DISCLAIMER: This is a preview of my upcoming novel Summertime, Assassins, & Other Skullduggeries. Note the final product might differ from this excerpt. The author holds all applicable copyrights.
As a native New Yorker, I’m of two minds when it comes to the Big Apple. On the one hand, the sprawling metropolis is quintessential America, embodying the country’s best and worst traits all at once.
The beauty. The elegance. The entrepreneurship.
The overindulgence, the rudeness, the greed.
The views are spectacular, the skyscrapers awe-inspiring.
And suffocating.
Sidewalks are entirely too crowded. Tourists are often a bit too obvious about the fact that they’re tourists. Seriously, can’t you at least move off to the side when you stop in the middle of Times Square to gawk at all the pretty lights?
Then there’s the assumption that the whole state is like this. Fact is, New York City is a beast unto itself. Anyone who thinks the whole state is like this has clearly never seen Niagara Falls up-close or experienced how close-knit Buffalo will go bonkers if the Bills are any good that particular fall.
To say nothing of the beauty that is the Finger Lakes region, especially when the leaves change color. Why New Yorkers travel to New England every damn autumn to watch the leaves change is beyond me.
And there is no beauty in this world quite like Syracuse University’s campus after the year’s first snowfall.
Still, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a certain kinship whenever I’m in Manhattan. I’m more upstate than city girl, but it’s hard not to appreciate everything New York City is—both the good and the bad. Even now, I surge with adrenaline when my plane touches down at La Guardia. That feeling sticks with me all the way through baggage claim and even when I slip into the back of the black limo that was waiting for me. There’s even a man in a black coat and top hat holding a sign with my name on it.
What’s more New York than that?
A slice at Angelo’s Coal Oven on 57th—which is where I tell my driver to take me as soon as we pull away from the terminal.
Yes, this is a work trip, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take my time and enjoy the finer things this city has to offer.
Like greasy pizza that doesn’t fit on the plate.
New York traffic being what it is, riding in a limo’s not as cool as you might think. It’s really no different than sitting in the back of a taxi or taking a car service; the only thing the limo does is tell everyone else how important the person riding thinks they are.
I’m going no faster than anyone else, but I’m not the one paying for this ride, so I’m content to keep my mouth shut and help myself to a bottle of imported German beer sitting in the mini fridge separating me from the driver.
I’m halfway through my drink when the limo pulls to the curb and creeps to a stop. The symphony of car horns and bicycle bells and businessmen yammering into the smartphones glued to their ears is as annoying as it is familiar, but that’s not why I’m frowning as I peer out the window.
We’re still three blocks from my destination.
The glass partition lowers, and I see a pair of coal black eyes staring at me through the rearview mirror. I arch a brow and polish off the rest of my beer. The eyes staring at me narrow.
“Go three blocks north,” the driver says in an accent I can’t place. They’re the first words he’s uttered this whole trip. Guy wouldn’t even speak to me when I offered to buy him a slice. “Corner of 6th and 53rd.”
I get out on the driver’s side, leaving the empty bottle on the seat and instinctively tossing the middle finger at whoever was laying on the horn behind us. The driver’s side window lowers and I get my first good look at the driver. Full face, scraggly beard—the kind that needs a weed whacker more than a razor. There’s a deep scar along the right side of his face, and it’s as ugly as the sneer he tosses my way.
“Tip,” he mutters, extending his left hand palm-up.
It’s all I can do not to smirk. “New Years Eve at Times Square: horribly overrated.”
The driver shouts a word I don’t understand as I make my way to the hotel in question. I toss him the middle finger over my shoulder in response. I try not to make a habit of being rude, but I got a bad vibe from the guy and frankly, my reputation is such that I can afford to be a bit snippy.
Especially when we’re this close to June.
The Hilton Midtown stretches toward the sky, the sort of hotel that’s likely hosted its share of swanky affairs over the years. No telling how many companies and organizations had booked this place for their meetings and conferences and black-tie dinners. Whatever excuse to visit New York City, get dressed up for a night, and pretend you’re more important than you really are.
That’s another thing this city’s good at: making people think they’re better, smarter, more consequential than they really are. How else could a failed real estate tycoon and reality TV star with multiple bankruptcies and decades of litigation end up in the White House for anything more than a guided tour?
Slipping through the golden revolving doors, I take an immediate right. I pause long enough to refer to the folded-up piece of paper in my pocket, studying the directions I’d hastily jotted down in Miami last night. I take the escalator—the directions specifically mentioned the escalators—until reaching the third floor.
From there, I hang a left and cross to the end of the hall. A conference room sits to my left, and I enter the room without checking the name sign on the wall. Three chandeliers greet me, illuminating a carpet that’s equal parts sea green and muted orange. Whoever picked those colors should be fired, because they had clearly been high when taking the gig.
Something’s not right, and I don’t mean the carpet.
The room’s empty.
Well, unless you count the giant flat screen monitor to my right. A monitor that lit up the second I entered the room. I shield my eyes and curse under my breath, ignoring the low hum booming through the speakers. Like the old PlayStation boot-up sound, but less fun. I feel the bass deep in my chest and lower my arm once the white fades to blue and a logo appears.
