Roman

10 months later

I walked into the hospital by a side entrance. Turns out you can buy hospital scrubs at a costume store, and they look close enough to the real thing that no one bats an eyelid. Rule number one when you're breaking into somewhere you shouldn't be? Carry a clipboard and look busy. Check and check.

I knew I wouldn't be the only operator who'd been enticed by the promise of a thirty thousand dollar job, so I knew I'd have to hurry. Especially as this time I couldn't just take another hitman out after he'd done my dirty work for me and claim his bounty.

No, this time I need her alive.

A bead of sweat dripped down my face, and I tasted salt in my mouth before I had a chance to mop my brow. The stakes were as high as they could be, and for the first time in years, I actually felt nervous on the job.

I grabbed a med cart that had neatly been stowed away in a corner, put my handgun in the top drawer, so it was out of sight and re-checked my phone one last time. The bright white display was sparsely populated, and formatted in exactly the same way as every job I'd ever received from the Agency.

It simply read: Ellie Francis, Alexandria General, room thirty-two. $30,000. It was a cold way to sum up a life.

But not bad for a day's work.

Except this time, I wouldn't be claiming the bounty.

The cart bumped over a slight indentation on the linoleum-covered concrete floor as I neared a bank of elevators, and I heard my weapon rattle against an assortment of glass medicine bottles. I looked down at the drawer and cursed. The damn thing was flimsier than a balsa wood table. I reached in and held it tight. The last thing I needed was the drawer's bottom dropping out and my gun spilling out onto

A gray-haired woman in a spotless, knee length white jacket gave me a curious look as I passed her, like she was searching her memory for my name. "Doctor," I nodded smartly, holding my breath. She nodded back politely and carried on. Alexandria General Hospital was a small enough place that she might have known every face who worked there. She got lucky. I got lucky. I didn't want to hurt her – hell, that was the whole reason I was in the middle of this mad escapade in the first place.

Ding!

The elevator doors rolled open, revealing two men in ill-fitting black overcoats. My eyes immediately focused on the tell tale bulges under their shoulders. They were operators. It was as plain as day, at least, it was to a man like me. They looked almost identical to each other, and I pegged them for Russians. Graying black hair, overweight, and the slightly dull look of men who never graduated high school? Yep, they were definitely Russian mobsters.

"In or out," one grunted, and his accent confirmed my suspicions.

Shit.

I'd hoped to avoid other hitmen until the way out at least, but it looked like today wasn't my lucky day.

It sure as hell wasn't theirs.

One of the big Russians stared at me with a look of incomprehension as I, at least in his eyes, seemed to hesitate. The truth was, I was always three steps ahead of chumps like these, usually more. Before the rusted, stuck gears that compose their minds had a chance to cough into action, my mind was already whirring.

"Sorry guys." I said, and pushed the cart forward hard.

The two men looked at it in unison. That was their first mistake. Their last, too. It dulled their reaction times, and by the time the big brute on the left had managed to knock it out of the way, I had my pistol in my hands and pointed at his chest. He looked with all the terror of the fish stranded on land, and desperately tried to unbutton his unseasonably heavy coat to reach his gun.

I shot him in the chest. The second the silenced gunshot went off in the confined elevator, his companion stopped dead, his hand marooned inside his jacket.

"Listen to me very carefully," I said in a measured, calm tone of voice. "If you go for that gun, I'm going to have to shoot you. Understand?"

The brutish Russian gangster stared at me with terror in his eyes and dropped his hand to his side. It was trembling, like Hitler's did in his bunker towards the end of the war. I kinda felt sorry for the guy. At least, I did before I remembered that the only reason he was here at all was to kill Ellie.

I don't want to kill you, I thought. I can't face adding another name to the list of men I've killed. But I will if I have to.

I reached over, finished unbuttoning his coat for him, and tossed his gun over my shoulder and down the corridor. "Now, what the hell am I going to do with you?" I mused out loud.

"Please," he said in accented, clearly broken English. "Just let me go."

"Now, now," I chided. "I can't just let you go, can I Boris?"

"Not Boris," he said, his face wrinkling with confusion.

I waved the barrel of the gun over to the left-hand corner of the elevator, next to Boris's companion's slowly cooling body. "Doesn't matter. Sit over there, let me think."

He thought about complaining, then thought better of it, and lowered himself to his friend's prone body with a disgusted, terrified frown on his face.

What's in the cart?

I rifled through the top drawer, only to find a collection of bandages, surgical tape and syringes. Nothing useful. The second drawer down, though, was locked.

That seems promising.

I checked that Boris was safe, sound and quiet, reversed the gun in my hands so that I was holding it by its barrel, and brought the butt down heavily. The lock splintered into a dozen twisted fragments of metal, and I pulled the drawer out greedily.

Jackpot!

I pulled out a little vial and read the label. "How do you feel about epinephrine, Boris?"

He looked at me uncomprehendingly, and repeated, "not Boris."

"I know, I know. No, maybe epinephrine's not the best call. I don't want your heart attack on my conscience, you know?" I pulled out another vial. "Now we're talking."

Boris looked up nervously. "Don't worry, buddy," I joked. "It won't hurt."

But it's going to be a hell of a trip.

I injected the needle into the foil seal, and emptied the vial, filling the syringe to the top.

"Please…" Boris protested. "What's that?"

I kept the gun trained on him as I leaned forward. I injected the clear liquid directly into his carotid artery, and then smashed my handgun against his forehead, knocking him out cold for good measure. I tucked the little medicine vial in between his fingers, just in case anyone wanted to know why a two hundred pound Russian mobster was lying unconscious in the elevator.

I laughed to myself as I enabled the security override to lock the elevator doors. It wouldn't keep the bodies hidden long, but hopefully long enough for me to do what I needed to do. "A hundred milligrams of diazepam. Boris, that's going to be one hell of a dream…"