Death.

The body dropped soundlessly to the ground in front of the assassin. David was in his element. He forgot everything except the moment. The perimeter had been easy. Sammy Moreno and his men were celebrating. He’d relaxed security, brought his men in closer for the celebration of the downfall of his enemy. He had booze, drugs and whores brought in, easing up on his usual paranoia in the face of one less man that would want him dead.

David took out the South guard. One shot to the base of the skull then he moved to the house. He did not massacre where he did not need to. Preservation of bullets. He did not go in heavily armed as it slowed him down. He kept three guns, thirty-six bullets and two knives. He wore a vest that was specially designed to be as lightweight and invisible as possible. He’d removed his suit jacket in the range rover after they’d reached the drop point. Now he wore only his long-sleeved button up shirt and trousers, both black. He waited in the shadows, watching the revelers as they partied in the windows of the glass mansion.

Such hubris. Believing that their safety was implied through the downfall of an enemy. If Moreno was intelligent he would lay low, somewhere hidden, and work twice as hard to secure his own holdings, to make sure the kidnapping of Bastida was no plot, before moving on the possessions of his enemy. Instead he threw open his front doors, lay out his toys for all to see, and allowed the shadow of death to walk in like it owned the place. And own the place it soon would. David would paint the walls with blood.

Men like Moreno deserved death. While men like Bastida and DeLuca would rise higher and higher in their bids for power, because they did not make such stupid mistakes. Like skilled chess players they made careful, calculated moves. They placed the pieces on the board, set up the play and allowed them to move against each other. Now it was black horseman, moving, sideways and across. A silent death.

The lone assassin.

David pulled his guns from their holsters and moved in through the back entrance, clearing it of the guard who was receiving a blowjob. He took care of the woman next. He couldn’t have her alerting the rest of the house. He moved rapidly toward the upstairs bedroom that he’d seen Moreno and his wife excuse themselves to half an hour ago. He tapped another man on the stairs, spraying blood across the white wall of the stairwell. He stepped over the body without pausing.

He had a minute, perhaps two before one of the bodies was discovered and a search for the killer began. He needed to be making his way off the property before the perimeter guards became alert to his presence.

He found the master bedroom within seconds, having mapped it out days ago. Three shots for the drug boss. One to the heart as he stumbled from his bed, two to the head after he flew backwards. David stood over the body, watching for any signs of movement. He counted to three then turned away. He always made sure the mark was down before moving on.

He turned the gun on the wife next. And hesitated. She was cowering next to her husband’s now bloody, unrecognizable head. She was young, innocent looking in an oversized T-shirt and panties. He would have thought the spoiled woman of a man like Moreno would wear silk and jewels to bed. Her soft, dark hair framed a small face. But of all her features it was her eyes that arrested him. They were beautiful sapphire blue. Currently wide with shock and horror as she stared up at her husband’s executioner, awaiting her turn for death.

His cold, dispassionate eyes looked down into her panicked face without a flicker of remorse. This was just a job. It was his job. It was nothing he hadn’t done hundreds of times throughout a blood-soaked career. She could not live. Though innocent to some degree of her husband’s crimes, she would become a casualty of the business. Seconds ticked by in which he knew he must act. David’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Then he did something unprecedented.

He pulled back from a kill. He moved his finger from the trigger to the side of the gun. He blinked, attempting to shake Natasha’s accusing eyes from his thoughts. They would not go away. She would not go away. So, he turned away from Moreno’s widow and left her breathing.

For all of four seconds.

It took her three seconds to pick up a gun from god knows where and take a wobbly pot shot at her husband’s murderer. As a burning pain sliced down David’s forearm, he was reminded of why he did not leave witnesses. With a growl of annoyance, he swiftly turned back to the woman and shot her between the eyes. She landed back against the pillows with her arms flung wide.

David shook his head and strode out the door. Such a waste. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman. With such a face as that, combined with insider knowledge of the cartel industry, she could have been an asset to another powerful man. Instead, she had let vengeance and fear guide the last seconds of her life. Little idiot.

Dead little idiot.

And if he wasn’t careful, he would be next. His moment of compassion had allowed her to alert the household to his presence. While his guns had silencers, hers had not. Footsteps thundered up the stairs, followed by shouts, telling him his original path out of the house was being rapidly cut off. With a sigh, he did a quick mental bullet check. Twenty-eight. He could work with that.

He ducked into a bedroom across the hall, knowing they would check on Moreno and the wife first. He tagged the first two through the boss’ bedroom door, then another as he tried to lunge back toward the stairs. Then they got smart and started to cover each other as they made their way toward David’s position. He glanced over his shoulder toward the darkened window of the spare bedroom he was currently occupying. Good, floor to ceiling.

“Blyad, this is going to fucking hurt,” he grumbled.

He glanced back out the door and sized up the men taking wild shots at him. One particular gentleman was quite large. He could do nicely. David cleared his throat quietly, made a loud pained sound, then lunged away from the door, giving the cartel thug the opening he would need. Thankfully, the lumbering idiot took David’s invitation, crashing through the door, shooting wildly.

David was on him before he could blink, twisting the man’s gun from his now broken fingers and crushing his windpipe in an instant. His compatriot’s must have realized that he had not killed the intruder as they began shooting into the room once more. David used the bigger man as a crude shield, before shoving him toward the window, twisting sideways at the last moment to use his bulk to shatter the window. Luckily, David only had to listen to the man’s choking sounds for less than a second before they landed on the pool tiles. Unfortunately, for his new Columbian friend, he was on the bottom.

David rolled and strode away before those within the house figured out what happened and blazed to life. Already the lawn had come alive with lights and shouting men. David was an expert at hiding in plain sight. He strode purposefully across the wide expanse of the estate as though he belonged nowhere else in the world, responding in rapid-fire Spanish when spoken to, and with bullets when common language didn’t work. By the time he made it back to the Southern edge of the property he was down to seven bullets. He considered it a bonus that he hadn’t had to use his knives. He preferred the eloquence of bullets to the caveman tactics of a blade, though he was proficient in both weapons.

He’d made it out with fewer bullets and more noise than planned, but the goal was ultimately achieved. The mark was dead and David was alive. The Moreno Columbia job would end up becoming the Tokyo night club all over again; a legend among assassin circles. He snorted. He preferred to keep his jobs quieter, but sometimes they did not go as he wished.

He crouched at the base of a tree at the rendezvous point and awaited his pick-up with impatience. Adrenalin pumped through his veins and blood ran down his forearm, soaking into the cuff of his fine, black shirt and dripping off the ends of his fingers. He unbuttoned the cuff and tore the fabric away from his arm, inspecting the damage. It was a shallow wound. A stupid wound that should not have happened. He should have killed the fucking woman when he had her in his sights.

He flexed his arm until the veins popped and used the edge of his shirt to wipe the dripping blood from his skin. He unwound a leather band from his wrist and wrapped it around his arm just under the elbow, tying it tightly to keep the blood flow at a minimum until he could get back to the hotel room and properly take care of the wound.

First though, before he took care of his wound, he needed to take care of something else. He needed to fuck. He needed to fuck his wife, right fucking now. Where was that goddamned transport?