Carlos didn’t like it.

There were unwritten rules for hits. That’s how he’d lasted in this business as long as he had. Bending the rules was asking to get caught—or worse.

The DruTech building was practically empty, but it was still a public place, and that went against the rules. Carlos wasn’t some inner city gang-banger who got his kicks doing drive-bys. Carlos was a pro, and he wasn’t being treated as such.

There were other rules being ignored as well. Never work with a partner, especially a dumb ox like Franco. Don’t do contract work for the corporate sector. And most of all, never return to a crime scene. He’d broken all of these in the last two days.

It got worse. That moron Rothchilde called a little while ago, bragging he just wasted someone, wanting him for yet another garbage run. The risk of cleaning up after amateurs was incredibly high. It just wasn’t right.

“You okay? Looks like you got a saggy diaper that leaks.”

Franco laughed at his own idea of wit.

“Stay sharp. This one feels like it could be messy.”

“I’m always sharp.”

Yeah, right. Sharp like a box of dumb bells.

Carlos parked where they couldn’t be seen from the front entrance, and again did the Fed Ex thing. The doors were locked, but one fat security guard was reading a paperback behind his stand in the lobby. Carlos knocked.

The guard made a show of walking over, pulling out a loaded key ring and fumbling with the lock.

“Late today.”

Carlos gave him his practiced ‘average Joe’ shrug. “Overnight guaranteed, even if there’s nobody here.”

The guard looked him over.

“You cut yourself shaving?”

Carlos seethed beneath his bandages. He’d spent twenty minutes in front of a mirror, pulling out cactus spines with tweezers, and he didn’t find it amusing.

“Yeah. I always shave my forehead.”

Carlos offered the clipboard for the guard to sign. Then he did a discreet screening of the perimeter before putting a bullet in the fat man’s temple.

The sound was deafening, but this was the suburbs—they weren’t used to hearing gunfire. No one would guess that’s what it was.

Carlos knelt next to the guard and did a quick frisk. He took the keys, his wallet, and found the elevator card Rothchilde had described.

Franco came up behind him, and together they hauled the body into the lobby and locked the door.

“How many guards are on?”

“Just the one. We can take our time.”

The elevator had a slot beneath the call buttons, and Carlos jammed in the card key.

Franco giggled in his girl’s voice. “Like James Bond.”

Carlos sighed. Maybe it was time to think about retiring. The mob didn’t offer a pension, but he had a few dollars socked away. Plus he’d put money in the 401k. Not enough to live like a king, but enough to get by.

When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, Carlos sensed something was wrong. Franco picked up on his vibe.

“What is it?”

“Not sure.”

Franco sneered and walked into the hall. He was completely unprepared for the maniac with the fire ax who came careening around the corner, whooping and swinging.

Carlos managed to get his gun out. The guy chopped away at Franco like a tree, sluicing the white walls with blood, his howls mingling with Franco’s wails. A scene from a slaughterhouse in hell.

Carlos had five shots in his Colt’s cylinder and he fired them all.

Three of the slugs buried themselves in Franco’s back, ending his misery. The other two took the psycho in the chest. At least, Carlos thought they did.

Franco dropped to his knees and slumped over, but the other guy ran back the way he came, not giving any sign that he was hurt.

Carlos stood there, stunned. The 38 Special was warm in his hand, a trail of smoke spiraling up from the barrel. Why didn’t that guy go down? Carlos was positive he’d hit him.

He thumbed the extractor and emptied his brass into his hand. Without needing to look, he located his speed loader in his pocket and nudged in six more bullets. Holding his breath, he strained to hear down the hallway. The only sound was the drumming of his own heart.

“YOU CAN’T KILL ME.”

A man’s voice, coming from everywhere at once. Carlos traced it to the overhead speakers.

“Come out and I’ll try again!”

“LET’S PLAY HIDE AND SEEK. YOU’RE IT.”

Carlos moved cautiously, keeping both hands on the gun. A trail of blood droplets glinted on the tile floor. He followed them, hugging the far wall as he turned the corner.

The loudspeaker giggled.

“GETTING WARMER.”

Carlos stopped. He was scared. Fear was an old, familiar roommate, but he didn’t show up too often.

The first time Carlos killed someone, as a green thirteen-year-old joining the Latin Kings, he was scared. Every time Gino made him deal with those crazy Colombians, with their dead eyes, he was scared. Years ago he’d gotten arrested, and some punk ass street cop, hungry for a promotion, beat Carlos with a phone book, trying to get him to squeal. He’d been scared then, too.

But this time the fear was different. Carlos felt like he was in a haunted house, waiting for some deformed monster to jump out and say boo. A bullet proof monster with an ax.

“DON’T STOP NOW. YOU’RE SO CLOSE.”

Carlos knew he should turn around, take the elevator back up, and get the hell out of there. Why walk willingly into a nightmare? He could come back with more men, take care of this the right way.

Gino wouldn’t stand for it. Franco was Gino’s nephew. He’d trusted Carlos to take care of him. If Carlos came back without avenging him, he was dead anyway.

He began to move forward again.

“Come out! Come out, I’ll finish you off!”

The hallway came to a division. Carlos looked left, and then right, searching for the blood trail. He went right.

“WARMER. WARMER. GETTING HOT.”

The door up ahead was ajar, a smear of blood on the knob. Carlos tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.

“BURNING UP! YOU’RE ON FIRE!”

He kicked the door and went in low, gun close to his body. It was a small kitchen, something large and bloody slumped on the floor in front of him.

Carlos fired three times at the figure, four times, his brain registering that this wasn’t the guy, that this was some poor dead girl, but he couldn’t stop firing, he was too scared to stop, and when he was out of bullets and clicking on an empty chamber he felt movement behind him.

Carlos spun, falling to the ground as the man with the ax towered over him like an immense shadow. He had a sick, happy smile on his face, and there were two bloody bullet holes in the front of his shirt.

Why was this guy still standing?

Carlos heard a horrible scream, and realized that it was coming from himself.

Then the ax fell, and the screaming stopped.