Hit. She knew it before the bullet impacted, the boat-tail riding the frigid wind like an avenging angel, knocking him back and down. Everyone stood, chairs knocked over, alcohol and crack pipes and cigarettes dropped, forgotten. They spun, guns out, and she eased down until the rise of the roof hid her. Snow was soaking through her pants, and she realized she was shivering – but none of that mattered.
Roger Hendricks was dead.
Every last monster on her list – gone.
Ignoring the rules she snagged the sight again and peered over the edge of the roof. No one was helping him up, or applying pressure. Dead. Dead and gone.
Free.
The smile was something Camille wasn’t quite aware of as she rapidly dismantled the rifle, and tucked it away in the bag. With it on her back the drop to the snow still felt like nothing, because she was glowing. Radiant from the inside out. Every monster from her past was gone, and she had finished it.
She walked for a long while, her gloved fingers on the flap that hid the knife from view. If anyone tried to fuck with her, she was going to show them just who she was.
An assassin.
So much more than just a five-foot four blonde girl who happened to be genetically fortunate in the looks department. No, she was strong. She wouldn’t break. No matter what the world threw at her.
After a long while, when she’d walked enough to be out of the worst neighborhoods, she twisted the bag around to dig into a pocket for her phone. First, she texted Smith: done. on my way back.
Then she called the taxi company, waiting to tell them the intersection until she was somewhere that seemed like a good pick-up point. They confirmed, ten minutes. She twisted the backpack around as she dropped onto a short wall near a fenced in, run down basketball court. Cradling the phone in her hand she thought back to the way Roger had fallen back, arms out, alcohol bottle slipping from his fingers.
No warning. No idea who had pulled the trigger.
No regrets.
It still felt strange that it didn’t bother her that he had no idea it had been her. That she, Camille Devereaux, had killed him. The girl that had never been able to show him any strength, had never even tried to fight him. His buddies would probably think it was drug related, she may have even sparked some kind of turf war – and she did not give a single fuck.
She was done with the past. The nightmares had been over for a while, the memories would fade into gray scale – never quite disappearing, but reminding her whenever she wanted to give in that it was too important to be strong.
The taxi pulled up while she was lost in thought and she flashed a smile as she hopped into the back, reciting the address for their current hotel. Less than twenty minutes later and she was there, swiping the card to get inside.
Still empty, but that wasn’t a surprise. It had only been a few hours since she’d left. That was the benefit of a well-planned job, it went fast when it went right, and the killing of Roger Hendricks had gone perfectly. Dropping the bag to the floor Camille launched herself onto the cheap bed, the springs voicing their anguish as she bounced, toeing her shoes off. “It’s finally fucking over.”
She dug into her pocket and laid the cell phone next to her, flipping the television on to some random sitcom. Stupid comment from the stereotypical overweight male lead, exhausted sigh from the pretty, sarcastic wife – cue laugh track.
If only life was that fucking simple.
“So stupid.” Camille changed the channel, over and over, until some sci-fi movie filled the screen with explosions and pseudo-military characters that shouted effective one-liners at each other before they went off to blow more shit up. Much better.
Nothing like a little fictional violence to wind down from real violence, even though she’d been so far removed from the bloodshed that it almost didn’t feel real at all.
Still, the television passed the time.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Who was your contact?” Camille growled into the phone, pacing the room as the clock ticked past three-thirty in the morning.
“Listen, C, I don’t think we need to -”
“The contact. Now.” She snapped at Lacroix, not interested in playing this game any further. Smith hadn’t responded to her texts since she’d started sending them at twelve-thirty. Not a single fucking reply.
“Dammit. Fine.” Papers shuffled on the other end of the line, and as much as Camille itched to snag the bottle of vodka in the bottom of her suitcase, she amused herself by flipping the safety of her gun on and off instead. “Donovan, and before you ask, no, I do not have a last name.”
As soon as he rattled off the number, she had it memorized. “Thanks, fucker. Next time don’t make me ask more than once.”
Camille hung up and dialed Donovan. It rang, and rang – no voicemail box setup.
“FUCK!” She kicked the dresser and dialed again.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. ‘This voicemail box has not been setup, please –’
“I will find you and castrate you, motherfucker, you better answer.” Scrolling through her recent calls she hit redial.
Again.
Again.
“WHAT!” An angry, tired male voice came over the line.
“Morning, Donovan. You sent Smith on an errand tonight?”
“What?” The voice repeated, clearly still half-asleep.
“Hey, fucker, wakey wakey. Did you send Smith on a job tonight?”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Your fairy fucking godmother, tell me yes or no.”
“Fuck you.”
Before he could hang up she shouted, “I can’t find him!” There was a desperate note to her voice, and she hated it, but the line was still open and that was all that mattered.
“Who the hell are you?”
“C.”
“What the fuck is that? That’s not a name.”
“It is. I work with Smith, and I need you to tell me who you sent him after and where he is.”
“Listen, girl, Smith is a big boy and he -”
“Name. Address.”
