1

  Honourable Criminal

  Eight Years Later; Present Day

  UNLIKE THE AUTUMN CHICAGO STREETS, the client’s office was warm. The scent of Cuban cigars and overpriced cologne enveloped the room in a cloud of luxury—a stark contrast to the sleazy underground bar Killian had been in a couple hours prior to finish his commission. The secretary escorting him shut the door behind her.

  Killian’s lips quirked in a mischievous but charming smile—one the Jackdaw was known for. “Good evening, Mr Harrison.”

  Frank Harrison was a silhouette of a middle-aged man. He stood before floor-length windows, watching the cityscape shine against a haunting night sky and drown out the stars. He turned at the sound of Killian’s voice with a relaxed smile.

  Greying dark hair, an Italian face, and a suit worth more than the watch on Killian’s own wrist. The classic depiction of an Italian mobster, except he was considered a businessman; the partner of a law firm working for every rich devil in the city.

  Frank approached with a whiskey glass in hand. “Old friend!” he greeted good-naturedly. “I trust the job went well?” His heavy hand patted the young man’s shoulder.

  “As always,” Killian said, shrugging. “The rest of my fee?”

  Frank chuckled. “In due time, Mr. Daw. Please, have a seat and a drink before you head off.” He made his way past Killian to the accent table, upon which was a tray holding an intricately designed bottle and just as intricate crystal glasses to accompany it. “You don’t have another appointment scheduled, do you?”

  “Actually I do, but one drink won’t hurt.” Killian leant against the desk. “You just miss me or is there something else to discuss?”

  Frank poured Killian a glass, and topped off his own, before turning with both in hand. “Think of it as a farewell drink.”

  Killian raised a brow. “A farewell drink, eh?” He accepted the glass.

  Frank laughed. “Don’t sound so tense, my friend. I have a flight to Europe the morning after tomorrow’s trial, and there’s no telling when we’ll chat like this again,” he said. “Besides, I wanted to discuss the pest problem we’ve been having recently.”

  “Pest problem?” Killian took a sip.

  “The feds have been sniffing around where they don’t belong more than usual lately, and it’s made a lot of the gangs antsy… I’m sure you can guess what I’m getting at.”

  Killian frowned. “A witch hunt for moles.”

  “Precisely. Freelancers such as yourself should be careful in times like these. Don’t step on anyone’s toes, my friend.”

  Killian downed the last of the liquor before setting the glass down on the desk behind him. “I appreciate the concern, Frank,” he said, then smiled expectantly, holding out a hand, “but I’d appreciate it more if I got paid.”

  Frank clicked his tongue in disapproval, yet still reached inside his suit to produce a wad of cash. “Young people these days, always so impatient.” He placed the five grand in Killian’s waiting hand.

  Killian grinned with a cheery “thank you”, tucking the money away in the inner pocket of his leather jacket.

  “You know what happens if that bastard doesn’t confess and plead guilty tomorrow, right?” Frank said, his lighthearted tone suddenly shifting. “Not only will my flight be delayed but—”

  “I’ll be in big trouble. Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Killian interrupted. “How many times have you hired me? You know I deliver what I promise. Must you consistently repeat yourself?”

  “That may be true but having no guarantor’s still unsettling.”

  Killian smiled. “Then it’s a good thing I’m trustworthy.”

  Frank chuckled. “Well, I won’t keep you for longer,” he said, sparing a glance at his gold wristwatch. “Wouldn’t want you to be late for your next appointment.”

  Killian stepped forward. “Something tells me I’ll end up late regardless,” he said as they shook hands. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Harrison. Have a safe flight.”

  “Thank you.” Frank withdrew his hand, smile softening, gaze hesitant, as if he wanted to say more. “Stay out of trouble, kid.”

  Killian grinned. “Now that’s a hard promise to keep.” With a laugh, he headed for the door.

  “And Killian?” It seemed Frank had won the internal fight against his own reluctance. Killian paused in the door frame, glancing over his shoulder. “I heard from my brother that Vegas is splendid this time of year. You should visit sometime.”

