wicker furniture, the establishment boasted a small bar and several small tables. My eyes zeroed in on the bar and it's few patrons.

I would sit at the bar and look available and affordably expensive. The intel on Farrel indicated that he had a strong penchant for call girls, but certainly nothing as lowly as a streetwalker. I supposed, in Farrell's mind, that if the sum of money was high enough, it made him a client instead of a John.

It wasn't my first time posing as a sex worker to get a mark, but the process always made my skin crawl. Natalie, on the other hand, was quite comfortable using her considerable beauty and allure to lure in men and a few women. While her assignments typically ended with her mark awaking from a state of drug induced amnesia with state's secrets gone, mine ended with a bloody corpse and my receiving at least a black eye. I sighed and walked over the bar.

I wasn't made for seduction, I thought ruefully as I settled on the leather stool. I was made for scaling walls, evading security and shooting my way out if things didn't go as planned. Once seated my eyes scanned the bar and it's few patrons.

The plan was simple: come on to Farrell, give him a price, get him to his room, lull him into a false sense of security with hopefully brief kinky foreplay, use my empty syringe to inject his carotid artery with a generous helping of air. Air embolism, quick death, no mess, no one the wiser. Personally, I would have preferred to shoot him, but alas, the powers that be preferred the death to look clean and unsuspicious. A bullet to the head usually cleansed all doubt of natural causes.

I pulled my hat off as the bartender took my order of a gin and tonic. The bartender obliged, and I took a seat, scanning the bar's patrons. I spotted Farrell sitting a little ways away, speaking with another hard a*s looking man that I could only assume was a work associate. They spoke in hushed tones.

I tried to imagine what they could be talking about.

"Blah blah blah, henchmen stuff, blah blah, murder, blah blah, extortion," his counterpart said in my head.

"Murder, murder, blah blah, shallow graves, blah blah, more murder," Farrell would say.

So I wasn't the best at creating dialogue. That was okay, because I was good at sizing a target up. Farrell certainly didn't look like a hardened criminal, which was practically a requirement of his job description. In person, he almost looked like a normal guy. There was a touch of coldness in his eyes behind the alcohol induced glassiness of his dark brown eyes, but that was about it.

His associate on the other hand, with his deep olive skin, slicked back sable hair, and tailored black suit looked like an Italian mafia stereotype come to life. Something about the way he leaned back in his chair, at once slightly tense but giving off the air of casual relaxation, put my teeth on edge.

One didn't live as long as I have in this business without being able to recognize a capacity for violence in another human being. The most important skill a killer-for-hire had to cultivate was the ability to size up another killer, and this guy was definitely a killer. Everything from the set of jaw to his the easy yet ready poise with which he sat set off all my alarm bells. He was not a man to be fucked with. Which meant, of course, that he was the sexiest damn specimen in the entire room.

Farrell on the other hand, looked a little different from the picture in my mind's eye. He was softer somehow, with hair was definitely more salt than pepper and he looked to be about 30 pounds lighter than his profile stated.

Honestly, if it weren't for the fact that he had the same straight nose and slightly hooded brown eyes, I wouldn't have been sure it was actually him. Farrell was downright mundane compared to the bulldog I'd been expecting. I reached into my clutch to pull out my phone to check one more time. To my utter frustration, I realized that I'd left the phone in the car. Damn it all to hell!

I groaned inwardly as I took another sip of my drink. There were times when alcohol was a downright necessity. I shook my head, trying fling off the doubt, But I couldn't seem to shake the familiar pressure in my chest that came whenever a mission was about to go wrong.

I sighed, taking in Farrell once more. He looked relaxed, and if his bloodshot eyes were any indication, more than a little sauced. This should be easy enough. First I would try to seduce from afar. Failing that, I would go over there and make myself as available as possible. I really hoped I wouldn't have to tail him to his room. The problem would be his companion. I wasn't worried about him giving my description to the police once Farrell met his timely end, but I was worried about him interjecting himself into the mission. If I could recognize him for what he was from afar the could likely do the same to me. I wasn't sure if I had enough finesse to pull off the totally harmless hooker. But more than anything, I worried that being in such close proximity to that amount of danger and testosterone would seriously cloud my brain.

