Kelley Armstrong - Made to Be Broken

"Please tell me you at least have his schedule," I said.

"What?"

"If you want it done tonight, that means I don't have time for surveillance, meaning I can't get a feel for his daily routine."

"I want him killed at home, in his bed. He's in town, so he'll be there."

"All right, but understand that if he isn't there, in his own bed, alone, I can't do it. If I know his schedule, I can follow him from his workplace and ensure – "

"No, he'll be home. Alone. He doesn't have a girlfriend."

I thought of pointing out that this didn't preclude nighttime companionship, but the twitching of his lips warned me I was pushing him past nervousness into anxiety.

"So, presuming he's at home and alone – "

"He will be."

I met his gaze. "Please stop interrupting me. Now, presuming he's there, you want him eliminated, using a method of my choosing – "

"I need the house – " He stopped, flushing. "I'm sorry. I didn't meant to interrupt, but this is critically important. I need the house torched."

"Torched?"

"Burned to the ground, with him in it."

I stared at him until he wriggled in his seat like a three-year-old needing to go potty. "That's a joke, right?"

"Of course not." His voice started squeaking again. "I have very specific requirements and I'm paying a lot of money to get what I want."

"Did you clear this with Honcho?"

His mouth set in that prissy line. "I don't need to tell him the details."

"Because he presumes you have the sense to request something that can actually be done."

"It can be done. I've heard – "

"Even with notice, I can't burn a house 'to the ground.' Ignoring that small fact, though, you're asking for an elaborate scenario that will take time and research. I don't go to a job prepared to honor all possible requests. I'm a hired killer, not the Piano Man." I paused, as if considering. "But if you give me a few days…"

"It has to be tonight."

Damn.

He went on. "Do it however you need to, but you must torch the place."

"And by 'torch the place,' do you still mean 'burn it to the ground,' because I don't think you're following me on that one. It can't be done."

"Why not?"

I sucked in a groan. This was like being back in my cop days, dealing with an irate citizen, accusing me of laziness and incompetence because I wasn't combing his BMW for hairs, prints, and DNA after someone smashed the window and swiped the laptop he'd left on the seat.

"Burning a house 'to the ground' takes an incredible amount of work, material, and, most important, time. It cannot be done in a residential neighborhood. The minute someone sees smoke, they're calling the fire department. I'm presuming you want something destroyed, so let's do this the easy way – tell me what you want removed."

That prissy line again, but before he could refuse, I held up my hand.

"I'm not asking what information you need destroyed, just what items I'll find them on. Files? Com puter drives? CD?"

It took another ten minutes of wrangling before he finally agreed that torching the entire house might not be necessary. Then he handed me the photo and address, plus a contact number I was to call when I'd finished, so I could deliver the "proof."

I walked for a block, sloughing off the "hardened killer" facade and sliding back into myself. Then I called Quinn.

"Hey there," I said, hoping the poor connection would account for any tremor in my voice. "How are you guys holding up? Both still alive?"

"So far, though I've been on blind dates that were more comfortable. Fifty-seven minutes of awkward silence… and yes, I was counting."

"I take it Jack's not there right now?"

"He escaped about ten minutes ago, claiming he needed a cigarette, but he left his jacket behind, with the pack in it. Do you need him?" The scrape of chair legs against a hard floor. "I can probably track – "

"No," I said quickly, then hoped it wasn't too quickly. "I was just calling to check in and say I'm not coming back just yet. You guys can take off, and I'll catch up with you later."

"Something wrong?"

"Nothing serious. Seems I sprouted a tail."

"Shit."

"I'm not worried. Someone's just being careful, checking out the new hire."

He started giving me tips on how to lose a tail, which only made the lie cut deeper. I let him go on for a minute, then pushed in with, "Actually, I'm thinking maybe I should play this out. Let him follow me and see I'm just doing my research, as expected."

"Anything we can help with?"

"Maybe later. For now, I've got it covered. I'm going to shut off my phone, though, just in case. You guys can go your separate ways, get some dinner, relax. I'll call you…" I paused as if checking my watch and working out the timing. "Around nine, and we'll see how things are going then."

"Oh, speaking of calls, you got one – on the cell number you gave that agency. Jack took it. A guy there wants to speak to you two as soon as possible. It sounded like they took the bait."

Great. If only they'd done that a few hours ago…

"Dee? Still there?"

"Um, yes. Sorry. So what did Jack do?"

"He took the name and number. He said it wasn't the guy you two talked to, but it's one of the employees. Alex… Andrew… Anyway, we're going to check out his employee record again when we get back."

"Go do that then. I'm not sure how well this will play out. We may still need to make that appointment."

"All right. We'll wait for your call. Take care of yourself. If you need anything…?"

"I'll let you know."

There was no logical reason to turn off my phone if I was being tailed, and I only hoped they'd presume I thought it best and not question that. If I left it on, Jack would call the minute he got the message, and I'd never fool him as easily as I had Quinn. So off it went and, with it, my safety net disappeared.

I was reasonably sure I wasn't going to find evidence that my mark was an unpunished criminal I could justify killing. My client wanted him dead ASAP and all files in the house destroyed. That almost certainly meant the mark's only crime was having information the client didn't want getting out.

I kept telling myself there had to be a solution to this dilemma and, given time, I'd find it. But I suspected there were no easy answers – just tough decisions.

Where did I draw the line? What crimes did someone need to commit before I could justify taking a life? Where was the point where I could pull the trigger, and walk away with a clean conscience?

If I discovered my mark had an unrelated history of pedophilia but had apparently "reformed," could I kill him and tell myself he deserved it for the lives he'd ruined? What if he was a white-collar con man, bilking people of their life savings with shady investment schemes?

Where did I draw the line?

Would I know when I was about to cross it? Or was that something I wouldn't realize until I had?

These thoughts consumed me as I found Internet access and conducted a search on the address, my mind only partly aware of what I was doing, the rest snaking down these dark tunnels, balking at every shadowy corner, ready to turn and run, leave the question as I liked it best: unanswered.

I'd never had to consider where that line lay. The Tomassinis only gave me contracts I could fulfill with a clear conscience. That was purely good business. They knew my limits, and to offer me an unsuitable job once would soil our working relationship.

So if I'd never had to question where the line was, I hadn't been about to hunt for it as a purely intellectual exercise. What I did – killing thugs for money – was best left as unexamined as possible, those vigilante impulses undefined, the very word making my skin creep, gut-level denial rising.