The Hitman's Return

The handler: First kill

The blindfold came off in a different warehouse.

This one was smaller and colder. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly as if someone had just walked past it. Samuel's wrists were free now. His ankles too. No chair this time. Just a rusty table in the center of the room with a folder on it.

And a man standing in the shadows.

"You're awake. Good."

The voice was younger than the man in the suit. Sharper. Less patient. Samuel watched as the figure stepped into the light.

Late twenties. Clean-shaven. Dark hair cropped short. A scar ran from his left eyebrow to his cheekbone—old, faded, but still visible. He wore a black jacket over a white shirt. No tie. No badge. No indication of who he worked for.

"Who are you?" Samuel asked.

"Your handler. You can call me Vale." The man gestured to the folder. "That's your first task. Read it. Memorize it. Then burn it."

Samuel didn't move toward the table. He studied Vale instead. The way he stood. The way his eyes tracked Samuel's hands. The way his weight shifted slightly to his back foot, ready to move if Samuel attacked.

"You're ex-military," Samuel said.

Vale's expression didn't change. "What makes you say that?"

"Your stance. The way you checked my hands before you looked at my face. You've been in combat. Close quarters. You're used to people trying to kill you."

A pause. Then Vale almost smiled. "They said you were good."

"They said a lot of things about me. Most of them were lies."

Vale nodded toward the folder. "Read it."

Samuel walked to the table. Opened the folder.

Inside: a photograph. A man in his fifties. Heavy-set. Expensive suit. A name printed below the image—Thomas Greer.

"Thomas Greer," Vale said. "Businessman. Imports and exports. Mostly imports. Mostly illegal. He's been moving weapons into the city for the last three years. Our employer wants him dead."

Samuel looked up. "Our employer didn't tell me his name."

"He doesn't tell anyone his name. You'll get used to it."

"Why Greer?"

"Does it matter?"

Samuel closed the folder. "I was a detective. I need to know who I'm killing and why. I don't pull triggers blind."

Vale studied him for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "Greer's been selling to the wrong people. People our employer wants to cut off. No supply, no power. Greer's the supply. Remove him, and the whole chain breaks."

"And the people he's selling to? The ones our employer wants to cut off?"

"What about them?"

"Are they on the list?"

Vale's eyes narrowed. "The list isn't yours yet. You earn that."

Samuel nodded slowly. He understood. This was a test. Kill Greer, prove he could follow orders, and then the real names—the ones that mattered would come.

"Where and when?" Samuel asked.

"Tonight. Eleven PM. Greer has a routine. Every Thursday, he visits his mistress in the penthouse suite at the Grandview Hotel. He stays exactly two hours. He leaves through the service elevator. Alone. His security waits in the lobby."

Vale slid a second photograph across the table. A woman. Blonde. Young. Expensive jewelry.

"His mistress. She's not part of the job. You don't touch her."

"I wasn't planning to."

"Good." Vale pulled a key card from his pocket and placed it on the table. "Service elevator. Floor twenty-eight. Room 2807. You have ninety seconds to do what you need to do and get out. The cameras will be down from 10:58 to 11:02. That's your window."

Samuel picked up the key card. It felt cold in his palm.

"What's my weapon?"

"You don't get a weapon. You're being tested, remember? If you can't figure out how to kill a man with what's in the room, you're not worth our time."

Samuel almost smiled. Ten years in prison had taught him exactly how many ways a man could die with his bare hands.

"I'll need clothes," Samuel said. "A suit. Something that doesn't look like it came from a prison thrift store."

Vale pulled a garment bag from behind the table. Handed it over.

"Your new identity is in the pocket. Michael Cross. Sales executive. You're in town for a conference. The hotel has your reservation."

Samuel unzipped the bag. Black suit. White shirt. Tie. Shoes. Everything fit perfectly.

"You've been planning this," Samuel said.

"We've been watching you for years. We knew the day you'd get out."

