Can't Tell a Knock From a Shot


I sat bolt upright in bed. My hands darted over my body to check for holes or blood.


Now that I was awake enough to make the distinction I felt foolish for not recognizing the difference between a gunshot and some idiot pounding on my motel room door at 2 AM.


Someone at your door at 2 AM is never good. It didn’t take me that long in this business to figure that out. I pulled on my dusty jeans and tucked my 9mm in the back. There wasn’t time to find that stupid silencer, and I was always misplacing it.


I had to smile at making her, the lady who’d been pounding on the door, miss her second knock, “What?” I tried to look mean.

“You’re him?” It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t.

My hand edged around to where I could whip out my piece, “So?”

“You killed my father yesterday,” she said calmly. That part wasn’t too much of a surprise. Heck, I half expect it most days. The next bit was though, when she said, “I want to hire you.”

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