Last Hit (Hitman) (14 page)

But oh God, I want to.

NIKOLAI

Daisy looks like a schoolgirl
with her high-necked dress and the shoes with the straps across the top of her foot. But the heels on the shoes and the sheer lacy back that makes me swallow back a gasp are anything but childish. A whisper of something naughty and darker lurks here. Perhaps it is my own wishful thinking, but I can't help but wonder what Daisy has experienced before me. Yes, she is innocent in some things but her eyes hold knowledge of something more. I want to know all of it.

 Part of me wants to cover her body entirely, to protect her, but another part can barely control the urge to rip off her clothes knowing she must not be wearing anything underneath. These are not items that I have bought for her, but perhaps she is wearing my panties. I think of them as mine even though I know I shouldn't.

Everything with Daisy is doing something I know I should not. Every detail out of my mouth is a lie, and not even a good one, because a hitman needs no cover. We are in and out, seen only when we make the kill and sometimes not even then.

I do not know for how long Daisy will tolerate me; how long until she starts piecing together all the false threads of the story I've given her. I must speak less, for that is the only way to eliminate errors.

"What movie?" I ask sharply. I immediately regret the tone of my voice when she looks wounded. I try again and give her a small twitch of my lips, which I hope she understands to be a smile. "I mean, what movie would you like to see? You pick. I always pick wrong."

She peers up at the digital display that lists the movies currently playing. Her neck is lovely, and she has pink, glossy lips. The lights of the theater are reflecting off of the gloss and the temptation to slide my tongue across their plumpness weakens my knees. I lick my lower lip to see if I can taste her but the fleetness of our connection leaves almost no trace. "I guess it's between the superhero movie and the horror. I guess superheroes?"

"
Da
, good choice." I'm not really listening to her. I just enjoy watching her lips part and her cheek muscles round when she smiles. She smiles often. My fingers itch to caress her, but she's not said I can kiss her again.

I almost suffer untold indignities due to my inattention when Daisy begins to pay for the tickets. My hand slams down beside hers on the counter. Both the ticket boy and Daisy jump.

"I am sorry, but you cannot pay, Daisy." I pull the money out of the ticket counter's hand. It is slack with shock. I fold the worn bills and press them back into Daisy's hands.

"But I haven't paid for anything yet. I can buy a ticket." Daisy protests.

What kind of man does she think I am? Or perhaps she does not even think I am a man. "
Nyet
." I pull out my wallet and shove money at the counter clerk. "Two," I bark. When the ticket boy does not move, I lean forward and bare my teeth. "Two. Now."

He quickly obeys, and I grab the tickets and drag Daisy behind me.

"I could've paid," she is saying. "I have money. You can't pay for everything."

I do not even answer that. It is full of ridiculousness.

"What do you want to eat?" I wave my hand over the candy, ice cream, popcorn, and soda. There is a virtual restaurant inside this theatre.

Daisy folds her arms across her chest and looks mutinous. "Nothing," she says, "Since you probably won't let me pay for that, either."

"Then I will buy one of everything," I threaten. I do not even know why we are arguing about this. Whores never argue with me. No one argues with me. They do things because I pay them to do things or they do things because they are afraid. I have no experience with girls like Daisy: honest, sweet, delicious Daisy.

Her face has closed down, and there is a distance between us now. She has gone somewhere else and that, more than her anger and more than her frustration, worries me. With her I am always fucking things up.

 "I am sorry," I say. "I've offended you again. Please tell me what I should do."

My plea softens her, and she lays a small hand on my arm. "Nick, you can't pay for everything. I don't want—" she pauses, as if struggling to say the words, and then she continues. "I can't be dependent on someone. Not again. It's not fair to you. We barely know each other."

I try to understand her, but her words make no sense to me, and worse, they make me afraid. I cannot let her get to know me. I can only put up a façade that she might like until it crumples.

The image of a British flesh peddler springs to mind. I eliminated him two years ago for ruining merchandise he was supposed to be preparing for high-end buyers. He'd developed a taste for his own stable but had never revealed to anyone that he carried syphilis. Buyers do not like receiving diseased product. But Harry Winslow III had a certain light that drew people, particularly women, to him. It was part of what made him such a good pimp. Even though I did not like Harry, I realize that I could use some of his charm now. I swallow my bile at pretending to be a disease-carrying pimp and try out a bit of Harry on her.

"Duckie." Harry was always calling someone 'duckie.' "It's quite all right. I've got plenty of blunt to cover this." Harry's women always seem pleased at his big roll of cash. It made up for his very small penis. I'm fairly proud of my effort and smile at Daisy, but instead of softening, she looks confused.

"What's a duckie? Is that a Ukrainian word for something?" Daisy asks. "And blunt? What's a blunt?"

I tilt my head back and close my eyes. This is all a disaster. "How about popcorn?"

I order it before she can protest.

"Want butter?" the clerk asks me. I shake my head no. Butter is bad.

"No butter. No salt." I nod at the clerk. Daisy starts to say something, but when I turn to her with a raised eyebrow, she just sighs and turns away. Perhaps she does not like popcorn.

Inside the theater, we sit and say nothing as first the previews run and then the movie. As the characters are separated into clear divisions of good and evil, I look at Daisy. She is rapt. She is so engrossed by the action that she has forgotten I am next to her.

