Shira Page 2

  “Expect all you want. It’s not going to happen. No money when you blow your assignments.”

  Even though I’d expected something like this, the adrenaline already humming through me turned into rage. My hands were shaking, so I pulled over in front of an all-night market and reached through the cellular web with an experimental strand of magic.

  Bingo. It connected. Depending on a whole lot of factors I hadn’t been able to identify, sometimes I could kill remotely with the assistance of electronic toys. Winding cords around the man’s neck, I snugged them, gratified when I heard a cough.

  I could just picture him massaging his windpipe and wondering what in god’s name was going on.

  “Not paying me would be a huge mistake,” I purred. Holding the connection open with magic—so even if he hung up it wouldn’t make any difference—I added, “Feel that?” and pulled my noose in a few more notches.

  “That can’t be you. You’re nowhere near me,” he wheezed.

  “When logical explanations fail to explain unusual circumstances, it pays to widen your net,” I crooned and added more pressure. What I was doing was downright stupid. I’d painted myself into a corner. If I didn’t kill him, he’d tell everyone not to touch me with a million-foot pole. So even if I got paid for this job, the next one would be a long time coming.

  If I killed him, my threats about payment would have been for nothing. No one would understand why he was dead.

  “Way to go, Shira,” I mumbled.

  “Stop that,” he gasped.

  An idea bloomed. It might or might not work. If this dude wasn’t the money man, I’d be nattering on for nothing. “Pay me. Transfer the funds. Do it now.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Try harder,” I suggested and brought up the screen for one of my many offshore accounts, the one I’d used for tonight’s escapade. No one was more surprised than me when $50,000 rolled into it.

  As soon as the transfer was complete, the man said, “There. Check your bank.”

  I smiled. Who says you can’t have your cake and eat it too? I released enough magic to romp through our connection and strangle him. At least he had the good grace—or maybe it was dignity—not to spend the last of his air pleading for his life. It wouldn’t have done him any good, and it might have made me feel bad.

  Or not. He wasn’t worth wasting any of my limited compassion stores on. He’d threatened to stiff me. I’d been a bit on the heavy-handed side. Probably, I should have reminded him of the contract I have all my employers sign. Especially the clause that addresses unforeseen circumstances and allows me latitude to proceed as I see fit.

  Eh, no reason to second-guess myself. My instincts were generally sound.

  Once I was certain the guy was dead, I severed the link, gathered my power back into me, and started for home. My number would be the last one on his cell, but I wasn’t worried about it. His associates would think he’d called to tell me I was shit out of luck.

  I shook my head. I’d set out to kill one and netted four. Granted I dealt with bottom-feeders, but tonight was over the top even for me. Before I threw myself a genuine pity-party, I cleared my mind of everything. I never revisited jobs. Why would I? Once they were done, I moved on to whatever came next.

  Live in the moment was one of my few mottos, but I knew the truth. The only way I could keep doing what I did was if I never dissected any of it.

  Chapter 2

  Sunlight, a rare phenomenon, streamed through my bedroom curtains. I have blinds but rarely use them. From the angle of the rays, it might be midafternoon. I didn’t remember much of my drive last night because the adrenaline had retreated leaving me worn out and shaky. I’d had the presence of mind to drop my wet clothes over hooks in the mud room, though. From the looks of things, I’d taken a quick shower as well.

  I’d purchased this home a few years back. Located in a gated compound on Mercer Island with half a mile of private beach, it was my retreat. No one had ever associated its owner, Suzanne Teague, with me, Shira Teague the assassin.

  It’s ridiculously simple to mislead people, and Teague is a fairly common name. My cover story pegged me as a rich, eccentric widow who preferred to be left alone. After a few attempts to stop by with cookies and casseroles, my neighbors gave up. None had made it past the front door.

  I stretched, extending my arms over my head and breathing deep. The trashed feeling from last night had retreated, so I’d gotten enough rest. It surprised me. Lately, my dreams had been graced by a dragon. At first, I’d thought it coincidence. Lots of people dream of dragons, except the same dragon showed up over and over again. Or maybe all dragons had silver scales, reddish wings, and forked tongues.

