Some would have called him a psychopath, because he could kill so casually. It didn’t show. He was friendly, personable — the last person anyone would suspect of having killed other human beings. His eyes were as animated and open as the barely-legal adult he resembled. Casual acquaintances could talk with him for hours and be surprised later, if it occurred to them to think about how very much about themselves they’d revealed. People frequently told him what a good listener he was. The first thought of most people he interrogated, as they were walking away, was, “What a nice guy.” The ones who experienced his less nice side usually didn’t walk away at all.
The Bane Sidhe shrinks had never tampered with his mind, other than basic training and some minor counseling — from other operators. The counseling department’s internal records did not define him as a psychopath. The diagnoses section of his file had only had three entries: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder — in remission; Survivor Guilt — active; Natural Killer — empathy and conscience intact. For an active assassin with over fourteen years work experience, his caseworker considered the list extremely short. Past all the psychobabble, he had nightmares. He dealt with what he could, and gutted out the rest. If asked, he would have attributed his success to keeping the damned shrinks the fuck out of his head. And being smart enough to take his goddamned leave when he got it and go unwind.
George’s job hadn’t been his first choice of career. Information was his first love and his driving passion. Given the option, he would have become strictly an intelligence operative. Unfortunately, in this business having a rare talent could and did override personal career preference. He worked for a cause; therefore he did what they most needed him to do. He got some scope for his real calling in his job; the organization didn’t have targets for him every day, or even every month. His information seeking on the job was never enough for him, so like most people he had to pursue his driving interest in his off hours, as a hobby.
Right now, he was using his enhanced hearing to listen to a local underworld lackey shake down the bartender for the weekly fire insurance premium. Not something an observer would have guessed from the way he was leering at the brunette seducing the pole on stage. As her generous cheeks approached within inches of his face, he tucked a fiver into her g-string, fumbling like the youth he appeared to be. Shy kid was a good cover. It kept him from having to yell his enthusiasm and risk missing crucial words in whatever conversation he was eavesdropping on at the time. Enhanced hearing didn’t mean other noise couldn’t drown things out. Particularly if it was his own voice.
“Eleven hundred this week, Pat. Cough it up.”
“What? That’s up two hundred from last week. You’re drivin’ me out of business!”
“Value for the money, Pat. You wanna pay the cops instead? Ask around. They’re charging fifteen, and they don’t do so good.”
“Don’t make no difference if I can’t keep my doors open,” the bartender, apparently the owner, muttered under his breath.
“Pat, you’re a stand-up guy. You know I like you. You know I like you, right? But the boss, he can’t make no exceptions. You’re a good customer, always pay on time. Don’t give me no excuses. Tell you what, I’ll ask Jimmy. Maybe he needs a favor and you can work it off in kind.”
“Uh… Now that I think about the numbers again, it’s a stretch but I can do it.” The man was talking fast, obviously eager to avoid owing Jimmy Lucas a favor. George didn’t blame him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the muscle clapping Pat the bar owner on the back.
Light spilled into the dimly lit bar, backlighting a female figure. A very nice female figure. George wasn’t the only patron whose eyes were drawn to the door. As the woman stepped into the room he blinked. Oh, her. He frowned. She sure dressed to look comfortable in a strip bar.
He signaled the bartender for another round as she pulled up a chair at his table, facing the stage. She put a hand on his knee while eying the girl on the pole, pulling out a wad of cash with her other hand. Good move to avoid pissing off the management. Only problem was that inevitably a girl danced over to wave her g-string in the direction of more money. Okay, not really a problem. His cover was a damned good excuse to openly leer at Cally O’Neal. He wasn’t complaining.
“What do you want, gorgeous?” he asked.
“You, baby, only you.” She squeezed his knee. “Truly. That trip out of town I’ve got coming up, I want you with me.” She slid her hand up and across his shoulder, pressing against his arm to nibble on his ear. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. She was taking realism a bit far.
“One of your covers is perfect for an inside man,” she whispered, then leaned back and began stroking her nails through his hair. “I need you so much, Boopsie.”
Boopsie? I’m gonna kill her. “I’ll see if I can get off.” He suppressed a wince at his own unfortunate choice of words.
“Baby, I can guarantee that.” She leaned over and gave him a kiss so hot he almost melted into a puddle on the floor. She groped his dick, hard enough that he could feel her fingernails through his jeans, before straightening to walk out the door. She left a few bills on the table to pay for the beer she wouldn’t be drinking. Normally, the brush and grope wouldn’t have bothered him a bit, only he knew damned well she had zero intention of following through. Who the hell was he kidding? The only objection he had to having Cally O’Neal blatantly molest his body was that nothing else was gonna happen. One of the other assassin’s well-known rules of professionalism was that she didn’t screw the operatives. Dammit.
The owner set the two beers down on the table. “Tell your friend we don’t allow working girls on the premises unless they work here. Not that we wouldn’t sign her up if she wants to come back.” He laid a card on the table beside the beer. “If she ever wants to dance, have her call us.”
“I’ll do that.” George grinned as he pocketed the card. He certainly would. He didn’t know her all that well, but the expression on her face would probably be priceless.
The attempt to recruit him for whatever she had going was another thing all together. He’d heard some disturbing rumors about her performance since that mess back on Titan, and seven years was a long break from real work, rejuv or no rejuv. He wasn’t all that sure he wanted to work with her. For the organization’s sake, he’d check things out before he made up his mind. Time to set up a little talk with Tommy Sunday.
It wasn’t really a good tourist day out past the barrier islands. The sky was that flat gray tinged with painful UV purple that people who didn’t have to sail under it called “leaden.” Tommy just called it damned cold, and stuffed his hands farther into his windbreaker, hunching miserably against the icy spray. Only a father’s love would have gotten him out on this boat today to help his son-in-law, Pete, try to bring in the last catches before the weather got really foul.
He stood at the railing, collar flipped up, baseball cap jammed on his head against sunburn, but otherwise appearing perfectly comfortable, the bastard. George, in a fit of what Tommy considered insanity, had volunteered to come along for the ride.