There was a groan on the other side of the phone, the sound of someone dragging their ass out of bed in the early morning hours. “Cannot fucking believe this shit…”
“Listen, Donovan - it is Donovan, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I am trying to make sure your job is finished. If you want to throw a bitchfit over it, I won’t bother.” A gamble, but worth it.
“No, no, fuck… okay, his name is Eric, or at least that’s what he told me. Fuck, I don’t know.”
“Alright, and what else did you tell Smith?” Dropping into the chair beside the little table in the room, Camille snagged the cheap pen and paper from the hotel and started writing, ignoring the half-finished crossword resting under a plastic cup. Donovan listed four different addresses that he’d provided Smith, and with each new one her jaw clenched tighter.
Where the fuck are you?
“That’s all I got,” Donovan grumbled. “Look, is something going on? I just need -”
“I’ll contact you later.” She ended the call with her thumb, ripping the list of addresses free, along with the next three pages, and then she reloaded. Sig Sauer P238 out of the bag and in the small of her back. Clips in the bag, sniper rifle in pieces on the bed, a second gun and more ammo into the bag. With a last thought she dug through the weapons duffel and pulled out their first aid kit, stuffing it into her bag before she zipped it shut and tugged on her shoes.
The taxi was late picking her up at the curb, but she resisted shooting him in the head and just read off the first address. A bar, already closed. Second address was in a residential district, but when she climbed out and wandered around the house it was clear that it was locked up, from the inside.
Not here.
It was almost dawn by the time they got to the third address on the list, back into a shit area of the industrial city, and when they pulled up in front of a dilapidated husk o
f a building a chill went up her spine. “Wait here.”
“You keep paying and -”
Tossing a twenty through the plastic divider she snagged her bag and climbed out of the car. Camille waited until she was out of sight of the driver before she twisted the bag around and pulled out the little gun, the one that fit her hand perfectly. The building was open at first, an old loading dock, but once she walked through that even the real door wasn’t shut or locked. It hung loose on the hinges, rusting with age and neglect, and she did her best to ease through the space without moving it.
She walked inside, peeking into old offices and spaces that had no glass left to speak of, stepping out into what had once been a factory floor – and then she saw a shadow and her stomach flipped. A section of the dark that was darker than the rest, a shape on the floor, and she walked over slowly. No need to rush, because there was no movement.
There hadn’t been movement for a long time.
Smith.
The world tilted on its axis as she dropped to her knees, and before she could even press her fingers in to feel for a pulse she felt the chill in his skin and her stomach tried to invert. “No, no, no…”
His gun was on the floor to his right, and when she ran her hands over his chest she felt the damp fabric, cooled in the frigid air. Pushing the layers up she saw them through tear-blurred eyes, two dark holes with smears around them. Direct hits, tight grouping.
“No! Fuck!” Standing up she pushed her hands into her hair, ripping off the beanie, tearing the band out of her hair as if it would relieve the steadily growing tightness in her chest. She walked away, tore her eyes from the still shape of him, and screamed against the fabric of her hat.
The driver.
Numbly, she walked back out the way she’d come, back towards the taxi. With an empty chest she tapped her gun against the window.
The taxi took off without hesitation, forcing her to stumble back as the tires skidded on the snow-coated pavement, but it didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered.
Her cheeks were chapping in the cold wind – because she was crying. There were tears, her chest was a hollow, aching hole, and the world was a void… because Smith was dead.
In a haze she wandered back into the abandoned warehouse, factory – whatever the fuck – until she settled down next to him. The black surrounding them turned into gray as the sun started to rise, and it revealed his perfect profile. For a while she just stared at him until his vacant jade eyes started to eat at something inside her, so she closed them delicately, and then looked away in case they opened again.
Survive. Do the necessary work.
Sniffling, she brushed her cheeks and face on she sleeves of her coat. Then she tugged out her phone and dialed a number from memory.
“Michael.” The low male voice answered, and she tried not to choke on her words, letting the cold sink deeper than just her skin. Maybe it would numb the pain that was sure to come after the emptiness, keep it at bay a little longer.
“It’s C. I need you, or someone, in Detroit.”
“Body?” It was such a normal question from him, but under the circumstances it made her want to hurt him.
“Special situation. I need transport.” She paused for a moment, glancing back for an instant before she glued her eyes upward at the metal supports for the roof. “And a good burial. Cemetery somewhere.”
“What’s the deal? You and Smith have an issue?” Michael sounded groggy, but he was used to being woken up at all hours.
“You might say that.” Camille felt her voice crack and she swallowed around a dry throat. “I just need help.”
“Right. I got you. Give me an address, I’ve got people in the area. I’ll fill them in that this is kid gloves. Good?”
“Yeah.” The address was still at the front of her mind. Number three on a list of four, and she tried her best to remember that an hour and a half wouldn’t have made a difference. He was gone long before that. “Have them hurry, alright?”
