The house is still cool enough to want her close, so I pull her towards me and place her head on my chest and just enjoy the moment. Things can change pretty quick in my line of work, so the moment is all you have.

She falls asleep before me so I just lie here, twisting her long hair up in my fingers. For a guy who has no boundaries, no rules, and no oversight until after the fact, I’ve played it pretty straight with the Company since I took my number. I do what I’m told. I get the orders and I fulfill the contract. Death is my job. And even though most of the people who received my brand of justice over the years were walking scum and I had no regrets—hell, not even a slight hesitation—none of those killings were personal.

Death is just a job.

A contract is nothing but business.

And I’ve always been on board with the business. But I’m tired of the job. I’m tired of the killing. I’m tired of being flown into places with no knowledge of anything other than my target. I’m tired of making nice with locals, and sometimes the targets themselves, just to get the lie of the land before I blow the whole place apart. Figuratively, you know. I don’t often blow whole places up.

But I have.

I’m tired of making friends, getting people to trust me, and then backstabbing them. How many disappointed looks have I seen over the years? Too many to count.

But Tet, the inner James starts up, did they haunt you? Did you care?

Nope.

Not even once.

I should be haunted by the dead, or at the very least, have a little bit of self-doubt over whether or not what I do is for the greater good. But I don’t. And it’s not because I’m a believer. No, I’m not much of a believer at all. The Company can preach that sermon to me all they want. I will nod and say yes, sir to their face, but I have a built-in bulldozer and its only job is to clear away the shit they’re selling and leave my conscious clean and level.

It’s because unlike Tony, I was trained right. I might be ready to shrug off the dissociation right now, but separating myself from reality got me through.

Why should I have remorse? Does a cashier have remorse for taking people’s money in exchange for goods? It’s just a f**king job.

Harper moans and pulls away from me, the heat of our combined bodies too much, even though the thick adobe walls keep this place pretty comfortable. I let her have her space. She deserves to rest. It’s been a long f**ked-up day and it’s not over yet.

I get up and start the shower in the en suite bathroom. Merc’s place is not bad at all. And even though the outside is the shell of an old jail, the inside is clean, cool, and modern. I don’t know how much time he actually spends here, but it looks to be more than just an occasional squat house. He won’t be interrupting our visit though. He’s got his hands full with a personal job.

This place has plenty of feminine touches that tell me he’s had women here, maybe even living here with him at times, but I know for a fact there’s no f**king woman calling this place home right now. Merc has a… checkered past when it comes to keeping girlfriends alive. I’m not saying he kills them. I’m just saying they often meet an untimely end. He admitted this to me himself back when we first met. I dropped that subject quick and he never brought it up again. And I didn’t get the impression he was avoiding it either, he just lost interest.

Sasha is half right about Merc. He’s not the right guy to take care of her. But she could do worse. She could get me as her adopted caregiver, for instance. As bad as Merc is, I’m worse. I definitely would not have left her alone out on the Colorado prairie. But not for altruistic reasons. I’d have put her ass to work. She’s not at a professional level, not even close. But she’s competent. And that makes her an asset.

If she can be trusted. And I’m not sure she can.

I wash my hair real fast, then finish up and wrap a towel around me and put my dirty jeans back on. I have no idea if Harper thought to pack me clothes, but I’m not about to go fish through the Hummer to find out. I leave the shirt off since it’s warming up in here, and go looking for the AC.

I find the modern thermostat in the living room near the kitchen, and turn the temperature down and then make my way to the kitchen to check the food supply. And this kitchen he has, damn. He must cook or something, because the six-burner stove and the French-door fridge are telling me he knows his way around a frying pan.

Inside the fridge is a selection of bottled water, some OJ, two bottles of wine, six beers, all with different labels, and some condiments.

How thoughtful of him to leave us drinks.

I smile at that as I grab a beer, fish the new phone out of my jeans pocket, and kick back on the couch as I play the message again.

“That was not in the plan.”

No, none of this was in the f**king plan as far as I can tell. If it was, I never got the f**king memo. I blame it on the blackout. I bring up the keypad and dial my secretary. She picks up on the second ring. “Law offices of Poslow, Poslow, and Twifter. This is Janet, how can I help you?”

“Janet, Poslow Senior here. Do I have any messages?”

“Yes, sir, you got a call this morning from Mr. Twifter. No message, just wanted to know if you checked in. And Poslow Junior called as well. He left a contact number.”

“Give it.” I key the number in as she talks, then give her a polite, “Thank you,” and hang up so I can press send again. I let out a long breath as I listen to it ring.

Merc picks up on the second ring too. I love consistency. “Jasus f**king Christ, where the hell have you been?”

“Traveling. You think I have hidden wormholes I can pop in and out of to get places or what?”

“Yeah, well, Twifter is not happy, ass**le.”

“Twifter can kiss my ass. None of that shit this morning was me. But anyway, we’re here. Thanks for the beer.” I take a swig and let out a long, “Ahhh,” trying to piss off Merc, but that’s when I see the Smurf watching me from the jail cell up on the foyer terrace. “Call you later,” I say, and then I press end on the phone. “What the f**k you doing up there?”

“Who the hell were you talking to?” she snarls back.

“Merc.” I hold up my beer and give her a pretend cheers.

“Obviously that phone call was Merc. Before Merc, who the hell were you talking to?”

“My secretary.” She stares at me and then gets up and walks to the jail cell door. That little shit was sleeping up in that jail cell. What a freak. “Why? I ask her. “You got a problem with me making calls?”