I let out a frustrated sigh. Weariness was a dangerous feeling, especially for an assassin. If I didn’t do something about it, eventually I’d slip up and make a careless mistake. Then I’d wind up dead, my head served up on a silver platter to Jonah McAllister or whatever lowlife finally got the drop on me.
Much as I hated to admit it, Finn was right. I needed a vacation—from being the Spider.
I pushed through the double doors, stepping into the restaurant storefront. Once again, everyone froze at my appearance, as if they expected me to whip out a gun from underneath my blue work apron and start shooting. I ignored the curious, fearful, suspicious looks, went back over to the counter, grabbed my knife, and started slicing tomatoes again for the last of the day’s sandwiches.
“Took you long enough,” Finn said. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost back there.”
“Not exactly. I had another pair of unexpected visitors I had to entertain.”
He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Injured or dead?”
“Merely injured. What can I say? I was in a charitable mood tonight.”
Finn arched his eyebrow a little higher at my sarcasm. Charity was one thing that assassins, even semiretired assassins like me, couldn’t afford to have too much of. Especially not these days, when every wannabe hood in Ashland wanted a piece of me.
It took me the better part of a minute and two tomatoes to work up to my next words. Finn might be right, but I hated to let him know it. He tended to gloat about things like that.
“You know that vacation you were talking about?”
“Yes?” Finn asked, a sly, satisfied note creeping into his smooth voice.
I sighed, knowing that I was beaten. “When do we leave?”
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Table of Contents
T HREAD OF D EATH
B Y A T HREAD EXCERPT
Thread of Death Page 8