  Tough to tell since I’ve never met a real one. If you’d asked me many years back, I’d have pooh-poohed the existence of any supernatural critters. But that was before I understood I was one. And before I’d run into a pack of Vampires. At first, I thought they were a bunch of dicks playing at Halloween off-season. They’d set me straight damned quick. And if I hadn’t been quicker than them, I’d have joined their ranks and found out way more about the Undead than I ever wanted to know.

  It had been the beginning of a spotty education. Like I said, finding someone to teach me had proven impossible. I’d given up after the sixth googled shaman turned out to be just as bogus as the first five.

  Back to my dream dragon BFF, I had a dream interpretation book stashed somewhere, but I didn’t put much stock in it. After I’d first begun turning my proclivity to end people into a profitable venture, my dreams had been off-the-charts bloody. Before that, I’d killed to survive. If anyone thinks killing is the same across the board, they’re dead wrong. Not to make a pun or anything.

  Ending someone who had me in their gunsights was a necessity. Killing because someone hired me is an entirely different animal. I swallowed a snort. Last night held elements of both. It was what had made doing away with the ones shooting at me a no-brainer.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed and padded into the bathroom. My hair was the same tangled fright it always turned into when I washed it and fell into bed. Because it was easier than dragging a comb through my thick, unruly locks, I washed it all over again and slathered a giant blob of conditioner into the worst of the snarls.

  Later, standing in front of the steamy mirror with my hair dripping all over the floor, I forced myself to take a good look. By some twist of fortune—maybe the same bit of luck that powered my magical ability—I still appeared to be in my thirties. My features were nondescript, except for my hair. I should have left it dirty blonde. Instead, it’s a whole bunch of colors that change from time to time. At the moment, pink is the leading shade, but I’ve had it purple and blue and green.

  My eyes looked tired, their clear-blue color marred by a fine web of capillaries that made it appear I’d come off a several-day bender. With my not-quite-six-foot height, relatively slender build, and girl-next-door looks, I was eminently forgettable—so long as I slouched—which was how I liked it.

  I called it my any-girl-USA costume. It had fooled a whole lot of people into underestimating me. In truth, I was closer to eighty than thirty. When I passed fifty it dawned on me I wasn’t going to age like normal folks. Took me a few years to come to terms with that part of things.

  Because I live in an era when women have lots of work done on themselves, I figured I was good for another decade or so at my current location before I needed to move and redo everything from my name upward. Knowing criminals comes in handy. Several forgers will be a good match for the task when I get to that point. If they’re dead by then, a new batch will have cropped up.

  Wrapping a towel around my head, I left the bathroom and hunted down something to wear. Once I was dressed in my usual jeans and stretchy top, I checked in with my phone. Sheesh. Twenty messages had come in between when I’d turned it off last night and now.

  They’d wait for me to brew a pot of coffee. Once it was in process,
I hesitated in front of the refrigerator door willing food to magically appear inside. Didn’t work. When I pulled the door open the same containers of too-old-to-eat Chinese takeout hadn’t moved.

  My freezer yielded bread. Peanut butter and honey were in a cupboard. After toasting the bread, I made a sandwich. It would have been better with cream cheese and bananas and raisins. Eh. Maybe I’d make it to the store today. I’d just poured myself a cup of coffee, black because I didn’t have any cream, and settled in with my sandwich when an outraged squawk told me Reggie had figured out I was not only home but awake.

  The large African grey parrot swooped into the room and landed in front of me, pecking at my sandwich with great enthusiasm. “Honey is bad for birds,” I told him and received a louder squawk for my troubles. Maybe honey wasn’t bad for him, but I had a list somewhere of things I shouldn’t let him get into.

  A quarter of my sandwich had disappeared. I laid a hand over the rest of it and yelped when Reggie pecked it to get me to move away from what he now viewed as his breakfast.

  “Shira,” he cawed. “Shira. Shira.”

