The Hit Man by Suzanne Steele, Mayhem Cover Creations, Gypsy Heart Editing, Corey Amador Page A

begging—I save that for the women that I fuck.
    His weak ass whimpering and sniveling was getting on my nerves and I like to think of myself as a man in control, a man who can control his state of irritability.
    “I swear man, I’ll stay away from the parks, the schools, the kids. I’ll never touch another kid again.”
    That pissed me off—by saying he’d stay away from places kids were, he was admitting he knew he was wrong and he was still watching kids—purposely breaking his probation agreement. I slammed the butt of the gun into his face and watched as his skin split down to the bone and another blood curdling scream pierced through the air. Yes, that’s much better.
    “The problem with scumbags like you is that you’re born fucked up and the only way to purge society of you is to kill you. Castration doesn’t even work on men who abuse women and children.”
    A shot rang through the air, well actually a muffled pew-pew thanks to the silencer on my gun, as I pointed the gun between his legs and fired. I watched as his groin splattered open, sending pieces of flesh flying in my direction. I quickly moved out of the way. I still had to drive home and the last thing that I needed was some cop stopping me with blood and flesh matter covering me.
    Damn, I hit his femoral artery. Looks like the fun is over. Just another child molester some mother won’t have to worry about. Hell, I would have killed the son of a bitch for free, but the guy who hired me has a hundred grand to spare and right now, I’m saving my money to buy an island. Fuck going on vacation. When I’m not working, I want to disappear and reappear when I see fit. In my line of work, I have to be a ghost. And buying my own island will allow me to completely disappear when I need to.
     
     

    I made my way out of the shower and threw on a pair of sweats while my computer booted up. I needed coffee, so I meandered my way into my industrial kitchen and began spooning coffee into the stove top espresso maker I use. I set my phone in the charger at my desk and began going through emails as I waited for it to brew.
    I clicked on a message that had been sent from an unfamiliar address and studied it. I immediately knew in my gut that something wasn’t right. I quickly made my way back into the kitchen and poured my coffee. I wanted to give this email my undivided attention and coffee in my system was going to be needed for that.
    I sat back down and read it.
    Miller,
    I received your name and email address through a mutual friend we both did tours in Iraq with. I’m fully aware you don’t normally deal with clients who have requests that involve women. However I think you may be inclined to find this case interesting since the death of a child was involved. I am enclosing all of the party’s personal information. I trust that you will come to the same conclusion I have concerning the individual involved.
    Anticipating your reply.
    Sincerely,
    Mark Bradley
    Though I am a man who believes and relies on statistics that are factual in nature, I also go with my gut, and my gut was telling me something about this request for my services was drastically off in nature. Whether it was a case of someone trying to infiltrate my operation, or a case of a woman being wrongfully accused, I had every intention of getting to the bottom of things and finding the truth.
    The first thing I did was open up the attachment that had been sent with the email. I felt my breath hitch in my chest when I viewed her. The woman in the picture was the epitome of innocence.
    The visage looking back at me socked me in the gut and held me hostage from the moment I laid eyes on it. This woman was the kind of beautiful that is completely opposite of magazine cover beautiful. Her hair hung down to her ass like corn silk—blonde, perfectly straight, virgin hair. Her eyes were so light blue they appeared to be translucent in nature. Her face didn’t have a trace of make-up on her