Page 44 of Talk to Me

At least that was McQuade’s opinion. He had some ideas on body disposal. That was good, I didn’t want to have to pay more than I already would for a professional cleaning.

The fact he had his own would-be assassin had kind of sealed the deal. Remington warned us, so after cleaning up, we used the address he sent to get up here. Separate vehicles, of course. We hadn’t completely lost our minds yet.

“Yet, not only did you fail—you failed spectacularly.” Remington rubbed his jaw almost thoughtfully before taking a seat in the chair a couple of feet in front of the dark-haired woman with her dark eyes and sullen expression. She was pissed. “Not a single one of you got a target. Far as I know, you didn’t even get a scratch on a target. That’s—that’s pathetic. You could get your assassin’s card pulled for that.”

“You get cards?” I wasn’t entirely sure what his play was here, but I figured I’d join in.

“Bloody damn right we get cards,” Remington said with a roll of his eyes. “The more punches in the card, the more hits you’ve made. When the card is gone because of all the punches… you become a legend. How sad for you,” he continued, his whole focus on his target again, “that you targeted a legend.”

She spit, the glob of it flew through the air and landed against Remington’s cheek.

“So, not only an amateur,” he said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping away the spittle. “But an uncouth one at that.”

“We’re really getting some miles out of this particular line of interrogation,” McQuade said, raising his knife. “Let me have a go. Skin shaves nicely and we can take her apart piece by piece… though you might need another plastic sheet for the floor.”

Game or not, the banter wasn’t having any effect on the target. She wasn’t afraid of pain or torture. That didn’t bode well for us. Whomever hired her wanted someone who wouldn’t break.

Made sense, I looked back at the equipment we’d stripped off the women. There were three phones, all burners, no GPS chips in them and the SIM cards were relatively blank save for one message “go” from another burner phone that was not one of these three.

If we had Patch, I could plug her in and she would give us the asshole’s shoe size in no time, not to mention where he was, what his favorite color was, and how long it would take us to get there.

Or maybe I was being a misogynist and it was a she. I didn’t really care, I just wanted to know who sent three assassins after us. Particularly right after we arrived where Patch had been taken and had actually been in her house.

Remington stood and dragged a hood over her head, then he put headphones on her before he pressed something on his laptop. She jerked, almost struggling in the chair more than she had been earlier. The hood was cloth and she wasn’t going to be suffocating.

“Thrash metal,” Remington explained to me when I lifted my eyebrows. “I don’t think they’ll talk and not because they are resistant to torture.”

“They don’t know,” McQuade said. “Amateurs. Probably first timers. Maybe a way to get them wet…”

“You don’t send an amateur after me.” Remington sounded positively insulted. I almost laughed because he was really offended. “I’ve been killing longer than she’s been alive.”

“Maybe if you started when you were eight,” I retorted. The girls were young. But not that young.

“Who says I didn’t?” The bland expression coupled with the deadpan delivery seemed to suggest he was serious. Yeah, I wasn’t going to focus on that part.

“So they send amateurs after us to what end?” I asked. “She didn’t have a chance in the hit on you. McQuade over there would probably have been fine. I’m pretty sure I would have made it—but likely wounded.”

I could be generous in my assessments, but I preferred honesty.

“Now, the chances of one of them surviving the hit exists.” I rubbed my chin. Hunger twisted my stomach. “No matter how minuscule, there’s always a chance. The fact that two of them did is a credit to you two, not their skills.”

I was the one who killed my would-be assassin. Mostly because when it comes down to a them or me situation, I always pick me.

Period.

“Your point?” Remington asked.

“Well, my point is, these assassins were not sent here to succeed.”

“Mother. Fucker.” McQuade’s growl punched through the room. “They were sent to be distractions.”

I mimed a gun with my forefinger and thumb, then clicked my tongue as though firing it. “Exactly.”

Sadly, the amusement proved fleeting. Remington’s expression had drained of all animation. Even his eyes went dead. Only he wasn’t looking at us. No, he was staring at his hooded captive.

Yeah, I’d feel guilty about pointing this out but she had tried to kill him. Don’t ever start a fight you don’t want to finish.

“Three bodies is a pain,” Remington muttered.