  Blood flowed from multiple places on the back of my hand; I held my ground. “Go eat your food,” I suggested, but he skewered me with his intense avian gaze and didn’t show any sign of budging.

  If I hadn’t been so hungry, I’d have just given him the sandwich. Staring back at him, I said, “Trade ya.”

  It was a game we often played when he got hold of something I didn’t want him to have. He fluffed his wings and repeated, “Trade. Trade.”

  “Over there.” I pointed at a granite counter next to my empty cookie jar.

  After a lengthy hesitation, the bird fluttered to the indicated spot, but never took his gaze from the sandwich. I grabbed the peanut butter jar and slopped a glob of it onto a plate.

  Seemed to do the trick because Reggie hunched over his find. I returned to my decimated sandwich, my cooling coffee, and my neglected phone. I’d been right about the time. It was three thirty. I skimmed the messages. Half of them were about last night’s fiasco. One said I’d been paid before they realized I’d screwed up.

  No one mentioned the dead guy. The one I’d strangled via my phone.

  The rest of the texts were about other jobs. Enough so I could cherry-pick what I wanted. I’d done that with last night’s assignment, though, and look how it turned out. Some of that was the fault of defective intel, but the rest was on me. I’d been stupid not to check what lay on the far side of the glass next to my perch.

  I drained my cup, and got up to pour myself another one. It took a lot of caffeine to get me going. Phone in hand again, my first reply was to the text about being paid by mistake. “Sorry you feel that way. The dude who called me wired the money. Not inclined to return it.”

  Should be the last of it. That’s the thing about dirty money. There’s no bank or credit card company or PayPal to arbitrate. Ignoring the rest of the texts about the previous evening, I scrolled through new job offers. Reggie had left, but the plate where I’d dabbed peanut better was pecked clean. At least, he hadn’t made an end run to nab my sandwich.

  I’d wanted a pet, but nothing requiring me to be here often enough to provide daily food and water. Reggie hunted to supplement what I kept out for him. Sometimes a week or more passed when I didn’t see the bird. Not the closest relationship, but it worked for us. I’d picked him because he was long-lived and independent.

  In his own way, he’d picked me too. He didn’t have to come back from his hunting jaunts, but he always did.

  None of the jobs rang my chimes, but I kept coming back to one. Travel involved, it said. Maybe putting some distance between me and Seattle wasn’t a bad idea. By the time I got back, whoever had ordered last night’s hit would have moved on. Nothing is static in the criminal world. It changes from moment to moment.

  I finished my second cup of coffee and got to my feet. I really needed food, but after I got back from the store I’d look a little deeper into the job requiring travel. My cup and dish and knife went into the dishwasher, and I walked out onto my little-used deck with its view of Lake Washington. Small boats bobbed on its waters, probably hobbyists thrilled it wasn’t raining. My outdoor furniture was tucked under waterproof covers. I was never out here long enough to rescue so much as a chair.

  Back inside, I stuffed my feet into trail runners and grabbed my purse and keys. I’d bought the house semi-furnished and never added to any of it. The white-on-white-on-white motif was incredibly boring, but I’m a street kid. Or I was one. Having a roof over my head, and nice digs, was more than enough. I’d never felt the need to piss in all the corners and stamp mine all over everything by customizing the place.

  The things I checked had nothing to do with fancier furniture. I made certain none of the markers I’d left had been disturbed. It was unlikely anyone would find me here, but I couldn’t afford to become complacent. Sloppy got you killed. I could have installed an upscale surveillance system—the one I had was cheap and outdated—but they can be disabled. My process was undetectable.

  Satisfied I’d made it through another day without unforeseen visitors, I nosed the car out of the garage and nodded at the gatekeeper as I drove past the entry kiosk. I hated shopping. It was at the bottom of my list of chores. I’d rather scrub floors—or toilets—than shop. Telling myself I needed an attitude adjustment, I covered the mile to a big chain supermarket, parked the car, and got moving.

  An hour later, I was back home, schlepping sacks inside.

