Our last six from LAST CALL ended with a gunshot on a dark, cold, deserted street. My heroine, Rhys, ducks out of sight just as she hears two men arguing over how they’ll get paid for a killing a man without a body. (The victim, it seems, didn’t take a bullet lying down.) The first line belongs to one of the two men.
A hit? Rhys shuddered, vulnerability itching her spine. A professional hit would have been silent—something accomplished by neither the gunshot nor the conversation following it—but in this game, experience wasn’t always a prerequisite for a willingness to pull the trigger. Two years of undercover work had taught her as much.
So had a bullet.
*warning: this WIP has not yet met the brutal hand of my editor.*
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