Elemental Assassin 01 - Spider's Bite

sucker’s bet in the end.
    But I didn’t want to fight with the old man. Not tonight. Like it or not, he was one of the few people left in this world that I loved. So I distracted him by waving the folder in the air. “You really think this is a good idea? This assignment?”
    “For five million dollars, I do.”
    “But there’s no time to do prep work with this job,” I protested. “No time to plan, to go over exit points, nothing.”
    “Come on, Gin,” Fletcher wheedled. “It’s an easy job. You can do something like this in your sleep. The client even suggested a place for you to do the hit.”
    I read some more. “The opera house?”
    “The opera house,” Fletcher repeated. “There’s going to be a big shindig tomorrow night. They’re dedicating a new wing to Mab Monroe.”
    “Another one?” I asked. “Aren’t enough buildings in this city named after her already?”
    “Apparently not. My point is there will be lots of people there. Lots of press. Lots of opportunity to get lost in the crowd. It should be easy enough for you to slip in, do Giles, and slip out. You are the Spider after all, known far and wide for your skill and prowess.”
    I grimaced at his grandiose tone. Sometimes Fletcher reminded me of a circus ringmaster making the sad elephants, browbeaten horses, and two-bit acts seem more thrilling than they actually were.
    “The Spider was your idea, not mine. You’re the one who thought you could charge more for my services if I had a catchy name, Tin Man,” I said, referring to the old man by his assumed assassin name.
    Fletcher grinned. “I was right, too. Every assassin has a name. Yours just happens to have a better ring than most, thanks to me.”
    I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.
    “C’mon, Gin. It’s easy money. Pop the accountant tomorrow night, and then you can take a vacation,” Fletcher promised. “A real vacation. Somewhere warm, with oily cabana boys and boat drinks.”
    I raised an eyebrow. “And what would you know about oily cabana boys?”
    “Finnegan might have pointed them out when he took me to Key West last year,” Fletcher said. “Although our attention quickly wandered to the lovely ladies sunning topless by the pool.”
    Of course it had.
    “Fine,” I said, closing the folder. “I’ll do it. But only because I love you, even if you are a greedy bastard who works me too hard.”
    Fletcher raised his coffee mug. “I’ll drink to that.” 

3
    I finished my lemonade, took the folder, said good night to Fletcher, and went home.
    My apartment was located in the building across the street, five stories up on the top floor, but I never went straight home from the restaurant—or anywhere else. I circled around three blocks and cut through two alleys, making sure I wasn’t being followed, before coming back and slipping into the building. Everything was quiet, given the late hour, except the squeak of my shoes on the granite floor in the lobby.
    I rode the elevator up to my floor. Before I slid my key in the lock, I pressed my hand against the stone around the door frame. Nothing of note. Just the stone’s usual low, muted voice. I wasn’t home enough for my presence to sink into the gray-colored brick. Or perhaps I just didn’t care to listen to my own innate vibrations.
    I’d chosen this particular apartment because it was the one closest to the stairwell, with access to the roof and a sturdy drainpipe that ran down the outside of the building. My escape routes, along with a few others. I tested them at least once a month, played possible scenarios of capture and evasion in my mind. My own mantra for survival. You could never be too careful, especially in my line of work, when even a small fuckup could mean death. My death.
    I flipped on the lights. The front room was an oversize kitchen and den, with the master bedroom and bathroom off to the left, and a spare set of matching rooms off to the right. A couch, a love seat, a couple of recliners, appliances. A plasma-screen TV, with DVDs and CDs piled around it. Piles and piles of well-worn books stacked three feet high in some places. A nice set of copper pots and pans hanging from a rack in the kitchen. A butcher block full of high-end, silverstone knives sitting on the counter.
    There was nothing in here I couldn’t walk away from on a moment’s notice. Always a possibility in my profession. I was careful on my jobs, and Fletcher was extremely selective when choosing