  Killian knitted his brows, puzzled, but carefully nodded nonetheless. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said uncertainly. “See you around, Frank.”

  Shaking off the ominousness of Frank Harrison’s last words, Killian hugged his jacket closer to combat the biting wind once he made it out of the building, and started towards the train station nearby. As he strolled along the sidewalk, he became increasingly aware of a subtle presence at his heels, except—each time he glanced behind—there was no one there. Despite that, he trusted his instincts and couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being followed.

  Even after having gone two blocks from the law firm, that creepy sensation of eyes watching his every move continued to persist. It was then that he had enough. Killian stopped to hail a passing cab in an attempt to lose the tail his paranoia (and experience) convinced him he had. During the ride, he checked the back window almost excessively to see if there were any suspicious vehicles following but was met with nothing out of the ordinary. He heaved a sigh of relief.

  Twenty or so minutes later, Killian arrived at his destination without a hitch.

  He stood outside the towering hotel, hands in his jacket’s pockets. He tilted his head back to gaze up at the building’s spire, hidden within murky clouds; an eerily fanciful image.

  He braced himself. Breathed deep, exhaled, watched the air fog; then nodded, and passed the bellhop on his way inside.

  The bar he’d agreed to meet Olivia in was on the rooftop of this prestigious hotel, and no matter how many times he ascended that golden elevator he was certain he’d never grow used to it.

  It wasn’t the faint jazz playing on the ride up nor the opulent scent of sandalwood and bergamot—he’d grown somewhat used to that. But it was the irritation bubbling in his gut; the invisible collar around his throat, and the leash which rested in the steel grip of a certain federal agency threatening to ruin his life—that was what he had a hard time getting used to.

  At first, he’d found it amusing.

  Shaking hands in the criminal underworld while whispering in the ear of the FBI. Only telling them what he needed them to know, keeping the majority of his clients’ secrets safe. He would demolish the competition and enemies he’d garnered throughout the years while simultaneously protect his regulars, who brought him plenty of work and money.

  Yes, it had been fun…until the FBI began acting more and more like a clingy lover begging for every second of his every day. Now, it had become tedious and bothersome.

  As one who despised being under anyone’s thumb—especially that of his nation’s arrogant government—Killian could feel himself itching to run away every single time he ascended that accursed elevator to bark like the unfortunate dog he’d become.

  Sighing, he looked over at his reflection. Definitely not abiding by the dress code, he thought, eyeing the black tee beneath his leather jacket, along with his distressed jeans and worn boots.

  His gaze drifted to his unruly black hair, even more unruly than usual as a result of the violent wind outside. “I guess I should at least fix this rat’s nest,” he muttered and tried to sort it out—not that it made much of a difference.

  Then, a ding sounded. The metal doors slid open.

  One leg elegantly placed over the other in her sleek red evening dress, Olivia Astley sat at the bar, sipping on a martini. As he approached, Killian made eye contact with her through the mirror behind the bar, flashing his signature smile.

  Olivia rolled her eyes, turning to face him. “Late as usual, Mr. Diakos,” she said, swishing the drink in her glass from side to side, an unimpressed look on her oval face. “It’s becoming a bad habit.”

  Killian slid onto the stool beside her. “Easy, agent, I got caught up with a client,” he said. “You forget I’m not your dog to be called upon at any time. I have my own business to take care of, you know.”

  Her icy glare challenged the playful warm sparkle in his eyes. “And you’re forgetting how our arrangement works.” She watched him, as though trying to analyse his soul. He wasn’t fazed by her scrutinising stare and only smiled. “We pick a mutt like you up off the streets instead of throwing you in the pound, you are required to be at our beck and call.”

  Killian’s smile twitched. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” He turned to the bartender. “I’ll have the most expensive thing you’ve got.” He tilted his head in Olivia’s direction. “Put it on her tab.”