  Unlike me, Reggie adored it when I went to the store. He flew around the kitchen like a bat on crack, poking his beak into all the bags.

  My phone vibrated before it began to howl. I really needed to change my ringtone for something quieter. Private number flared across the screen. So, what else was new?

  “Yes?” I waited, expecting some thug threatening me if I didn’t return yesterday’s fifty grand.

  “Is this Shira?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice, so I made a noncommittal grunt.

  “I, uh, met you about a week ago. It’s Jay. We traded numbers, and—”

  “Hold it right there, buster. I’m not in the habit of trading anything.”

  He must have intuited I was about to hang up because he said, “Wait. Please. You were in that little bar next to Ivar’s. I bought you a beer. We talked.”

  I culled through my memory banks. And disconnected. I hadn’t been in any waterfront bars in months. My phone rang again; I let it drop through into voicemail.

  If the mystery caller hadn’t had access to my uber private cell number, I’d have chalked it up to mistaken identity. He’d run into someone, thought it was me, etc. etc. The only way he could have accessed my phone was via underworld connections. It meant I couldn’t trust him, no matter how benign he’d sounded.

  Glad that was settled, I put the groceries away, made tentative plans for what I’d have for dinner, and brought up the registry where I find jobs. Funny how dark web sites are faster and better organized than mainstream ones like Linked-In and Google.

  The info box popped up right away. The way things work is I check a bunch of parameters that live with my profile. Any jobs that hit two or more of my requirements are forwarded to my in basket. I studied the assignment. Much of the information was purposely vague. Usually, I steered clear of jobs with so little data.

  I’d found out the hard way when I’d walked into situations far worse than last night’s had been. Of course, I’m smarter than I was. And not as hungry. Thirty years doing my thing coupled with a lifelong aversion to wasting money had set me up nicely.

  Many people who come into unexpected riches squander them. Not me. I know what it is to be hungry, to not have anywhere to crash. It’s been years, but I still remember the creepy feel of men’s hands all over me and waiting them out so I’d get paid. That phase was short-lived once I discovered it was simpler to pick their pockets while they rooted around on top of me.

&nb
sp; It also avoided the problem of them underpaying me. Or not paying at all.

  Talons closed around my shoulder, and I stroked the parrot’s neck ruff. He squawked. I cooed. We did that for a while.

  “Dinner,” he cawed. “Dinner.”

  “Nice try, bud. It’s at least two hours from now. Want to hunt?”

  Launching off my shoulder, he flew toward the window I habitually opened for him. A judicious shot of magic slipped the locking mechanism. The French leaded glass pane flew open, and the parrot shot through. I used to worry about him in the great outdoors, but he always comes back.

  I picked up my phone and looked at the job specs again. They were skimpy, but I (or whoever) needed to be on tonight’s redeye for LAX with a connecting flight to Havana. The plane would arrive at eight in the morning, and apparently the mark would be at the airport. The big glitch was then I’d be stuck for the next several hours until I could catch a flight out.

  Presumably, the place would explode into action once the hit was discovered.

  I set the phone down on the table with a clunk. Why was I even considering it? I didn’t need the money. Cuba is a real shithole. I’ve never cared for the tropics. Yeah. The list was long, so where was the appeal?

  Phone back in hand, I scrolled through nine other potential jobs. None held the slightest temptation. It was either Cuba or nothing. I tapped a foot. “What in the hell is wrong with taking a few days off?” I asked myself.

  When the answer came, it both shamed and humbled me. I’d been comfortable for a long while, but the gutter-girl who’d eaten out of garbage bins wasn’t all that far beneath the surface. The life I’d lived meant there couldn’t ever be enough creature comforts to assure me starvation wasn’t lurking around the next bend in the road.

  Raised in a series of orphanages and homes for wayward youth, I had no memory of my parents or why they’d abandoned me. My earliest recollections are of sleeping in barracks with whatever I didn’t want to lose beneath my body. Other kids stole from me anyway, but not after I got bigger.