Bailey Industries, Inc.
The logo disappears and I’m left staring at an impossibly bald man apparently missing his eyebrows. Or maybe that’s just the black-rimmed glasses. If this is who I think it is, he’s a young-looking sixty (if such a thing exists) and that smarmy grin stuck to his face is the sort I’d love to slap. Even through the screen.
I was led to believe this would be an in-person meeting. I don’t like being misled, so let’s just say we’re not off to a great start. I fold my arms over my chest and glare at the screen. I have half a mind to turn around and walk out, but something tells me this guy has some brute standing at the doorway to make sure I can’t.
Besides, the kind of money Hunter Bailey’s got? Makes it really hard to tell him no.
He knows it, too.
“Miss Rhoades,” Hunter greets in that faux-cheery voice businessmen probably learned the first day of business school. The sort of voice that fools the gullible and no one else.
But I don’t need sincerity.
All I need is a name and for the check to clear.
“Apologies for not being there in-person. There are overseas matters that require my immediate attention.”
“Phone call would’ve sufficed.”
The only saving grace so far is the fact that I haven’t had to pay for anything. Not even lunch. Still, I’m not a fan of talking to a giant television screen, and I can’t help the way my gut’s screaming at me.
No, not because of the pizza.
Something’s off about all this, but I can’t tell what. This feels so…conspiratorial. Hunter’s the sort who spends money just to prove how much money he has, and while I have no issue taking advantage of that, I’d be lying if I said this passed the smell test.
Hunter removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not with material this sensitive, I’m afraid.”
I glance over my shoulder. Another drink would be nice right now, because that voice in the pit of my stomach is screaming. Hunter’s the sort of billionaire to flaunt the fact that he’s a billionaire—which is why half the country hates him, even though he’s the toast of the town in Washington. Especially in military circles.
“There are two armed guards at the door,” Hunter says. “More for privacy than anything.”
Hunter’s American, but he just pronounced privacy like he’s British. For that alone, he needs a swift backhand to the face.
“Spill,” is all I can say.
“In a hurry?” Hunter’s smug grin grows wider and he puts his glasses back on. How they stay on that impossibly thin nose of his, I’ll never know. “Oh, that’s right. Your little…deadline.”
“Figured you’d be the one in a hurry,” I counter, “considering the money you’ve already spent on me. Awful big investment before I even tell you if I’m taking the job or not.”
“Would it help if I let you spend a night on the town on my dime?” Hunter shrugged. “Charge a room, book an escort, run up a massive bar tab. Whatever makes you feel more comfortable.”
Generally speaking, the more generous a potential employer is before an agreement’s been reached, the more complicated and dangerous the assignment. Most assassins are predictable in that they’ll chase the biggest payday possible, and there are plenty willing to take advantage of that.
Hunter Bailey is America’s richest war mongerer. Newsweek had him on the cover three months ago and tallied his net worth at $50 billion, and he’s seemingly first in line for every juicy contract from the Department of Defense. The fact that he’s reached out to me for something is as curious as it is suspicious, and I have no choice but to at least hear him out.
Assassins can turn down jobs, but we can’t be disrespectful about it. That’s a good way to get blackballed. Or worse.
Still, the fact that Hunter hasn’t offered any details yet, and instead has done nothing but try to buy me off with a night on the town…that’s not doing anything to quiet the doubts swirling around in the pit of my stomach. If anything, it’s only making them grow louder.
“Tempting,” I mutter. “The job?”
Hunter straightens and clears his throat. He’s no longer looking into the camera. “Of course. When you check in downstairs, you will receive a dossier. It contains all the relevant intel, everything you’ll need. Forgive me for not going into specifics, Miss Rhoades, but transmissions like this can be hacked.”
All the more reason to meet me face-to-face, jackass.
“Long story short, Miss Rhoades, I have reason to believe someone is stealing my weapons and selling them on the international black market.”
International geopolitics. Joy.
Exactly the sort of job I make a habit of not taking.
“And since we’re talking,” I reply, “I’m guessing you have an idea who.”
“His name is in the packet.” Hunter clasps his hands together on his desk, and his steadfast refusal to tell me anything is officially beyond annoying. He’s lucky we’re not in the same room now, because I have this building urge to throttle the fuck out of someone.
Him, specifically.
“I don’t think I have to tell you how bad it would be if our enemies got their hands on these weapons,” Hunter continues. “They already call me a tax cheat and a war profiteer; can you imagine what they’d call me if the Taliban was using my products?”
“But you are a tax cheat and a war profiteer,” I shoot back with a roll of my eyes. Because yes, Hunter’s reputation is absolutely the most important part of all this.
“Yes, but I’m not toxic.”
“I gotta be frank here, Mr. Bailey, this isn’t typically the kind of job I take.” Because the last thing I need is to end up on Uncle Sam’s radar.