  The bartender spared her a hesitant glance, and Olivia waved her dismissive approval.

  “How very bold of you,” she said drily.

  Killian shrugged. “An owner should feed their dog accordingly, no?”

  She downed the rest of her martini, setting it down with a clink. “I suppose you’re not wrong.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Killian propped his elbow on the bar and leaned in closer, voice lowered. “What in the fuck have you suits been doing in my territory?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “What am I talking—” Cutting himself off, Killian let out a scoff of disbelief. “What am I talking about? I’m talking about your agents sticking their noses in every fucking hole they see. The underworld’s become restless. They’re hunting for moles, and guess who’s gonna be one of their first targets due to his lone wolf nature?” He jabbed at his own chest. “Me.”

  “You?” Olivia was sceptical. “What makes you think they’d—”

  “I was warned,” he interrupted, receiving his pricey shot of liquor. He took a sip before continuing, “And tailed when I left my client’s place. Lost it though. Was it one of yours?”

  She shook her head carefully. “Don’t think so.” Her brows furrowed, perturbed. “How sure are you that it was a tail?”

  Killian sent her a look. “I think I’ve been on the verge of death enough times to tell the difference between a coincidence and a tail, Agent Astley,” he said. “As it stands, it seems my position has been compromised and I’d appreciate some protection.”

  Olivia sighed. “Afraid I can’t do anything just yet,” she said, much to his dismay. “The agency’s connections haven’t detected anything out of the ordinary. I’ll have to call it in to HQ and they’ll decide our next move. Lay low until then.”

  Rolling his eyes, Killian lifted the glass to his lips. “We’ll see if I survive until then,” he muttered before tasting the bitter liquor. Yet, despite his clear dissatisfaction, he moved on from the topic. “Putting aside my low probabilities of breathing until next Tuesday, what’d you call on me for?”

  Killian then noticed the brown envelope resting by Olivia’s elbow. She slid it towards him on the bar.

  “Know who called this hit?”

  Killian opened it and reached inside. He held one of the photographs in the light and studied the image. It was of a crime scene or—to be exact—a dead body. A clean kill. At first glance, the corpse appeared to only harbour a single bullet wound to the forehead.

  Olivia must have hoped he’d recognise the victim, and thus possibly have an idea of who wanted him dead. Killian glanced at her over the picture. He wondered how he should break the bad news of his uselessness.

  He began by saying, “Sorry.” And dropped the photo back in the envelope. “Never seen this man in my life, and I’d remember if I heard talk about there being a hit out on someone I don’t know.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Olivia stopped his hand from sliding the folder back. Killian’s pulse skipped two beats; stomach plummeted. He suppressed a flinch, caught off guard by the sudden contact, gaze darting from her hand to her eyes.

  She’s afraid.

  That was a first. Since when had Agent Astley ever been rattled? Retracting his hand, he wished he’d remembered to wear his gloves that night.

  “Take a look at the other photos,” she said. “Maybe something’ll catch your eye.”

  Killian sighed. I doubt it, he thought but picked up the envelope again, pouring its contents out on the counter. What could I possibly notice that your people didn’t?

  He spread the photographs out, expression unchanging as he examined each image. As expected he couldn’t discern anything other than the most obvious. The body was found in Lake Michigan; it was of a man in his early to mid thirties; and it was—quite clearly to Killian—a professional mob hit. One bullet right between the eyes. That was it. There was nothing else to go on.

  Again, Killian looked up at Olivia. “I…what can I say, Astley?” Leaning back, he motioned helplessly to the photos. “It’s a clean hit. Could’ve been the Outfit, could’ve been a contract killer, could’ve been anyone. Who’s this guy anyway? You ran his prints through the system, right?”

  Seeing the extent of his usefulness, Olivia pursed her lips and snatched up the envelope, gathering the pictures. Killian felt uneasy. She was blatantly ignoring his questions. Who was that man?

  “I apologise for wasting your time,” she said, rising. “It was my mistake for thinking you’d know anything about this.”