The movie is pissing me off. I hate it. The crowd inside is almost hissing at the bad guys who want nothing more than the power to live free. Perhaps their methods are not as messy as the "good guys," but life is not so clearly black and white. This time it is my arms that are crossed and my attitude that is bad. I do not point out that the velocity of the bullets does not work that way or that the guns used are all wrong. A semi-automatic rifle would never be used by a real professional. Only bolt action. Something tells me that Daisy would not care.

When the movie is over and the lights come on, Daisy turns to me with wide-eyed amazement and a smile on her face, and I feign appreciation for the movie.

"Wasn't that great?" she asks.

"Yes. Great." I stand up and shove my way down the crowd and out into the night air.

"You seem like you didn't like it." Daisy tilts her head and examines me, like how I will respond to her question will determine whether I get to see her again.

I debate lying to her again, but she is already suspicious. I've told so many half -truths and mistruths to her, so just this once I think that maybe truth is not damaging. "I did not like the ending."

"Really?" Daisy looks surprised. Obviously, I should've lied. "It's the only way it could have ended. Good prevailing over evil, you know?"

"The villains had a hard life. They did not know any other way forward," I mutter.

Daisy gives me a look like I am a bug she has never seen before. "Well," she begins and then stops, as if uncertain what to say, "I guess so. I wasn't really looking at it from the villain's point of view. But they're the bad guys. You're supposed to want them to lose."

"Real life is not that easy," I say involuntarily. I do not know why I have said this. What does she know of me other than I live somewhere and have money? If she would know the truth, it would be the end of it. Her delight would turn to dismay. I try to keep back the words but they spill out of me, as if I can make her understand somehow. "Sometimes people do bad deeds to relieve the pain of others."

Her response is not what I expect. Instead of being angered by my words or arguing with the sentiment, a bleak look passes over Daisy's face. "I know."

Strangely, that response gives me hope.

We drive back to Daisy's apartment in silence. I think we are both wondering about the other's past. Daisy is not all perfect lightness and airy innocence. There is darkness in her, and it makes her all the more appealing. If there is darkness inside her, perhaps she will understand the darkness inside me. "I'm sorry for tonight," I say when I park in front of her building.

"Sorry?" She chokes on the word. "That's a horrible thing to tell a girl on a date. Are you sorry you invited me out? Sorry that you allowed me to pick the movie?" Her response is sharp and unhappy.

In my misery, I accept each phrase a lash against my skin. Her words confuse me. I have done something wrong, perhaps been too aggressive. She looks heartbroken, and I do not know what I can do to fix this. My hands ball into fists, and I wish I could beat myself for my stupidity. What can I say to save this night? I have never done this relationship thing before. Never dated. I have only experience with women who take money from me, but each gift I buy for Daisy is one that I must force on her. Is she tolerating my company? Does she desire to be free of me?

At my lack of response, she gets out of the vehicle and shuts the door carefully. Her intentions are louder than if she had slammed the door and more painful than if my fingers were caught in the pinch. I see now that when she is truly upset, she retreats—and that all the delight in her is snuffed out. I hate that more than anything.

I follow her up, brooding and uncertain. I know not what to do. In the end, I do and say nothing. Not even when she pauses at her door and says, "Goodnight, Nick," in a kind voice. It sounds like goodbye, and my objection dies in my throat as I think of what soft words to say to her to convince her of my worthiness. When the door shuts behind her, I lean against it.

So many things I do well. I track. I synthesize information into discernible patterns. I follow through. I kill. Those things I am competent at. Courting, I am not.

In my own apartment, I do not allow myself to look at Daisy. Now that I have met her, kissed her, and held her, the invasion of her privacy would be too extreme. There is enough about me that would not be palatable to her, and somehow I know that
this
would be too much.

I won't watch her again.

I begin to do my search on the Seattle mark, scouring the deep web for information about the black market sale of organs. I find offers, sales, but no reference to the surgeons. I note the three deals that originate from the Pacific Northwest in the last month. Only three. That seems low. Perhaps the Seattle mark is too dumb to know about the deep web and instead uses some message board closer to the surface.

Once I found a child trading site on the most popular social networking site as if no one would find them in their private group. I exterminated the administrator of that network for free. A penance, of sorts, for other lives I have taken.
Death is a mercy
. I wear my motto on my chest. I live it.

As I click, click, click around the net, I think of my evening with Daisy and how terrible I was with her. I wonder if I can make amends. I wonder how I even begin. For a long time, I sit in my rented chair with my laptop and think of the sadness I brought to her and the darkness that dims her bright smiles. I do not even allow myself to fantasize about her. Until she is happy again, I will not use her in such a low fashion.

There is perhaps one I could ask for help, but to do so could endanger Daisy, bring her to another's notice. Yet he has hinted that he would welcome something akin to friendship from me. I pick up my phone. Then set it down. I return to it seconds later and type out a message before I can think.

What is best place to take date?
I text to Daniel.

I don't wait long before there is a response.
This is the most important piece of information you've ever given me, Nik.

Mudak.
I respond.

I know I'm an asshole. Only assholes are in this business. I'm going to take this as a sign you want to be friends with me. I knew I'd wear you down eventually.

You are old lady Daniel? I thought you were young disaffected American soldier.

This time the response is not so quick.
I'd be more open to sharing if you didn't think I was your enemy.

I contemplate the potential repercussions.
It is not friendship I seek. Only to share information.

Nik, you asked for dating advice, not the best wire to garrote someone or whether I prefer cyanide or dimethylene.

Daniel's desire for this friendship seems odd. I do not know what to make of it.

You have other friends like me.
Bogdan mentioned a network, but I work alone and have since I left Aleksandr.
In a network?
I add.