I schooled my features, going for sultry and sweet while ignoring Farrell's counterpart. I kept sending glances Farrell's way, looking inviting, hoping to catch his attention. Twenty minutes later, I was two gin and tonics deep and no closer to getting Farell to notice me. I tried direct eye contact, a hair flip, leaning my body in way that would showcase the fact that I was in fact female and very ready. I even played up the padding in my bra for all it was worth and that dunder headed moron couldn't even be bothered to spare me a glance.

I knew he was straight from his profile and I was in fine form in the high-priced hooker uniform. I hated seduction. The flirty glances and teasing looks were so beyond me. I downed my drink and paid my tab. I glance over to see that Farrell was now alone. If I played my cards right, I could walk over to him and do more to get his attention before his sexy companion arrived.

Just as I was turning to leave my seat, someone tapped my shoulder. I turned with great annoyance to see who dared get in the way of my mission. My eyes fell on the tanned face and piercing gray eyes of Farrell's associate.

I nearly jumped out of my skin and felt uncharacteristically flushed. He regarded me with an easy grin that formed little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. I would guess him to be in his early thirties. He braced his hand on the edge of this bar as he moved into the seat next to me, and my heart did a little flip as I took in the way his strong muscles bunched and flexed on the exposed area of the forearm. He moved with easy grace, light and ready.

Damn it, this man was beautiful. He was somehow taller and broader than I gave him credit for while he was sitting.. His dark blue bottom-up shirt only a shade darker than his eyes, which I couldn't tell from my vantage point. The sleeves rolled up his forearms and perfectly hugging his lean and toned frame. He was definitely something to look at.

I let my gaze travel briefly down the length of his black trousers to his polished loafers and back up his taut torso to his perfectly formed face. I realized that I had been staring at him for the better part of five seconds without saying anything.

I felt myself blush. It had been a long time since I'd seen a man this beautiful. But I had a mission. Mission first, libido-fueled stupidity later.

"I hope I'm not bothering you, I just noticed you sitting here alone and wondered if you would like to grab a drink with me."

Of course it would be now. Now of all the times for a man that was clearly sex personified to come up to me and ask me to have a drink with him. When I'm wallowing in self-pity and in need a very good lay after an assignment gone wrong, he's nowhere to be found. When I'm one misstep away from being fired, however, he waltzes right on in with his sexy voice and perfect body. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.

"I'm sorry but I can't. Thank you for the offer though."

"Are you sure?" he asked. There was a faint accent that seemed at odds with his slightly mediterranean features. Either he was trying very hard to cover his real accent or it had mostly faded away. Either way, I knew without a doubt that he didn't take his root in the good ol' USA.

"Yes, I am quite sure, I'm supposed to be meeting a date, and I don't think he would like it if he showed up and I was speaking with another man."

He gave me a crooked smile and I forgot to breathe.

"From the looks of it, your date isn't happening. I saw that you settled your bill, but I wouldn't mind grabbing you another if you're game," he leaned forward, invading my space and making my hyper aware of his toned body and manly scent. "Just a drink. I promise I won't try anything funny."

His eyes were pure smolder and that look told me that he was planning to try something very funny indeed. Something that would include him and me naked and sweaty. I narrowed my eyes on him.

He continued, "But I won't pressure you if you have to be on your way. It's my loss. I will say that you surely deserve a better date, though. If I had a date with you, I would never keep you waiting so long."

"Been watching me, have you?" I ask in a teasing tone. I hoped he couldn't hear the underlying tension that welled up in me as I wondered briefly if I would have to kill him. I wondered who else had noticed me sitting here. Being noticed by too many people was always bad for my line of work. Not that I can really do anything about it, but it made me uneasy all the same. It would be a shame to kill a man so beautiful, but alas, some things cannot be helped.

"Of course I did, who wouldn't notice you?" his eyes drifted to my lips then back up.

I quirk an eyebrow at him. "Really? Is this the part where you tell me how beautiful I am and I blush? Or will you buy me a drink and let me cry on your shoulder because all men are jerks, except for you of course. Or perhaps I could just save you all the trouble and fall down with my legs spread?" my voice dripped

He laughed - laughed! - right in my face. It was a rich genuine sound that came deep from his belly. I was expecting him to look chagrined or at the very least sheepish. My tough girl speech didn't even make a dent in his armor.

"You're rather full of assumptions there, aren't you?"

"You didn't deny them," I shot back.

"No, I didn't. But just because part of an assumption is right doesn't mean you're not an a*s."

