By Jenise Cook
Happy hour at the bar. Cheap hors d’oeuvres, drinks, and dozens of half-drunk suits. The city lights sparkle against the night sky through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I scan the room. My keen, empath senses tingle. They’re how I find my mark. A tall drink of water stares at me. He oozes danger.
My client said he would.
The mark slips his hand into his expensive coat pocket and walks toward me.
Gun in my right pocket, I text with my left. “I found him. What do I do with him?”
My phone chirps. “Service denied.”
I didn’t see that coming.
“I write because I can’t not write.” – the writer