Page 2 of Black Heart

The other man reaches into his coat and retrieves a sealed manila envelope. “Fresh from the top. High-priority target.”

His gloved hand trembles as he passes me the envelope, from the cold, or fear, or both.

They’ve been waiting a long time. They have no choice but to wait until I’m ready to appear.

I tuck it away without inspection. “Payment will be in the usual manner.”

They dip their heads in acknowledgment. Our business is concluded.

As I turn to go, the first one calls out, “This one’s personal, Scythe. Watch yourself.”

I pause, then continue. In this world, it’s always personal.

And I trust no one.

Once out of their eyesight, I lean against a grimy brick wall and open the envelope. Unfolding the papers reveals an address, a time, and a photograph.

I pause on the photo.

A woman, striking even in the low resolution as she crosses a busy street, one slim arm up in a thank you to the cars as she’s frozen mid-run, her long, bright blond hair flying behind her in waves. Her dark denim jeans are tight, rounded in just the right ways along her backside, with a sleeveless white button-down doing the same amount of justice to her front.

I glide over her body in a short time snap of assessment. It’s her face that stops my professional perusal and for much too long.

Haunting multicolored eyes stare out from the image, one pale blue, one dark brown, a genetic rarity that makes her appear otherworldly. They’re framed by a pale, heart-shaped face and full pink lips.

I force my gaze away from her high cheekbones, the line of her jaw and confident notch to her chin.

Her eyes.

I frown, turning the photo in my fingers and reading the back.

Layla Verona,age 25.

My next target.

Something about this feels off. My contracts typically target those ensnared in the web of the underworld. But this woman’s features are untainted, devoid of the lingering evil I see in so many.

I need to return to my safe house, but I hesitate against the rough brick wall.

This goes against my code, the lines I swore never to cross. My contactsknowthis.

Why would they give me this girl despite it?

With a quiet curse, I tuck the photo into my inner pocket and burn the rest of the dossier with my lighter.

Some contracts aren’t worth the cost.

But the information I gain?

Always priceless.

2

LAYLA

The clock ticks past midnight as I hunch over my desk, bleary eyes straining against the harsh glare of the computer screen.

Another impossible task from Emmitt Dawson to add to the never-ending pile of “emergency” deadlines. This internship was supposed to be my golden ticket into the tech world, but instead I’ve become a slave to the whims of a lecherous supervisor.