“Sure thing, C.” The line cut off and she sat there in the dark, her icy fingers grasping the gun, pushing the safety off, and back on, and off again.
There were moments when she felt the tears surging, the cold control unraveling at the edges like an old blanket, holes already worn through the middle – but then she’d bang the gun against the side of her head and they would abate again.
She wasn’t sure when the men arrived, but the sky was pink through the broken windows high up on the walls and she’d been staring at Smith’s expression imagining everything he’d say if he were there.
Be strong.
Don’t break.
Survive. Survive. Survive.
Her gun swung up and over at the first figure to exit the row of rooms near the entrance to the loading dock, and the man stopped short. “Michael sent us. Special pick up?”
“Yeah.” She nodded and pushed her stiff limbs to a standing position, the world wavering slightly as they approached. “He’s a friend. Needs -”
“We have a guy digging a grave at a cemetery now. Michael told us.” One of the other men spoke up, a hint of kindness in his voice.
“Can we get him?” The first man spoke again, and she noticed how they were carefully standing several feet away. Looking down she realized that she had her knife in one hand, and the gun in the other.
When had she taken the knife out of its pocket?
“Yes.” Camille forced herself to step back, her eyes seeking one last reassuring glance from the ones that had been her anchor for three years. One more word from the lips that had been unforgiving during training and deliciously warm when he’d spoken against her neck in the middle of the night. Just one more time for his hand to reach out for hers.
But none of that would ever happen again.
The rest of the morning was a blur. A van, a small pile of his possessions placed into her lap along with two guns. A frigid cemetery, his body laid to rest in frozen soil that had taken too long to even get down three feet. Wrapped in a dark cloth, one last whispered goodbye, and she had dropped the first handful of soil over him amidst a heavy silence. Buried, snow scattered, and then they dropped her back at the hotel, not even mentioning the payment they were owed.
Numb.
Numb was the only word for how she felt, but she knew that it was a wall of ice hiding vicious demons behind it, and as she dug out Smith’s bottle of bourbon she knew that the tears running down her cheeks were the first signs of it melting.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Camille was still drunk, hovering at the edge of sleep, when the banging at the hotel room door made its way into her consciousness. She half-slid, half-stumbled her way to the door before she flipped the lock and ripped it open. There was a greasy looking man in a polo shirt standing there who pulled back when she appeared. “What?”
“It’s check-out time, we need -”
“What.” She blinked and ran her hand over her face, trying to clear the fog from her eyes before she glared at him again, flinching at the light from the hall. “You want money?”
“If you’re planning to stay another night -”
Camille let the door fall shut as she turned back into the room, digging in the wallet Smith had left behind that had John Smith’s fictional driver’s license and a bunch of cash. Snagging two hundred dollars she moved back to the door and offered it out. “Is this enough?”
“Yeah, uh, are you okay?”
“Do you think that’s any of your fucking business?” she growled.
“Look, did that guy -”
“He’s gone.”
“Your -”
“He’s fucking gone, asshole. Now leave me the fuck alone!” Camille shouted and slammed the door shut. Then she kicked it for good measure and turned back to the room as rage washed up out of the emptiness like a tide coming in at tsunami speed. “FUCK!”
A raw scream ripped out of her and she grabbed at her hair, fisting it at the root as if she could hold hersel
f together if only she could get control of something – but it didn’t work. The empty bottle of vodka was on the floor in front of her and she kicked it, still in her shoes, and it broke as it slammed into the metal leg of the bed.
It wasn’t enough.
She threw her suitcase, clothes raining down over the bed, the luggage snagging the edge of the lampshade, denting it before it went careening to the floor. Stomping forward she started to rip Smith’s clothes from his bag, hating every passing memory that bubbled up as she caught his scent on various items. She fell to her knees and upended it, leaning back so she could kick it away from her. The chair fell on top of it when she tried to throw it, and when she stood and flipped the table she heard her own broken breathing, the hiccupping sobs that ripped out of her as she alternated between screams and wails.
Smith. Smith. Smith.
“How the fuck could you leave me like this?!” Her scream was almost indiscernible as real language, but there was no one to answer her anyway. There was no one left at all.
No one on the list.
No one waiting for her.
No one.
A sharp sting on her forearm made her look down as she hissed air through her teeth – she was dripping blood. The dark crimson rolling down to drip off her fingers onto the mottled carpet.
At some point in her temper tantrum she had leaned on the broken shards of the vodka bottle, and – fortunately or unfortunately – there was no more alcohol left in the room. Whether to clean up with, or to drink until she blacked out again.
“Fuck…” she whispered, the rage leaving her as swiftly as it had come, washing out with the wreckage of the storm it had brought. Stumbling, she made it into the bathroom and turned on the water to rinse the cut.
Not deep.
It would heal fine.
She dug out the backpack from the night before, seeking the first aid kit she had brought in a fruitless hope that she would be able to do something – because if she were honest with herself, she had known before she’d ever left the hotel room the night before what she would find. Smith never broke a promise to her, never lied to her.
Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0) Page 28