  Killian raised his brows. “Excuse me?”

  “Feel free to take your time finishing your drink, Diakos.”

  Then she strode off, leaving Killian feeling less like an informant and more like a doormat. Watching her go, he breathed a scoff.

  “She called me out on a Sunday night, demanded I arrive here on time despite my already made plans just to ask a couple questions that she could’ve asked on the phone, and left like it was nothing?” Killian turned to the bartender, who was polishing a glass with a faraway look in his eyes. “Can you believe the audacity?”

  “Frankly, sir,” said the bartender, “you should be used to this by now.”

  He was right.

  Killian silently downed the remainder of his drink. He didn’t stay long after Olivia left. Returning home to sleep seemed like a better idea than wasting time at a lounge bar where he didn’t belong.

  On the way home the chilling sensation of the shadows watching his every move returned and, again, he was forced to take an absurdly winding path to his destination. Exhaustion clouded Killian’s mind, mingling with afterimages of the corpse he studied. Reaching to unlock his apartment door, he wanted nothing more than to sleep.

  Perhaps that was why he failed to notice the lovely new addition to his front door until the knife’s hilt was inches from his forehead. He froze, gaze slowly drifting up to the lodged blade, then to the word sharply carved into wood in large daunting letters:

  SNITCH

  The knife was wedged in at the tail end of the “H”.

  Despite himself, Killian snickered. “How welcoming,” he said, stepping back. The strip of tape he’d attached between door and frame was left untouched.

  He tilted his head. Did they sneak in through the window? Or is this a warning to give me time to skip town? He really hoped it was the latter. After all, he had helped enough demons for at least one of them to wish for his continued survival, surely? It’d be difficult for them to use him as a tool if he were dead.

  Killian shook his head, snapping out of his thoughts.

  Rather than head inside, he pocketed his apartment key and shouldered open the metal door behind him. Inside the stairwell, he crouched at a cracked section of the baseboard, which—like most everything in that decrepit building—was a sneeze away from rotting. The panel came off easily, revealing a space big enough for the gun sitting within. If it weren’t for the fact that he had to visit his client and handler that night, unable to avoid metal detectors, he would’ve carried it on him. Killian hid the gun in his jacket and didn’t bother fixing the panel back in place; his intuition told him he wouldn’t be returning. He finally entered the apartment with a turn of the key.

  Weak streams of light from the corridor poured into the kitchen. Indistinct shadows played tricks on his mind. Standing in the doorway, Killian blindly slapped his hand on the light switch beside the door.

  Nothing happened.

  The power just had to be out today of all days. It wasn’t a great sign, but it wasn’t a reason to panic either. This happened nearly every week, it didn’t mean anything—or that was what he tried to convince himself.

  Having the apartment’s layout practically tattooed behind his eyelids, Killian decided to put up with it and stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. Dust fell from the ceiling. The sound of muffled wind surrounded him.

  With the door shut, the only illumination was from the dim streetlights glowing outside the living room window. The window that was clasped shut. Then, why was there the sound of wind? Had he left the bedroom window open?

  Killian made a beeline for his bedroom. His every step sounded louder than usual against the creaky floorboards.

  At the door, an indescribable chill crawled across his skin, up his spine. His instincts screamed at him to do something—anything—so he listened and reached for the grip of the gun in his jacket, flipping off the safety.

  A flicker of movement out the corner of his eye.

  Killian’s gaze darted to the reflection in the window beside him, heart dropping to the pit of his stomach. Behind him was the shadowed figure of a man holding a baseball bat over his head.

  Killian spun around, pistol aimed, and pulled the trigger. But the intruder was mid-swing and had struck the gun out of his hand, causing the bullet to miss its target by a hair’s breadth.

  The gun clattered off into the darkness.

  Before Killian could recover, the man swung again, this time striking him in the back of his shoulder.

  Killian lost balance. He stumbled to the floor, on his knees, but the pain was like a fleeting camera flash once he spotted the metallic glint of his gun under the couch.

