Jennifer Estep: Widow's Web

A moment later, the giant stepped back out into the office. “All clear, sir,” he said. “The rest of the floor has been checked and is empty as well.”

My target nodded his thanks, and the giant left the room, closing the door behind him.

The second man immediately moved over to the bar, grabbed a bottle of Scotch, and poured himself a healthy amount in a tumbler. He swallowed the amber-colored liquor and nodded his head in approval. Then he turned his attention to his friend.

“Any sign of her today?” the drinker asked.

The target shook his head. “Nothing so far.”

The drinker grinned. “Well, since the Spider hasn’t come to call yet and it looks like you get to live another day, let’s get down to business. I happen to have someone waiting up for me tonight. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

My target smiled at that, and the two men opened their briefcases. They spread the papers inside over a table in front of the bar, then sat in the chairs on either side and got to work.

“Now,” the drinker began, “as you can see from these latest tax and earnings figures . . .”

I waited until the two men were thoroughly engrossed in their conversation before I slowly, carefully, quietly, removed the grate from the air duct opening. I paused, waiting to see if they’d noticed the slight, furtive movement above their heads, but of course they didn’t. Few people bothered to look up—even those knowingly being hunted by a notorious assassin like me.

I put the grate to one side of the duct and made sure the gun was within easy reach in its slot on the front of my vest. Then I slowly wiggled forward until I was at the edge of the opening. I drew in a breath, let it out, and slid forward.

I let my weight and gravity pull me down before grabbing the edge of the duct, flipping over, letting go, and landing on my feet facing the two men. They’d barely had time to blink, much less get to their feet, before the gun was in my hand and trained on my target.

Puff-puff .

I double-tapped my target in the chest, and he dropped to the carpet without a sound. I trained my gun on the second man, who leaped to his feet, put up his hands in a placating gesture, and started backing away.

“Hello, Finn,” I said in a mocking voice to the drinker. “Weren’t expecting to see me here, were you?”

Finnegan Lane, my foster brother, looked at me, a clear plea in his eyes. “You don’t have to do this. You’ve proven your point by icing Owen there already. This whole thing was your lover’s brilliant idea, not mine. Don’t blame me for his mistakes.”

I gestured with the gun at Owen’s prone form. “That’s not how I remember things. In fact, I distinctly recall you being the mouthpiece behind this whole situation. You were the one who kept pushing and pushing me. Well, tonight, I finally push back.”

When he realized I couldn’t be reasoned with, Finn decided to try another tactic—bribery. “I’ll pay you whatever you want to put the gun down and walk away, you know that.”

“I do know that.” A cold, cruel smile curved my lips. “But walking away is not nearly as much fun as this is. You know that as well as I do.”

“No, please, don’t—”

I pulled the trigger twice, cutting off his protests, and Finn joined my lover on the floor.

Silence.

Then Finn let out a loud, unhappy sigh and climbed to his feet.

“Really, Gin, did you have to ruin my suit?” he said. “This was a Fiona Fine original.”

He stared down at the bright red paint splattered across the black fabric of his suit jacket and gray shirt. Then Finn raised his head and glared at me, his green eyes bright in his ruddy face. I didn’t bother pointing out that the paint had also splashed onto his face and up into his walnut-colored locks. He was just as obsessive about his hair as he was about his suits, and it just wouldn’t do for Finnegan Lane to ever look anything less than perfect.

“I agree with Finn,” Owen rumbled and sat up. “I didn’t think our little experiment would get quite so messy.”

Owen Grayson got to his feet, his chest covered in just as much red paint as Finn’s was. Still, despite his ruined suit, my eyes traced over him, from his blue-black hair to his intense violet eyes to his strong, muscled body. No amount of paint could dampen Owen’s rugged appeal or the way he had of making me feel like I was one of the most important people in the world to him.

I walked over, leaned against the desk, and pointed my paintball gun at Owen. “You should have known better than to let Finn talk you into drinking so much at Northern Aggression. Drunken challenges issued to assassins rarely end well for the challenger. Or challengers, in this case.”

Finn stopped trying to scrub the paint off his shirt long enough to glare at me again.

“As I recall, I wasn’t drinking alone, and you and I had quite a bit of fun later on that night,” Owen said in a husky voice.

“Maybe.” I agreed with a grin. “But Finn was the one who bet me dinner at Underwood’s that I couldn’t kill you both by the end of the month. So you only have yourselves to blame.”

Finn sniffed his displeasure. “You still didn’t have to ruin my suit.”

“No,” I agreed. “I didn’t have to ruin it. That was just an added bonus.”

He narrowed his eyes, but I just gave him my most innocent, gracious, beatific Southern smile.

“Well, it’s getting late, and I’m supposed to head over to Bria’s,” Finn said. “And I obviously can’t go looking like this .”

I rolled my eyes at his put-upon tone, but Owen just laughed.

“Go,” Owen said. “Get cleaned up. We can finish our business tomorrow.”

“Say hi to Bria for me,” I added in a sugary-sweet voice.

Finn grumbled something under his breath about what I could do with certain parts of my anatomy before packing up his papers and briefcase and leaving.

“Well,” Owen said after Finn had shut the office door a little harder than necessary. “You got us both, just like you said you would.”

I grinned again. “That’s what people pay me for. Or used to pay me for.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Good to know retirement hasn’t lessened your skills any.”

I shrugged. We both knew I couldn’t afford to let myself get rusty. Not now, when so many folks in Ashland and beyond would love nothing more than to see me dead. Back in the winter, I’d finally killed Mab Monroe, the Fire elemental who’d run the Ashland underworld for years. Pro-fucking-bono, as it were. Mab had murdered my mother and sister when I was thirteen, and her death had been about revenge to me more than anything else. But the Fire elemental’s demise had left a power vacuum in the city, and now every lowlife and not-so-lowlife was clawing for that power, position, and prestige. Some of them thought the best way to get all that was by killing me, Gin Blanco, the semiretired assassin known as the Spider.

So far, I’d put all the challengers in the ground along with Mab, but they just kept on coming. A few weeks ago, I’d brought up the idea of testing and updating the security at all the places I frequented, including Owen’s home and office. There was no point in making things easy for my would-be murderers. Then Finn had piped up and suggested we make it into a contest—with him and Owen trying to outwit me. Of course, that hadn’t turned out exactly like Finn had planned, but I was happy with the outcome. I always liked to win, no matter the game.