The Cufflink

Chapter 8 The hunt

Marcus didn’t look up when the door opened.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made men sweat.

“He’s asking questions,” the man said. “About the cufflink. About you.”

Marcus set his glass down. No ice rattle. No wasted sound. He stared at the liquid like it had offended him.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he turned his head, just enough for the man to see his eyes.

“Then he stops breathing,” Marcus said. Flat. Final.

No emotion. No threat. Just a fact.

“Tonight,” he added. “No mistakes. No noise. No loose ends.”

The man swallowed and left. The door clicked shut.

Marcus picked the cufflink off the table. Silver. Cold. He didn’t admire it. He squeezed. Hard. The engraving bit into his skin.

He knew David was smart. Smart didn’t matter. Smart people died the same as stupid ones when Marcus decided it was time.

Two hours later, the call came.

“Failed.”

One word.

Marcus didn’t blink. He didn’t ask for details. Failure was a language he understood, and he hated it.

He stood and walked to the window. His reflection stared back. No anger on his face. That was the point. Anger made men sloppy. Marcus wasn’t sloppy.

But his fist closed around the cufflink until his knuckles went white.

“When they fail,” he said to the glass, voice low enough to cut, “I don’t send more men. I go myself.”

The city lights didn’t answer him.

David thought he was hunting Marcus. He was wrong. The hunt started the second Marcus learned his name.

And Marcus never lost twice