The hiss of the bus brakes signaled the end of the line. Chicago.
I stepped out into the damp, icy air, pulling my collar up. I’m forty now. By all rights, I should have retired five years ago. That was always the deal I made with myself: get out at thirty-five, drop off the grid, and go find my daughter. I wanted so desperately to rekindle what we lost, but every time the date drew close, the guilt stopped me. I wanted her to have the best chance at a normal, safe life—not one shadowed by my past.
Just one more year, I’d tell myself. Just one more contract. Now, five years later, here I was. Still running. Still hiding.
I navigated the grey morning streets until I reached the rundown, pay-by-the-hour hotel I’d booked under an alias. The room smelled like stale tobacco and bleach, but it had a lock on the door and hot water. That was all that mattered.
First order of business: a total reset. I stripped down, washed the road grime off my skin, and locked myself in the tiny bathroom. I opened the box of cheap black hair dye I'd grabbed at a corner bodega. As the dark chemical dye washed down the drain, taking my long red hair with it, I stared at the stranger in the mirror. Forty. Battle-scarred. Running on fumes.
Then, a heavy THUD shook the wall.
It came from the room next door. A muffled yell, followed by the violent crash of furniture breaking.
Damn it, I thought, my instincts immediately putting me on high alert. I dried my hands, slipped into my clothes, and reached for my weapon.
Before I could even wrap my fingers around the grip, a frantic, heavy banging hit my front door.
What the fuck? I pressed my back against the wall beside the frame, sliding up to the peep-hole. The angle was bad—the hallway was empty. No hitmen. No tactical gear.
I unlocked the deadbolt, cracked the door open an inch with my gun hidden behind my leg, and looked down.
Standing in the dim light of the hallway, shivering and wide-eyed, was a little girl.