J͟͟͟͞͞͞e͟͟͟͞͞͞n͟͟͟͞͞͞n͟͟͟͞͞͞i͟͟͟͞͞͞e͟͟͟͞͞͞.
To many, I am a myth.
The 'Kiss of Death', a hired killer, revered by some of the greatest criminal organisations in the world. Trained by the bratva themselves, without conscience, without mercy.
The per...
I normally love Miami, but I think I'm coming down with something and the heat and humidity aren't helping the nausea that's settled into the pit of my stomach since I left Jungkook yesterday.
I pull up on a quiet looking street beneath the shade of a palm tree and get out of the hire car. Elaina Matthews' apartment is in a small building near South beach. It's non-descript, with a set of iron stairs and a walkway that runs along the first floor.
Knocking on her door, I wait, hearing the shuffle of footsteps on the other side.
She opens the door in a tracksuit, a pile of blonde hair scooped up on top of her head. "Yeah?" Her eyebrows pinch together in a frown.
I could probably think of a hundred reasons to have her invite me in but my head is pounding and I can't be bothered with the niceties. Instead I ram my shoulder into her, pushing her back into the apartment.
"Hey!" She exclaims.
Slamming the door behind me, I thrust the needle of the small syringe into her neck, depressing the plunger. She reaches for her neck before her eyelids start to droop. The mixture of Ketamine and Rohypnol works quickly and will knock her out for at least eight hours. When she wakes up she won't remember a thing. That takes her out of the equation.
-
Tugging at the hem of my tiny dress, I take the short walk down Ocean Drive from my car to the Beacon Hotel.
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The street is packed and it feels like a carnival. There are people everywhere, street performers, girls in bikinis walking up and down holding up signs for various bars. The sidewalk is littered with tables and chairs as the bars sprawl out into the street. People sit drinking cocktails from glasses the size of my head, the liquid smoking and bubbling like a witch's cauldron. Cars crawl along Ocean Drive, chromed out Cadillacs and souped-up sports cars revving their engines and blasting hip-hop music.
It's like a street party.
The sheer volume of people, coupled with all the music blasting out of each bar has my senses in overload. I can't help but want to listen and probe the area around me for possible threats. I swear I can feel eyes on me, but I can't...I can't sense anything past all this noise. Glancing over my shoulder, I attempt to check for followers.
The crowd is so dense, I couldn't tell you even if an attacker were right behind me. I quicken my pace until I reach the hotel. It's an art deco building, slap bang in the middle of the bars and clubs, and honestly, if I were a wanted weapons dealer, it's a location would pick. If he needs to escape quickly, he could disappear into the swelling crowd in seconds, slip into any one of ten bars that I can see from here. It's a smart move, but I'm not the FBI. I'm not here to cuff him. He won't be running from me.
Stepping inside, I inhale a breath of the cool, conditioned air. The music from the street can still be heard but it's muted to a low hum. Tiled flooring clicks beneath my heels and I glance up to the curved viewing gallery above. A bar opens up to my right, and I instantly spot Diego. The picture Sasha sent me was a blurred surveillance image, but it's enough.