Samuel didn't ask how. He didn't care. He just started changing.

***

The Grandview Hotel was all glass.

Samuel walked through the lobby at 10:45 PM wearing the suit that fit him like a second skin. His face was clean-shaven. His hair was combed. He looked like every other businessman in the city—anonymous, forgettable, invisible.

He didn't look at the security guards by the entrance. He didn't look at the front desk. He walked straight to the service elevator, swiped the key card, and stepped inside.

The doors closed.

The elevator rose.

Twenty-eight floors. Fifty-six seconds. Samuel used every one of them to prepare.

He didn't have a weapon. He didn't need one. He'd practiced this moment in his cell a thousand times. Rehearsed every movement. Every angle. Every possible outcome.

The elevator stopped.

The doors opened.

He stepped into a narrow hallway. Thick carpet. Dim lighting. A door at the end—Room 2807.

He walked toward it. Silent. Steady. His heart rate didn't change.

He knocked.

"Room service."

A pause. Footsteps. The lock clicked.

The door opened.

Thomas Greer stood in the doorway in a blue robe. His face was red from wine. His eyes were glassy. He looked at Samuel and frowned.

"I didn't order—"

Samuel moved.

One hand clamped over Greer's mouth. The other grabbed his throat. He pushed the man backward into the room, kicked the door shut, and drove him against the wall.

Greer's eyes went wide. He tried to fight. Clawed at Samuel's hands, kicked at his legs. But ten years of prison strength vs. a soft businessman who spent his days behind a desk? It wasn't a fight.

Samuel leaned close. Spoke low.

"The men you sold weapons to? They sent me. Tell me who they are, and I'll make it quick."

Greer's eyes darted to the bedroom door. His mistress. Samuel didn't turn. Didn't look away.

"She's not part of this. You tell me what I need to know, and she walks out of here alive."

Greer made a strangled sound. Samuel loosened his grip just enough.

"Alan Cross," Greer gasped. "He's the buyer. Runs operations for someone bigger. I don't know who. I swear."

Cross. The same name on the list. Detective Alan Cross.

"Where do I find him?"

Greer's eyes were wet with terror. "The docks. Warehouse 14. He meets his contacts there every Friday night."

Samuel studied his face. Searching for the lie. He didn't find one.

"Thank you," Samuel said.

He snapped Greer's neck with a single twist. Quick. Clean. The body went limp.

Samuel lowered him to the floor. Checked for a pulse. Nothing.

He walked to the bedroom door. Opened it.

The mistress was curled on the bed, trembling, eyes wide with terror. She'd heard everything.

Samuel looked at her. "You didn't see my face. You didn't hear my voice. You were asleep. Do you understand?"

She nodded frantically.

Samuel walked back to the main room, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. The service elevator was still waiting. He stepped inside.

The doors closed.

He was out of the building by 11:05 PM.

Vale was waiting in a black sedan two blocks away.

Samuel slid into the passenger seat. The door clicked shut. Vale looked at him. A long, appraising silence.

"Time?" Samuel asked.

"Two minutes and fourteen seconds from entry to exit. Not bad for a first time."

Samuel didn't respond. He was already thinking about Alan Cross. Warehouse 14. The docks.

"Cross," Samuel said. "You knew."

Vale started the engine. "We knew. We're the ones who put him on the list."

"Then why didn't you just tell me?"

"Because you needed to prove you could do it." Vale pulled the car into traffic. "Now you have. Next step: Friday night. Cross is yours. After that, the list opens up."

Samuel looked out the window. The city lights blurred past. Ten years ago, he'd walked these streets with a badge. Now he walked them with blood on his hands.

He felt nothing.

Not guilt. Not regret. Just cold, empty purpose.

He'd killed one man tonight. He would kill more.

Every name on the list was one step closer to the faces that had destroyed him.

"This is just the beginning," Samuel said.

Vale glanced at him. "I know."

The car disappeared into the night.