You know what? she thought. Fuck it, one more time. But no more after this.
She threw her phone onto the bed after replying yes and hitting send, disgusted with herself, then turned to look in the full-length mirror by her dresser, sighing. She’d promised Thomas that the last time really had been it, that she wouldn’t do it anymore. They didn’t need to any more money, she didn’t need to put herself at risk…
But this was too incredible an opportunity to turn down.
The man was one of those obnoxiously wealthy politician types, fingers in loads of different pies, and apparently some unpleasant vices. He’d made his fortune—from what she could gather from her research, at least—in oil, property, and telecoms, then branched out into more shady practices; weapons dealing to proscribed terror organisations, specialist dark web sites trading in narcotics and other less salubrious goods, and there were hints of things even worse.
She reached into her wardrobe, pulling out the LBD that had worked so well on previous occasions, and hung it on the door. Next came the stilettoes, and from the top shelf, she drew out her makeup. She wasn’t going to plaster it on, he didn’t seem the type to appreciate that.
By half past seven, she was ready when the doorbell went. She wrote a quick note to her husband, then slipped on her coat before heading out to the cab.
—
Ninety minutes later, she was leaning against the bar when he arrived. The party was in full swing, lines of coke on the tables, shot glasses piled high, and the serving staff attempting to turn a blind eye to the debauchery.
He swept in on a cloud of expensive aftershave, and she clocked the exact moment he noticed her; he smiled wolfishly, excused himself from his conversation, and made a beeline for her.
“I’m Grant,” he said by way of introduction, looking her up and down like a lion eyeing a particularly tasty gazelle. “Nice shoes. And you are?”
“Someone,” she replied, winking, “that knows exactly what you need.”
His grin widened. “I like that. Direct and to the point.” He handed her a keycard. “Presidential Suite, ten minutes.”
—
“Right,” he said, entering the room. “I’m a little disappointed you’re dressed, but we’ll change that quickly enough. I hope you’re prepared. Here’s how it works. You’ll get paid extremely well after I’ve had my fu—”
The words died in his throat as she shoved the two long, thin blades into his neck and ripped outwards, sending blood spraying everywhere.
Wiping them clean on his tuxedo as the light faded from his eyes, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
“We know what you do, what you did. Be grateful—because, for you, this is the easy way out. You’re my last; I came out of retirement because the world’s a better place without pieces of shit like you in it.”
