I was alive when the bullet hit me.

  And even more alive after I died.

  My name then was Daniel Korr.

  Forty-two years old.

  Twenty in the business of making other people’s problems disappear.

  Business card said Asset Recovery.

  Clients called me a fixer.

  Enemies called me nothing at all.

  In my line of work, debt came in all forms.

  Money. Secrets. People.

  Mercy was another currency.

  Spent only if the return was worth it.

  That day started like any other.

  Coffee strong enough to burn a hole in your gut.

  A client who wanted someone reminded of his obligations.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  And lunch with Claire.

  Claire was twenty-eight.

  Sharp as broken glass.

  Wore a business suit like she’d invented it.

  One of the few people I could stand to share a table with.

  Partly because she smiled with her eyes.

  And partly because she could eviscerate a man twice my size with just a tilt of her head.

  One day she’d do the same to me.

  I wasn’t sure if I dreaded it.

  Or looked forward to it.

  Work, as usual.

  Until the West Docks.

  The meeting wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

  A quiet exchange.

  Signed papers.

  A man leaving lighter in the pockets.

  Rain slicked the cobbles until they shone.

  Then he stepped from the alley.

  Tall.

  Gray coat.

  Hand in his pocket.

  I knew his face.

  Though it took a moment to remember why.

  Three years ago, I’d taken something from him he’d never get back.

  A girl with terrified eyes.

  A voice that still haunted my dreams.

  I thought that job was finished.

  Clearly, I was wrong.

  I should have brought two men instead of one.

  Running would only earn me a bullet in the spine.

  He smiled.

  Bitter and slow.

  The pistol came up.

  Matte black.

  Ugly.

  “Daniel,” he said.

  Just that.

  The shot was quiet.

  Almost polite.

  But the impact took my breath.

  I went down hard.

  Knees first on the wet stone.

  Blood filled my mouth.

  The streetlight blurred into a halo above me.

  I wondered, absurdly, if Claire would hear before the papers ran it.

  Then the cold hit.

  Like falling into a frozen river.

  No surface.

  Bottom

  Or light.

  Some men would have prayed.

  Saints.

  Mercy.

  Forgiveness.

  I never saw the point.

  So go on then, goddess.

  Do your miracle.

  Wash me clean.

  Scrub the blood off my hands.

  Make me a saint in your story.