It'll be a few minutes before anyone finds him—plenty of time for me to pack up and disappear. The cops'll find my rooftop hiding spot eventually, but by then I'll be long gone, with my gloves and my generic sneakers hiding my tracks. Rowan didn't approve any backup for me, considering I'm undercover and supposedly just another hit man for hire, and that's just the way I like it. I feel free, I feel sort of like the old me.
I break down my rifle and stuff it in the purple duffle bag labelled "Curves." I hate this bag. It was Lucy's idea, and I have to admit it's the perfect cover; what self-respecting assassin would ever admit she goes to Curves? I get out the mini-vac and suck up the dirt and air around me. No hair or skin samples for the cops. Once that's back in the duffle I walk quickly toward the roof access door, gravel crunching quietly under my sneakers. I hear a scream. I don't turn around.
* * * *
Mr George's office is odious. No sense of decor, but that hardly matters—the pressboard furniture, orange shag carpet, and faux wood panelling is all shrouded by rancid cigar smoke. I don't even try to hide my disgust; "bootlicking brown-noser" isn't my undercover role.
"Police scanner told us all about your successful job, Rebecca," he says as I cross the room to stand in front of his desk. "Congratulations. Terry'll wire the payment today."
"Thanks."
"Listen," he says, leaning back in his crap chair, his big belly like an iceberg rising over the paper ocean of his desk, "You only do hits or are you open to other jobs?"
I arch an eyebrow. I give the answer Rowan wants me to give.
"I'm open to whatever, Mr George."
"Good," he says, nodding to himself, "Good. So find Frankie. He's on duty in the back rooms. I ain't asking you to go salaried or whatever, I just have a thing that needs an extra set of hands. Might be good to have a woman around for it."
"Okay." I'm trying to read his expression through the vague haze. I realize the whole office—the bad decor, the cigar smoke, the paper-strewn desktop—it makes him inscrutable, which makes him dangerous.
I turn and head for the door, eager to breathe the relatively fresh air of the hall.
"Rebecca," he says. I stop and turn back to look at him. "I know you got choices, being freelance, so I'll double the usual payment if you say yes to this project."
"Thanks, Mr George," I say. When I finally pull the door shut behind me, I'm wishing the feds didn't have to confiscate my income.
The brothel is a startling contrast to Mr George's office. Unlike Ray, he isn't even trying to hide the fact that all his girls are for sale or for rent. The office is in the basement of a converted Victorian home. Just about every remaining room is bright, airy and clean, even the laundry room. The girls look happy. The ones that come to Mr George's as skinny, unhappy waifs quickly become cheerful extroverts with just the right amount of flesh on their bones. It makes me want to slap them. Rowan wants to know what's behind the personality changes. She doesn't see how entering into prostitution can make an unhappy girl a happy woman. I'm reserving judgement, but I am curious, and so is Lucy.
I pull out my cellphone as I climb the basement stairs and call my wife. I like being able to say she's my wife. I bite my lip and try not to think about our wedding and our wedding night. It still makes me giddy and giddy is not useful when I'm on the job. Instead, I grab on to the pissed feeling I had when I realized Rowan wasn't going to let us have a honeymoon.
"Hey," Lucy says. I open the door at the top of the stairs and walk out into the kitchen.
"Hey," I say. I sit at a bar stool at the kitchen island. "I finished one job and now it looks like I might have another. Not sure when I'll be home."
"I made dinner," she says, her voice matter-of-fact, "But it'll keep."
"I'm looking forward to eating it."
"I'm looking forward to kneeling at your feet and feeding it to you one bite at a time."
My mouth and pussy flood at the same time. I swallow. I want to tell Mr George I'll learn about his special project tomorrow. Instead, I just sigh into the phone.
"I'm sorry," Lucy says.
"No, you're not," I reply, a dangerous note in my voice. I hear her breath snag, it makes me feel bolder, bigger. "I'll call again when I'm ready to come home."
"I love you."
"I know."
The dissonance between what we say and what we mean tickles my ears and my stomach. I'd inserted code into our conversation, letting her know I'm heading into something I'm a little worried about.
I end the call, check my e-mail, then launch the voice-activated recording app the FBI installed. I'm thinking they might find my next conversation interesting.
* * * *
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