I blinked at him. Had he just insulted me? I narrowed my gaze. "Exactly which part of this assumption was wrong? I think your motives are pretty clear here. No man just walks up a woman he's never met a bar with the intention of just having a drink."

"The part where you insuitated that it would be trouble on my part."

I faltered for a moment, then plowed ahead. "So was this your plan? You wanted to come over here, oogle me then piss me off? Not what I would call a winning strategy."

He shrugged his shoulder, looking nonchalant. "My plan was to come over here and have a conversation. Had I known you would be so surly, well, I would have come over anyway. Though I will admit that I would have changed my opening line."

His eyes brimmed with humor, all sparkling and I couldn't help but smile begrudgingly. A fuzzy warmth settled in my lower belly.

"What would have been your opening line, then?"

"Well, I likely would have asked if you'd seen that latest UFC title match, the one that aired two days ago. You seem like the type to enjoy bloodsport."

Well, yes I had seen it. And yes, I did enjoy bloodsport. But having been read so clearly put me on edge a little bit.

"Did you see it?" I hedged.

"Yes," he said with a grin.

Damn his grin was infectious. Tall, dark, handsome, and likely able to kill a man with his bare hands. I bet he would be amazing in bed. Damn it.

Why did he have to walk into my life right now? Why couldn't he come around when I wasn't on the job? Oh s**t, the job! I looked over to Farrell. He'd just finished paying the check and was walking over to the elevator. I was running out of time.

I rose from my chair, my inner woman, the woman who hadn't gotten laid in three months, howled in impotent fury.

"I'm sure you came over here for purely noble purposes but I do have to go, have a nice evening."

"That's a shame," I head his rich voice call behind me, "maybe next time."

I sauntered away without looking back. I could feel his eyes on me. I did my little catwalk, wanting to believe it was for Farrell's benefit as I drew closer to him, but knowing it was for the sexy stranger. I realized belatedly that I never did get his name.

Farrell was standing at the elevator, glassy eyed and only the slightest bit wobbly. Yup, drunk as a skunk. Hopefully it would make my job just that much easier.

His gaze snagged on me and I saw the familiar spark of interest in his eyes. It was hungry and hot, and I knew instantly that he was thinking about doing things to me. I cringed inwardly, but that didn't stop the flirtatious smile that I sent it way. The smile that said, "come and get it."

"What's a pretty lady like you doing here all by yourself?" he slurred. I could smell the stale whiskey on his breath.

I turned, keeping my eyes low, letting a shy smile touch my lips.

"Just staying for one night, passing through on business." I purred. If anyone I knew saw me like this I would die of shame.

Farrell leaned in closer, his bleary eyes plaster. I could see the obvious bulge in his pants that he was making no effort to conceal. Deciding that revulsion was not a good look I kept the small smile plastered on my face.

"What about you?" I cooed.

"I'm here for another two days." Farrell said, his slur getting worse by the second. "Why don't you let me escort you back to your room? It's not safe out here for a beautiful woman."

Like most people, I often confuse irony with coincidence or sarcasm. So I might be wrong, but something told me that his last comment was deeply ironic and I had to stifle a laugh.

Farrell was obviously too drunk to try to pull this off with any finesse. Well, unluckily enough for him I was about to be the easiest piece of a*s he'd ever hoped to pay for a ride.

"Tell you what," I said, letting my voice take on an even more sultry tone, "Why don't you escort me back to your room?"

A predatory light lit his eyes. I bet he just couldn't believe his luck.

"How much?" he asked, leaning into me and pressing the elevator button behind again me.

"Four hundred an hour." I said, running my index finger along the front of his shirt. Four hundred was the perfect number. Too much higher and he would have likely balked, too much lower and he would have thought me too cheap, which I'd heard can be a turn off.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

"Sounds good to me," Hank said, ushering me into the now open doors. I followed him in and turned, catching a glimpse of his associate at the bar. His face had an expression on it that I couldn't quite make out. A weird mix of confusion, disappointment and amusement.

For some odd reason Michael, my my last serious boyfriend leapt to the forefront of my consciousness. It ended because he wanted to get more serious. I had no problem with that, I wanted to take the next step too. But civilian spouses were forbidden to know about N83.

