1
From his hiding spot, Daros watched the uniformed man slip through the woman's SUV trunk. A half-smile crept up before he realized it. The night hadn't been a total failure after all.
Silent as a tiger approaching unsuspecting prey, he moved without hurry. He was camouflaged behind a gas pump when the woman burst out the convenience store door. She was pale as if she'd seen a ghost.
He knew there was no ghost. The woman had found the dead employee's body behind the counter.
When she slammed the driver's door, Daros ran crouched behind an old, tireless car, the words "general mechanics" painted on the rusty body. There he waited, vigilant. The spider waits for the fly, and Daros was patient.
He squinted to see better in the dimness. If the stranger wasn't attacked soon, it was because the guy preferred to get out of there hidden in her vehicle. In that case, plan B would kick in. He had his gun at the ready, prepared to blow out the front tire and stop the clandestine escape. But the attack happened.
Maintaining discretion was no longer the priority, and Daros ran to the SUV. He stopped by the passenger door. The woman was desperately trying to reach her purse. Red alert. There must be something in there that could neutralize the attacker, yes, but also him. So he opened the front door with a sharp movement and the purse fell to the ground, a Taurus 9mm sliding out through the open clasp.
With a quick and precise movement, Daros picked up the pistol that had slipped from the purse. The cold metal rested in his hand for a second, until he stuffed the gun in his jacket pocket, without taking his eyes off the car.
Circling the SUV in absolute silence, he opened the back door with a firm pull. The click of the latch spread through the night.
His target was settling into the back seat, bent over the driver, oblivious to the presence beside him. He was so focused on maintaining control that he didn't notice the danger emerging from outside.
Daros didn't take long to spring into action. With a single movement, he grabbed the man by the collar of his uniform and yanked him violently out of the car. The guy stumbled out, his arms limp as a rag doll's.
Before the target could react or even understand what was happening, the gun butt descended with precision against his temple. The dry sound of wood against bone echoed through the empty parking lot.
The man collapsed onto the asphalt, his head falling like a marionette with its strings cut. Slack. No sound. No chance.
2
Greta brought her hands to her neck by instinct, her trembling fingers caressing the injured skin. Air entered in jolts, as if her lungs needed to relearn how to function. Through the window, she saw her attacker being ripped from his position. Someone had come to her rescue. She was saved.
Still panting, she leaned on the open door and tried to get out. The asphalt seemed to undulate under her feet, the world spinning. Staggering, she used the hood for support, each hesitant step driven by a single thought. She needed to help her savior. Adrenaline was pure gasoline burning in her veins.
But gratitude evaporated in the air before becoming action. In shock, she stopped. Frozen in place, she assessed the scene before her. The image changed everything.
The man lying on the ground wore the station uniform.
And standing beside the motionless figure, too calm, was the same stranger who'd earlier helped her with the gas cans—the helpful man whose eyes didn't smile.
They smiled even less now.
Her brain stitched the facts together without difficulty. The body behind the counter. The empty station. The sickening perfume of the fleeing employee. The confident attitude of the good Samaritan.
Greta turned around, ready to run, but didn't move. An arm wrapped around her waist. The touch wasn't violent, but firm. A firmness that left no room for doubt or choice. The firmness of a sentence.
3
"It's not what it looks like." Daros's tone was devoid of emotion, without any trace of the warmth from moments before.
Terrible choice of words, he reflected. It was the kind of thing that, said aloud, only served to confirm that things were exactly what they looked like. Still, something in her eyes unsettled him. There wasn't just fear in them. There was a trace of something else there, a fragment of an emotion he couldn't name. And for an instant, he almost... Well, he almost reconsidered the plan.
She tried to break free. He couldn't allow it.
In a mechanical gesture, he twisted one of her arms behind her back, forcing the woman's body against his. She was very light, but not inert. Every step they took was charged with the tension of an adversary who wouldn't yield. He led her as if dragging a rebellious prisoner back to their cell: the convenience store.
When they passed the counter, her body stiffened.
The metallic smell of blood, now stronger because of the abrupt predawn wind, invaded her nostrils.
"Don't look," he said, almost gently. "Better not to look."
Next to the refrigerators, Daros grabbed a bottle of mineral water with his free hand, an action as absurd as it was casual. They passed the sink where she'd washed up shortly before, or in another lifetime. He pushed her into the storage room at the back of the store.
The place was small, suffocating, and the window high on the wall was a cruel joke—an eight-inch square, almost insufficient for a starving cat to pass through.
Daros placed the bottle on the floor. The sound of plastic rolling to the woman's feet was the only sound in the world, a monotonous cadence.
He locked the door and waited.
The click of the key sounded loud. A verdict. He remained there for a second, his hand still on the doorknob. Not out of doubt. But out of weariness. What doubt could he possibly have?
Outside, the fallen man awaited him.
And the sooner he finished the job, the better.