Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“But if he harms the estate?”
If Overton obliterated any of my other properties, I’d say off with the lad’s head. If he places one fingertip on my Arlington home, he will wish he had never been born.
“You’re mindful of the consequences. Everyone in charge of keeping my home safe dies. Overton, well, he dies a million deaths, Burt the Butler.”
Another round of amber liquid splashes into our glass tumblers. “Shall I find a new organization, another outlet, if you will? Oh, I recall, while it took Monica eons to vet X-Member, I had presented another—”
“No, I cannot take on any missions that require my presence in other locations or remove my focus from—” Luxury. “Overton. Or Bobby George ringing me. Furthermore, the circumstances are different than they were a decade ago,” I say, losing myself in thought.
At age twenty-seven, I was an apathetic bloke.
I consigned myself to the assassination platform as a means to feel something. And I did, in the moment that it took me to kill. The situation was far removed from hunting as a child with my father, Silas. Under that wanka’s charge, either I pull the trigger, or Silas would pull the trigger on me.
Nevertheless, my first X-Member mission, I didn’t go in as the sharpshooter my father taught me to be. No, I craved the adrenaline rushing through my veins—the unadulterated freedom.
The recklessness of it all.
The targeted bastard lived in London. Burt had been outraged when I chose to take the assignment. However, I’d no reason to care.
Incur the wrath of my Queen. I didn’t bloody give a fuck.
Die? If my target got the best of me, that labeled me a dead cunt. Nothing more.
The man was a child molester. The kid’s father gave his last pence to secure the target. Later though, I had Monica return every cent, and then some, to the chap’s bank account.
That night, I wore jeans, a jacket, and a hat pulled low on my head to stay incognito. Though I couldn’t feel anything, I gauged the people's reactions around me. Bundled, huddled together as they walked out of the pub across the street.
My mark was seven high and a little over fourteen stones. With gloomy clouds obscuring the moon, I still noticed the bastard exit the pub right after a young woman. Her movements were slow, measured as she attempted to stop herself from swaying. The arsehole’s eyes were all over her as she sauntered across toward my side of the street. He stayed put on the opposite side. It took less than a second to determine that she was his intended victim. My mark was slowly making his mark, although his deviant needs would not be met this evening.
As she stepped on the curb, the drunken blonde gave a quick, shocked smile, noticing me in the shadows. “Oh, hello, mate.”
I kept my eyes on the lad as he stepped off the curb and started across.
Senses piqued, she turned back around, and the glimmer in her eyes implied that a few drinks hadn’t obscured the warning signs. She glanced at him then at me. Her pace quickened.
As he started after her, I called his name.
The target stopped in his tracks, spun around.
Yes, Burt would metaphorically want to kill me for what I did next. I removed my cap and placed it into my back pocket.
“Duke? Duke of Arlington? Aw, man, I’m sorry for your loss.” It was the standard greeting. Everyone in all of England was sorry for my loss.
I nodded my response.
“How do you know me?” he blubbered, astonished.
“Let’s have us a drink, shall we?” I replied.
Eagerness overshadowed the man’s curiosity. “I’m chuffed to fucking bits. I’m honored! A drink with the duke. I’m bloody honored.” The rapist began to back track toward the pub.
“I know a better place.”
“Sure.” He shrugged.
We headed down the street. My mark had a bounce in his step, excited to be in the company of royalty.
“Cut through here.” I jutted my chin. We rounded into an alley, and I grabbed his shirt and pulled him into the darkness.
The rapist scoffed. “What the bloody—”
My bare fists began to pummel his face. He got free and planted a right hook to my eye that proffered me more emotion. It didn’t hurt, yet at that very moment, being an assassin finally provided me with feeling. I needed to feel.
With a gnarly look in his eyes, my mark clearly thought the hit gave him the upper hand. Yet, I constantly analyzed a risk before action, so he had no chance. As soon as he charged, my boot connected to his cock.
His eyes glossed over, hands swooping over his privates. The mark tumbled to the ground.
“You get off on touching innocent rugrats?” I crouched before him, gathering a tuft of his hair in my fists.
“Tudor, Vic . . .” My fist slaughtered his mouth.