Naturally, he didn't know what I really did for a living, instead believing that I was an international rep for fitness equipment. In the end, the constant travelling and extended breaks due to my having to heal bruises I didn't want to explain put so much strain on the relationship that Michael bailed.

I didn't blame Michael. If I were being honest I missed his company -- and of course the regular sex -- much more than I actually missed him. It had been that way with every guy I'd ever dated. I didn't love him though he badly wanted to love me.

But some unfathomable reason, having to leave Bar Guy for the sake of the job stirred some kind of mild sense of bitterness in me. A feeling that there was a special something between normal human beings that I just wasn't plugged into and never would be.

As soon as the elevator door closed, Hank was on me like a fly on s**t, effectively breaking me out of my revere. His wet booze soaked mouth smashed against mine in a sloppy wet kiss. It was so gross! He took a generous handful of my a*s with his right hand, squeezing it with all the skill of a sixteen-year-old having just made it to what he thought was second base. His left hand crept up my stomach, aiming for my breast. It was time for a full stop. I grabbed his hand and pulled my mouth away from his. I my lips were wet with his slobber and it smelled atrocious.

"You got your taste," I said on a little gasp of air, trying not to vomit.

"Right," Hank said, still not releasing my bottom." Let me get you to the room, sweet thing."

I could feel his spit on my lips and I so desperately wanted to wipe it off. He looked me up and down and leered. A wide grin broke across my face, born of sincere anticipation. Remember how I said I didn't take pleasure in hurting anyone? Well, he's something you should know about me. I lie. Like, a lot. I do it for a living. Sue me.

The door opened on the third floor. He ushered me down the hall, past the stairway exit and to room 306, only one door past. This would probably be one of the most convenient getaways ever.

Hank use his key card to open the door, pulling me in behind him while I inconspicuously wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Having the offensive slime removed was a start but I wouldn't feel fully clean until I got to take a scalding hot shower.

I had to get this done quick. Farrell didn't look like a trained fighter but his profile labeled him as vicious. I was damn good in hand to hand but I was under no illusions -- he was still bigger and stronger, and it if came to a wrestling match I would have a hell of a time getting free.

Hank walked over to the bed, pulled out his wallet from his pants and threw four crisp hundred dollars bills on the nightstand.

I pulled the syringe out of its garter sheath. Farrell had his back to me and so busy unbuckling his pants that he didn't bother to turn around. I ran my left hand up his back and to his neck while pulling the plunger up on the syringe with my right, filling it with air.

"You got soft hands baby, I hope you got soft mouth too," my digust spiked. I knew I was playing the part of the hooker, but being spoken to like one by a scumbag still made me feel dirty.

I pulled myself closer to Farrell, reaching my hand over his shoulder to rub his chest in a deceptively gentle caress.

"Oh baby," I purred, "You have no idea."

I jerked my arm hard and fast, catching Hank's neck in the beginnings of a chokehold. At the same time, I shot my left leg out in front of me at a side angle. My shin connected with the back of Hank's knees.

Unprepared to the takedown, Hank dropped to his knees a gasp of shock escaping his lips. As if a light had just clicked on and his hands shot up to grab at my arm. Before he could get any real real grip on my left arm, my right hand shot out cat quick, sinking the hypodermic needle right into the carotid artery. I pushed the plunger, taking car not to tear the skin.

Farrell's arms dropped, the right then the left. I let him go and he fell face first on the carpet. He wheezed and moaned and drooled, twitching and spasms rocked his body. After about forty-five seconds he went still. Another fifteen and he stopped breathing.

I looked down on Farrell's prone body. He was splayed out without a mark on him. They would find him with his pants down, the victim of an unfortunate and incredibly massive stroke.

I did a little happy dance, pumping my fists in the air. It had been a long time since I felt that triumphant.

It had taken longer than I would have liked, but in the end the deed was done. It easiest hit of my life! Not only that, but I got to deliver a clever one-liner before just before the takedown. Bonus cool points!

I pulled the hypodermic cap out of my garter and put the needle back in, taking care not to prick myself. I opened my little purse and tossed it in then took out a small tissue. I didn't think the coroner would know to check his neck for needle wounds, but a few drops of blood might call attention to the area.

I wiped of the drop of blood that had oozed out, making sure not to smear it. Nice and clean. I smiled a little as I moved to put the tissue into my purse and froze.

His left hand lay at his side, fingers splayed on the carpet. His five whole fingers.