Page 65 of The Hitman

I think she decides to do as I ask because of that last word.

She nods stiffly and then crawls quickly into the wardrobe. I heave a sigh of relief. It’s premature, but I feel as if the only task that really matters is complete. Still, the entire exchange takes two minutes too long.

It takes another minute to cover as much of Zahra as I can see with the bed linens, extra blankets, and towels. I close the door to the wardrobe. I pull the suitcase with all of my weapons from behind the seat where I slept last night. I open it and grab a gun for each hand — gun at my back notwithstanding — and extra rounds.

I shut the lights in the bedroom and bathroom off and move back into the kitchen to shut those lights off as well. I turn on the light under the stove exhaust fan at the same time as the front door creaks open. It’s an old house, and I say a silent prayer of thanks that it makes more noise than it should, while also hoping that this doesn’t bite me in the ass.

I crouch behind the kitchen island, waiting, listening. If I’d had more time, I would have met them at the door. That would have been more fun. It also might have kept them farther away from Zahra.

I hope I never have to tell Salvo about the decision I made to protect her over myself.

Since I couldn’t meet my new friends at the door, I do the next best thing.

The door behind me leads out into the back garden. Most of this room is glass, and I plan to use that to my benefit. I stay low to the ground and walk to the door. I turn the lock on the patio door slowly; it’s newer than the front door and turns without a sound. I pull the handle down slowly and hold it, and then I train my eyes on the panel of glass that should show me the hallway leading to the front of the house. Right now, all I see is the pitch-black night outside, but I wait. I’m used to waiting as long as it takes to get the job done. As usual, I don’t know what I’m waiting for until it arrives. The light from the exhaust fan hits something metallic — probably the butt of a gun — and that’s all I need.

Someone young and brash might take that moment to pop up from the floor and start shooting, hoping to use the element of surprise. I’m neither young nor brash and the element of surprise is overrated. I also hate getting shot. It fucking hurts. So instead of doing something that almost guarantees a bullet wound, I push the patio door open hard and loud. This time, it squeaks.

A barrage of gunshots burst into the silence. I jump back from the door as quickly as I can, but not quick enough. I can feel the heat as something large slices through my forearm, and then the warmth of blood flowing down my hand.

It hurts like hell, but it’s not a gunshot wound, and I want to keep it that way.

In the reflection, I see two dark figures making their way into the kitchen, heading toward the door. Instead of popping up from the ground and firing, I wait until I see feet shuffle around the island. I’m aiming high and shoot the first person I see in the temple. The body crumples to the floor. Whoever was behind them darts back toward the hallway, which is the opposite direction of where I want them to go — closer to Zahra — so I draw their attention toward me as I sprint out into the yard.

I wish I were wearing clothes, shoes at least, something I can pretend would be a barrier between me and the shower of glass and bullets that follow my path into the night. But in my line of work, wishing for something you don’t have is a waste of energy, and there’s no time for that when you’re running for your life. I have to work with what Idohave, and right now, I have a gun in each hand, a backup in my holster, and a head start. I’ve had less.

I run around the perimeter of the house, ducking low to the ground. The grass is soft and wet on my feet, a lovely thing on a hot summer day, a terrible thing on a dark night, where every footfall matters. My feet almost slip with every step.

I duck under what would be the bathroom window trying to devise my next move. I don’t have any keys on me, but I can hotwire the car in a few minutes, and potentially lure whoever is inside away. But they could leave someone behind, and that person could find Zahra. I could rush back into the house, but the idea of that spray of bullets aimed inside instead of outside makes me queasy. I feel sick at the lack of possibilities. How had I convinced myself that coming here was a good idea?

This is the problem with intimate connections, and why I don’t have any. They’re a liability. I don’t leave.

Instead, I dart away from the house toward an old oak tree where I used to play by myself as a child. Like so many other things on this property, I have mostly bad memories. My father used to send me out here for branches to “discipline” me and my mother with, and sometimes I used to hide in it for a moment of safety.

I push the memories away. I can’t afford to get distracted. I make it to the tree, and from this vantage point, I can see most of the back garden and the entirety of the front with an eye toward the road. I can also dash into the vineyard to the north of the property, which could provide some cover. Those are possibilities.

There are two cars out front besides my own. I must have missed the other in the darkness. Now that my ears aren’t ringing with shattering glass, I can hear the sound of an idling car, maybe two. There’s someone else out there. Of course.

I turn back to the house just in time to see dark figures making their way across the back garden. They’re spreading out to cover the width of the yard, trying to find me like the worst game of nascondino I’ve ever played in my life. I wonder if that’s military training I’m seeing or just deadly preparation. The good news is that as they spread out, it’s easier to see exactly what’s going on. There are three men in the garden, one dead in my kitchen, and maybe one by the cars in front of my house. Five men to kill me isn’t a bad decision, but it’s a bit of an insult. If Zahra weren’t here, this might already be over.

Salvo always told me that the best way to get through any situation was to hold onto your most destructive emotion and expend that energy on getting the job one. It’s advice I’ve always liked, so I usually follow it. Tonight is no different.

I crouch low against the tree trunk. I wait patiently until I can see the outline of the closest man clearly, but I still have to guess at where I think his head might be. I lower my gun minutely to make sure that I hit something vital at the very least. When I shoot, I have to duck around the tree as his compatriots begin to shoot indiscriminately in my direction, but even the blasts of their guns don’t mask the sound of a body hitting the ground.

Two men in the back garden, one dead in the back garden, one dead in the kitchen, and maybe one in front of the house.

I can hear them rushing toward me, shooting as they come. This is where it gets tricky. They slow down as they approach, and then one of them calls out.

“We could have made this easy,” he yells, “but now I’m going to spend the night with you, my guns, and your kitchen knives.”

As threats go, I’ve heard worse — I’ve definitely given worse — but it’s not bad.

“And when we find the girl you been traveling with—”

I don’t know what he planned to say after that, and I never will. I run around the tree, take aim, and shoot the dark figure closest to me. I don’t even know if he’s the man who was speaking, and I don’t care. What I do know is that there’s now one dead in the kitchen and two dead in the back garden, and I think whoever is left will think twice about mentioning Zahra to me again, even if they don’t know her name.

A bullet grazes my arm. I’m lucky, but that was far too close for comfort.

The other man is close enough now for a clean shot between the eyes, but that goes both ways. Alright, I know I said the element of surprise was overrated, but it’s all I have to take the second man down.