Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

Just as I’m approaching the service doors which are standing open, a muted clank reaches me from the inside. Keeping my stride casual, I take out my gun and step into the stairwell.

“Can I help you?” asks a man in overalls from the top of the stairs. A bucket with cleaning supplies is next to him. A janitor.

The whole block is still under construction and the tenants haven’t moved in yet, so there shouldn’t be any custodial staff around at this hour. Obviously, the intel I got was wrong. I lift my weapon, aiming at the janitor’s head.

“Please,” the man chokes out. “I have a family. Two kids and—”

I squeeze the trigger before he can finish the sentence.

There is a loud thump as the man hits the floor, his body falling down the stairs and landing at my feet. Blood is oozing from the big hole in the center of his forehead while his unseeing eyes seem to be staring at me. Some cultures believe that the souls of the dead stay in this world and follow the person who ended their life for all eternity. Haunting them. He’s welcome to join the army already at my back.

“I’m in,” I say into my Bluetooth mic and step over the body. “Estimated time to complete the mission—fourteen minutes.”

“Copy. Commencing radio silence.” With that confirmation, the audio feed gets muted.

My target should be in one of the apartments on the third floor, conducting a secret meeting with two Middle Eastern oligarchs. Whether it’s about oil or guns, or something else, it’s not important. The only aspect that interests me is the preferred method for eliminating the mark, if there is one. Military-issued contracts rarely have that detail specified. Typically, the only requirement is that nothing at the crime scene can be traced back to them. Private contracts, however, often come with a set of specific requests, which are at times too fucking bizarre to even think about. Luckily, this is a plain old “hit and split, no witnesses” kill order. No stupid-ass requests to worry about. I like these types of contracts much better.

I reach the landing on the third floor and head down the hallway toward two men standing by the last door on the right.

“Hey!” the first one barks, reaching inside his jacket for a weapon.

I lift my gun and fire two shots in quick succession. The bodyguards drop where they stood, flaunting identical bullet holes between their eyes.

The apartment door flies open. Even with the silencer, the sound of a gunshot can’t be completely suppressed and will draw attention. I shoot the guy standing at the threshold, then switch my aim to the next man coming through the doorway. Just as my bullet finds its mark, a burning ache explodes in my right leg. The fucker managed to hit me. I grit my teeth, push through the pain, and step inside. Keeping my back to the wall, and holding my gun at the ready, I move down the narrow hallway toward the door at the other end.

A spray of bullets pierces the wooden surface before me, peppering my upper body with several hits. I stagger back, allowing myself only a second to gasp for air, then kick the door open. In the middle of the room, a goon is in the process of changing his gun’s magazine. Without hesitation, I shoot him twice in the chest. He stumbles backward, his gun clanging to the concrete flooring. Another shot to his forehead, and his dead body topples to the ground, as well. One of my former colleagues had a saying: “Never presume someone is dead until he’s sporting a hole in his head.” It’s a solid mantra.

I brace my free hand on my hip and look around. The spacious studio is empty, the once-pristine white walls are now sprayed with red and feature newfound perforations. No sign of my target or his partners anywhere. The smell of fresh paint hangs heavy in the air, but I still detect a faint, acrid bite of gunpowder as I walk toward the bathroom and kick the door open.

Three suits are crouched by the toilet—fancy threads for dying by the john—their faces pale and eyes frantic. I shoot the closest in the head, then take care of the other two in the samestyle. Checking to make sure the dead men were actually my target and his associates, I tap the comms button on my earbud.

“You fucking idiots said there’d only be two bodyguards.”

“The client . . .” a shaky voice comes through the line, “. . .the client assured us that no more than two security personnel will be with the target.”

“And what about the damn surveillance intel?”

“Um . . . Captain Kruger said there wasn’t time for it.” The man’s voice is reaching a hysterical pitch. “I’m so sorry. This was a rush job, Mr. Mazur.”

Figures. “Tell that motherfucker that if he wants me dead, he should try killing me himself.”

“Yes, I’ll let him know.” The guy clears his throat. “Can you tell me the mission’s status, Mr. Mazur?”

“Fucking accomplished!” I take the earbud out and stuff it into my pocket.

The nature of my relationship with Lennox Kruger, the head of the Z.E.R.O. unit, has always been ambiguous. He likes to say that he saved me when he removed me from the psychiatric facility for juveniles deemed too dangerous for society. In truth, he wanted a pet he could condition to kill people without remorse. Well, he got what he wanted, and then more. I’m pretty sure he would have disposed of me by now if I wasn’t the only operative left from the original Z.E.R.O. unit. With Belov and Az gone, I’m the last one of his psycho minions.

Once upon a time, our dysfunctional band of brothers was pulled together for one sole purpose: to kill targets fast, and do it without leaving a trace of who did the deed. After Az disappeared and, later, Belov ditched too, Kruger decided to leave the military behind and become an independent contractor. Heassembled new teams to take on both government and private jobs. Extortions. Protecting anyone—even high-level criminals—with pockets deep enough to pay the fee he demanded for unscrupulous methods and no questions asked. Even taking down warlords or the governments of small countries if the price tag was right. And of course, assassinations. Those missions were primarily assigned to me. I got 50 percent of the contract value for every completed job—quite an incentive to keep working for the man who terrorized me throughout most of my adolescence. But the thing is, even without the padded bank account, I probably would have just kept doing it. Killing is the only thing I know how to do.

Droplets of blood mar the shiny white ceramic sink and the right side of the mirror over it. As I look at my reflection, a big red stain clings to the spot aligned with my eyes in the glass. How fitting. I put my gun on the counter and start unbuttoning my suit jacket.

“Fuck,” I groan as I unstrap the Kevlar I’m wearing over my shirt.

Several of the bullets hit me in the chest, making it hard to draw a breath. I let the bulletproof vest fall to the floor and lift my shirt to inspect the wound near my hip. The anti-ballistic fibers didn’t catch that one. I grit my teeth and feel the skin around the wound with my fingers. The bullet doesn’t seem to be that deep. The combined obstacle of the door and my protective gear definitely slowed it down.

I don’t bother picking up the vest or my jacket as I leave the apartment. My DNA is already all over this place with me bleeding, but it can’t be traced to my identity through any law enforcement databases. Hopefully, Kruger’s cleanup crew can take care of this shit. If not, so be it. Another unknown sample to keep company with all of the other unsolved cases.

The first hit grazed my thigh, causing a minor nuisance. The one to my side, however, might be a problem. I didn’t plan on getting shot tonight, so I left my car several blocks away. Covering that distance with a bullet lodged just above my hipbone is going to be a bitch.