Kelley Armstrong - Made to Be Broken

Even if the guy hadn't matched Fenniger's description – thinning hair, narrow face, average height – I'd have known this was my client, and as much an amateur as Fenniger had said. I put my fingers in my mouth, and let out a low but sharp whistle.

The man jumped as if he'd heard a siren. When he glanced my way, I beckoned him over. He looked around, confirming I wasn't waving to anyone else, then squinted at me and, even from where I sat, I could see the faint hope in his eyes that maybe, just maybe, the woman on the bleachers was hitting on him.

I motioned again, more emphatic now. When he didn't move, I walked over.

"I-I'm waiting for someone," he said.

"Yes. Me."

A blank look.

"Through Honcho?" I prompted.

"Er, yes, right, but…" His gaze traveled down me. "I, um, think there's been a misunderstanding."

"Yes, I'm a woman. It's an equal opportunity job these days. If you want gender specificity, you have to request it on the order form."

He stared, a note of panic behind his eyes, as if thinking there really had been a form, and he hadn't gotten it.

"Is it okay?" I asked. "Does the job require a man?"

"N-no. You're fine. Maybe better, even. Sure. Okay. It just… threw me. So, I guess the first thing we do is – "

"Move over there." I waved back where I'd been sitting.

"Isn't here safer?"

"You look like Mr. Suburbanite waiting for his dealer… and I don't look like your dealer."

A nervous twitch of a smile. "Right, right."

I led him to the bleachers. "No one's around, so just play it cool. You came home from the office early and found your wife had gone for her jog, so you caught up with her and now we're having a nice little 'how was your day, honey' chat."

"Right, right."

We sat through twenty seconds of silence.

"You have a job for me?" I said finally.

"Right. I need someone… taken care of."

He put a tiny growl in the last words, as if trying out for a guest spot on The Sopranos. I bit my cheek to keep from smiling.

"That's what I figured."

A giggle. "Right, I guess so. Not like I'd be asking you to, uh – " He massaged his throat, unable to come up with anything witty. "The, uh, job. It's this guy."

I blinked to cover my surprise. Another moment of silence. When he didn't go on, I had to clarify.

"You mean the mark is a man."

"Right, right."

The first prickle of apprehension set my arm hairs rising. I resisted the urge to rub them down and kept my face neutral.

"Go on."

"It needs to be done tonight?"

"Tonight?" That time the surprise escaped. I covered it with, "Is he local, then?"

He nodded. "He has a house right here in Detroit. That's where it has to… go down."

"Family?"

His eyes widened, lips parted in an O of horror.

"Is there going to be family in the house?" I went on. "Because that's a problem, and not one I intend to 'take care of "

A slow eye squeeze of relief. He'd thought I meant "do you want the family killed, too?" Further proof that the guy watched way too many crime dramas. That's not to say hitmen aren't asked to murder entire families – like the "job" Evelyn suggested – but it certainly wasn't a request so commonplace that they'd toss it off as easily as asking whether the client preferred a public hit or private.

"There isn't any family to worry about," he said. "He's divorced and lives alone."

My brain raced to figure out how this played into the baby scheme. A teen daughter maybe? Her baby so prized that they'd kill her father, too, the one person who might investigate?

"Any kids?" I asked. "Because they could be sleeping over, even if it's not his scheduled time – "

"No kids."

I stopped my fingers from tapping against the bench. Move on and figure this out later. "Okay, so this guy is the first mark, and then you need me to…"

My fingernails dug into the wood as genuine confusion filled his face.

"There's only one mark?" I said. "I was told – "

"Then someone's made a mistake," he said, his voice high, annoyance mixed with anxiety, ticked off that someone had screwed up. "I was very clear. I need – "

His cell phone rang. I waited for him to apologize and shut off the ringer. Instead, without even glancing at the display, he answered, covered the receiver, and told me to give him a minute. In other words, "get lost."

I would have complained if I hadn't been happy for the excuse to get away and collect my thoughts. I motioned that I'd jog around the block and be back in five minutes.

I set out, feet smacking the pavement, trying to jar free the ball of rage crystallizing in my gut.

Evelyn had set me up. This was a real hit that had nothing to do with the adoption murders.

I forced myself to consider the possibility it was a mix-up, that Honcho said he had a job for her new protégé and she'd jumped to the conclusion it was "the job." But Evelyn would never be that sloppy. Oh, I was sure she'd claim a mix-up, but Honcho had already said the "job" he had in mind was long-term, serial hits, with re-con and researching work. This was not that job.

Could Honcho have tricked Evelyn? Tossed her protégé a separate hit to test me while he worked out the other one? And risk pissing off one of the biggest names in the business? Never.

Evelyn had set me up.

I thought I was a real hitman? Well, here was a real hit. And what was I going to do about it? Run crying to Jack? If I even mentioned it to him, he'd do it for me. How she'd laugh at that – the ultimate proof that I was a wannabe hiding behind the big guns. A little girl letting the men do her dirty work.

I inhaled the icy air, feeling it scorch my lungs and gulping more, dowsing the rage.

Evelyn set me up to prove her point. Now what the hell was I going to do about it?

Would I kill an unknown mark to prove I was a badass hitman? I rubbed my face and swallowed more cold air. I wasn't a badass hitman. Never claimed to be. Never wanted to be. What was wrong with being what I was? If Evelyn despised me for it, why did I care?

I didn't care enough to prove her wrong. But to let Jack kill someone so I could keep my hands clean? My stomach churned with disgust.

What was the alternative, though? Refuse the hit? Evelyn would never let me back out and tarnish her reputation.

Again, what was the alternative? I did it or I didn't. Kill an innocent -

Maybe he wasn't so innocent?

I shivered. So that's how I was going to play this? Tell myself someone wanted this guy dead so he'd probably committed a crime?

I took a slow, deep breath, clearing my head. I couldn't decide anything in the next five minutes. I'd get the details, investigate, and hope an answer would come – fast.

Back at the park, the client was off the phone and checking his watch with little lip purses of irritation as if I was the one now keeping him waiting. As I strolled over, he cast a pointed glance my way.

"My wife expects me home by six and I have an hour commute."

"Really? Then I'd suggest you don't answer your phone again. Actually, in general, I'd suggest you don't answer it again."

I smiled, but something in that smile made him inch back, perhaps reconsidering the wisdom of treating a contract killer in the same way he'd treat a filing clerk temp.

"I presume you have a name for me?"

"I have an address and a photo. That's all you need."

His inflection turned the last words into a question, though I knew that wasn't what he'd intended, and I considered pushing the matter, but his lips were pursed, prissily, like an IRS flunky questioning a mobster's tax return. Act tough and he might back down… or he might get his back up. While I longed to hold the upper hand, if he had the address and my mark was the lone occupant, getting a name should be easy enough.