Single Lady Spy 01 - The End of Me

is just ahead." He pointed and walked a bit faster than I did. He was meaty, they always were. It was such a cliché. Dark hair, olive skin, beefy bodies. They never just got a skinny, pasty guy named Steve to do their dirty work. It was always the one guy I would pick out of a crowd as a possible mercenary.
    "What's your name?" I asked, mostly because I wanted to see if he really was a mercenary.
    He glanced back at me, flashing me dark eyes and thick lashes. He even had a scar on his left cheek, "Steve."
    I laughed.
    He frowned, "What?"
    I shook my head, "Nothing. Where you from, Steve?"
    He grumbled, "Wisconsin. Where you from, Evie?"
    I laughed and pulled the ticket and ID out, "Today I am from Seattle. Are you ex-military?" I asked , certain that had to be it. He reached over and grabbed the fake ticket and ID from my hand.
    He shook his head, "No. I worked as an English teacher in Taiwan before I got this job."
    My jaw dropped, "You did not. You're from somewhere like Belarus and you are named Serge, and you worked as a mercenary. Stop the lying."
    He laughed, "I don’t know what that means. I met Servario in Macau. I lost a ton of money to him at the poker table. He offered me a job, instead of killing me. I was on the wrestling team and shit, so I took the job. Better money than teaching little brats English."
    I pointed, “What about the scar on your cheek? Bullet graze from saving Servario’s life in Monaco?”
    He gave me a horrified look, “No, dog attack when I was eight. Thanks for bringing it up.”
    It was unbelievable. Steve, the teacher from Wisconsin who was scarred from a childhood horror? Wow.
    I sighed, "Does your mom know what you do?"
    He looked at me funny, "What do I do? I travel and keep Servario safe. He had me trained with VIP Special Forces in France. I haven’t actually had to do anything."
    He was chatty for a gorilla. I kind of liked him.
    "Do you knit too?" I mocked.
    He gave me a sideways glance, "Just ‘cause I haven’t had to do shit, doesn’t mean I won't. Are you going to be trouble, Evie?"
    I smiled, "Oh yeah, Steve. Tons."
    He grinned, "You do sort of look like my eighth-grade teacher, Mrs. Sanderson. All sweet and kind. You probably have fresh-baked cookies at home."
    I scowled, "I do but, please don't call me old, Steve. I'm having a rough week with that one. I’ve counted at least twenty ma’am’s in one week."
    He sighed, "I'd say you're just having a rough couple months. But don’t worry ‘cause Mrs. Sanderson was hot and she was young."
    “God bless you.” I laughed as he opened the door at the end of the long corridor and held it for me. I walked past him and looked at the jet in front of us. "Wow." It was beautiful. Long and white and sleek.
    A lady in a uniform stood at the bottom of the stairs, smiling at me like a normal attendant. I knew she probably wasn’t normal.
    I walked to her smiling.
    "Welcome aboard." She was pretty—fake, but pretty.
    "Thanks," I said and climbed up the stairs. The jet made it real. Steve climbed aboard after me and pointed to the back, "Go get comfy.”
    I looked around, wanting to whistle. The jet had its own pods in a row in the back and a few rows of seats. It was the opposite of a normal plane. I walked to a pod and sat. I fastened my seatbelt and folded the bed back.
    There was a laptop desk in the front of the pod and a flat screen. It was all very fancy.
    I curled into the duvet that was there and laid my head on the pillow. I was beat, there was no doubt, but I wasn’t sure if I would be able sleep.
    I closed my eyes but the sounds around me made me nervous. I opened them to see Servario sitting across from me grinning.
    I sat up quickly, "Oh. I didn’t know you were here."
    He frowned, "It's my plane."
    I nodded, "I know. I just don’t get why you would give me the piece of paper and the room key, if you were going to be on the plane."
    He shrugged, "I needed you to get acquainted with the idea. I know you've never killed anyone before."
    I sighed and lay back on the bed, “Did you custom build this rig? Why are the good seats at the back?”
    He didn’t look up from his laptop, “Best chances of survival are in the back of the plane. The rich always die when it crashes.”
    I hated talking about crashing, right before flying.
    "Where are your kids, Evie?" he spoke without looking at me.
    I shook my head, "I don’t know. I told my mom to drive and not come back, until I told her it was safe."
    He sighed,