  Teeth gritted, he lunged for it, reaching, just about grasping the grip— then a heavy weight stomped his back, flattening him, knocking the air from his lungs.

  A raspy chuckle.

  The intruder seized Killian by the hair and jerked his head back. The ghost of a manic grin played on the man’s thin lips, accompanying the words, “Caught you, little rat.”

  Killian couldn’t help but laugh. “Actually”—his fingers clenched the familiar polymer grip—“I’m a street mutt, but good guess.”

  He yanked the gun out and fired. A resounding bang, and the simultaneous crash of shattering glass. For an instant, he thought the bullet shot through the window…but no.

  Just as it had lodged in the assailant’s shoulder, forcing him to release Killian, so did a force pull him back several steps. A looming silhouette shadowed him like a gold-eyed wraith. It had a steel grip on his arm, and a silver glint had pierced through the man’s abdomen like a lone star glittering in the night sky. Dark liquid trickled to the ground in rivulets.

  On his back, gun still levelled at the man’s chest, Killian was frozen. His eyes snapped upward, briefly meeting a gaze sharper and colder than any blade. That gaze was oddly judgmental, as if asking if he were braindead. But, before he could utter a word, that silver glint left the assailant’s body, and the strange silhouette leapt out the shattered window.

  …Eh?

  What was that? A guardian angel? That was Killian’s initial thought but he quickly decided that wasn’t right. Apparently there really is a devil out there who still wants me alive.

  He then composed himself and rose to his feet. The intruder, equally bewildered, had long since dropped his weapon and was cursing nonstop as he applied pressure to his stab wound, sunken to the floor. Killian would usually take a second to toss a witty remark, but he honestly just wanted to leave.

  “You can’t run, Daw!” the intruder snarled at his retreating back, along with another tirade of insults. “Where’er you go, we’ll find you, and you will get what’s comin’ to you!”

  Killian cast a glance over his shoulder. “If you survive, tell Callagher he’s gotta work a little harder than this to catch a roach like me.” He flashed a dashing grin, then ducked into the bedroom and locked the door.

  Rubbing the back of his shoulder, Killian winced and exhaled a shaky breath. That was a close call. He’d grown too lax lately. As he collected himself, a cold breeze brought awareness to the gaping hole where the glass of his bedroom window should’ve been.

  “There’s the draft,” he muttered. “Sorry, Mr. Landlord, but no way am I paying all these repair costs.”

  Killian went to kneel by his bedside, tucking the gun away. Beneath the bed were a couple loose floorboards which he had stuffed with a duffel bag full of his getaway essentials, including—but not limited to—emergency cash, a burner phone, fake credentials, clothes, and an extra gun.

  It was definitely not recommended to bring firearms to an airport—lest he face the wrath of the TSA—but he didn’t feel all that comfortable leaving the building defenceless either. He decided to toss them somewhere along the way.

  Slinging the bag strap over his body, the broken glass cracked under Killian’s boots as he stood before the icy wind, hesitating despite knowing better than to loiter.

  Where do I even go? Where can I even go?

  Killian stepped out of the window onto the rickety fire escape on the other side. It doesn’t matter, he thought, pulling his phone out. I’ll know what to do once I’m at the airport.

  The message on his lock-screen, however, made him falter. It was from his father:

  ‘I have a bad feeling tonight, you should stay home instead of doing your commissions.’

  Killian managed a weak smile. “It’s a little too late for that, Dad.” And he unlocked the phone to dial 911.

  Feigning worry, he told the operator that he’d heard gunshots from the apartment’s location and made sure an ambulance was deployed before ending the call. Then, to satiate his paranoia, he erased the phone, snapped his SIM card, and dropped both into the alleyway below.

  For a lingering moment, Killian peered over the edge of the fire escape at the shattered remains of his phone. There was no going back now.

  “Well,” he said, hiking the bag up his shoulder, “time to get the hell out of Dodge.”