“Which is precisely why it has to be you,” Hunter shoots back, that same smug look that was on his face when it first popped up on the screen. “Your reputation for discretion is second to none, and it’s exactly what this sort of job calls for.”
Not only is Hunter refusing to actually tell me anything about this job, he’s also expecting me to keep it hush-hush. Which is fine; it’s not like I blow up Twitter about my professional exploits anyway.
But at least he’s consistent, I guess?
“And need I remind you,” Hunter adds, “I don’t want to end up on the government’s radar any more than you do.”
Never mind the fact that Hunter could literally pay his way out of any trouble he got into. Deep pockets make for high-powered friends, and those friends seldom, if ever, have any qualms about using that money and those connections to skirt consequences. It’s actually one of the reasons I became an assassin.
“In fact…” Geez, does Hunter ever shut up? “I’d argue I have more to lose. Do you really think the Department of Defense would return my phone calls if they knew I was supplying the Taliban?”
I can practically smell the privilege through the screen. “Far be it for me to ruin your tee time with SecDef.”
“Name your price.” Hunter’s fake smile grows. “I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
“Double my rate.” I stand taller than I already am. Anything to project confidence and authority. I don’t know how it plays through a screen like this, or if it’s even something Hunter will notice.
But it helps me feel better, like I have something resembling control in a situation where, increasingly, I see I don’t have much.
Hunter makes a show of arching a brow. Well, where I assume a brow would be. He had to know I’d fire back at him. If I’m gonna be putting my neck on the line like this, I’m going to make it worth my while. And it’s not like Hunter can’t afford it. He wouldn’t have reached out to me if that was the case.
“You want me on this job? That’s my price. And if we get to next week and I’m not done yet, I’m tacking on another twenty percent.”
The grin falls from Hunter’s face. “But that’s—”
“Ten million,” I interrupt. “Half up-front. By the end of the day. Oh, and complete access to your card for the duration of the job.”
“Miss Rhoades—”
“I don’t think you appreciate the situation you’re asking me to put myself in, Mr. Bailey.” I approach the screen, not that it really matters. “If you’re right about this, then yes, the target sounds exactly like the sort of person I’d gladly take out. But this sounds like a complicated job, because of all the ways it could go sideways, and all the different radars I could pop up on…
“And frankly? If this job did go south, I’d be the one put through the proverbial ringer, not you. Hell, you’ve probably already got a statement prepared disavowing any knowledge should anything happen.
“So, if you ask me? An extra five million, plus all expenses paid, is more than fair. It’s also the best deal you’re gonna get. Because any other assassin would triple their asking price.”
A smile creeps onto my face.
“Unless you’d rather go to the FBI with all this?”
Hunter’s shoulders slump and he grows pale. Well, paler than he already is, which I didn’t think was possible. He tosses his glasses aside and buries his face in his hands. More show than anything, because for people like Hunter, it’s always about appearances and sending messages without actually saying anything.
If nothing else, I’ve struck a nerve.
Which…fine.
I don’t need Hunter to like me. I need him to accept my terms. If he doesn’t, I walk out of the Hilton Midtown and go about my day while he keeps searching for someone to do his dirty work. If he does, then I bleed him dry while squeezing in one last job before vacation.
I don’t need the money. I haven’t needed the money for a long time. But a job like this? I’m gonna make Hunter pay. Besides, that money might come in handy if I find I need a good lawyer.
Hunter finally looks at me again. I’ve got him by the proverbials, and we both know it.
“Limited time offer, Mr. Bailey.”
“Fine,” Hunter practically growls. “Just make sure I get a damn body.”
Mr. Bailey, that’s what I’m here for.
The screen goes dark before I can say anything, and I can’t help but smirk. Those with the most are always the whiniest, and the sooner I can bag that body and wash my hands of Hunter Bailey, the better. I leave the room, blowing by the two bodyguards on either side of the door. Their matching suits and sunglasses made them look like Men in Black rejects.
Honestly, a night in Manhattan’s not a bad way to start things. There are two bars downstairs, so I could always get myself good and sloshed. Maybe pick someone up along the way to bring back to the room.
Not an escort, like Hunter had suggested.
He might need to pay for it, but I don’t.
Give me the most expensive suite available. The finest room service and the most expensive liquor. I’m not paying for it, so why not take the time to enjoy the finer things?
Especially given the risk I’m taking. International geopolitics are so not my thing; I’ve turned jobs down in the past because of that risk. I did accept one, but there were…we’ll call them mitigating circumstances.
But if Hunter’s willing to pay my asking price, then I’m going to have some fun along the way. The job will get done. I haven’t failed to turn in a body in four years.
I get these jobs for a reason. If this person is as bad as Hunter suggests, they’ll never see the inside of a courtroom, let alone a jail cell. So it’s up to people like me to mete out justice in our own way. A way Uncle Sam would never approve.
I’ll gladly put this person in the ground. But Hunter’s gonna feel every bit of it along the way.
Summertime, Assassins, & Other Skullduggeries releases on Friday, November 10, on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, Apple iBooks, and paperback. Pre-order your copy here!
J.D. Cunegan 
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