Jordan Major is a hit man, an assassin. Call him what you will, he kills people for pay. Soon after his most recent foray, he comes downstairs one morning to find a man he vaguely recognizes in the main room of his virtually impenetrable house. A man, he quickly learns, he killed two years previously.
Craig, now a ghost, wants to know who hired Jordan to murder him.
What they find out and how they deal with the information will, potentially, set Jordan on a new course. One where he's willing to take out people who deserve his attention, not innocents he’s been hired to kill.
At least that's what Craig hopes as he tries to persuade Jordan there are worse things in life than giving up his very lucrative, if highly illegal, occupation. After all, he has his antique store, which brings in more money than he really needs, given what he's stashed in an off-shore bank account.
Then NOPD detective Kirk Ireland enters the picture and Jordan's life changes again.
On Sunday morning, Jordan dressed, put his pistol in his waistband, and headed downstairs to fix something for breakfast.
The second he stepped into the main room his gun was in his hand, pointed at a man wearing dark slacks and a gray shirt who was standing at the front window.
"Who the hell are you!" he asked heatedly.
The man turned slowly to face him. "In life I was ..." He chuckled. "Nope, not going there. It's way past Christmas and carols, or whatever."
"Quit with the comedy act. Who are you and how the hell did you get in without setting off the security?"
"You don't recognize me?" the man asked, sounding more than a bit surprised -- and petulant.
Keeping his pistol trained on the man's chest, Jordan studied him. There was something familiar about him -- his brown hair, straight nose, and cleft chin. He couldn't figure out what it was, though.
The man took two steps toward him. Jordan's finger tightened on the trigger, although he didn't shoot.
Snickering, the man said, "You already shot me once, although from a rooftop, using a high-powered sniper rifle from what the police told the news reporters. Unfortunately for me, you were successful."
Jordan narrowed his eyes, and then laughed. "You're trying to tell me you're dead and I killed you? Sorry, but I don't believe in ghosts."
"You should." The man continued walking, veering toward the sofa. As he sat, he faded from view.
"What the fuck!"
The man slowly reappeared, his arm slung over the back of the sofa. "You really don't remember me, do you? Think back to August of twenty-twenty-two. Denver, Colorado. It was night; I was working late at the office. The last thing I remember was the window shattering and then pain, here." He pressed his hand to his chest. "Ring any bells?" He grinned. "Take your time. I'm sure it'll come to you."
It took Jordan a minute or so as he ran the jobs he'd taken within that timeframe through his head. "Gibson," he replied, nodding slowly. "Craig Gibson. Your murder stayed in the news for three, four days after I killed you. Until another one took precedence, as is usually the case."
"Got it in one. Seems someone hated Sam. He was my partner and they decided to make his life a living hell by having me offed. Partner is both senses, if you didn't know it. Business and personal."
"I'm rarely privy to the reasons behind an assassination," Jordon said with a dry look. "I'm hired to take the target out, not get into the whys-and-wherefores." He gave a dismissive wave of the hand holding the gun. "They don't want me feeling sorry for my victim, as if I would."
"Could you put that away?" Craig said, pointing to the pistol. "It won't do you any good and seeing it is rather nerve wracking."
Jordan holstered it before starting to pace, casting dark looks at Craig.
"Presuming I believe you are dead and decided to haunt me, and I'm leaning in that direction, why now? It's been close to two years since you died."
"Took that long to find you," Craig replied.
Jordan stopped his pacing to ask, "How did you manage it? It's not like I'm on Craigslist under assassins for hire."
Craig explained. When he finished, he said, "First off, I want to know who hired you."
"Don't know."
"Don't believe you. If they tried to renege on your payment you'd want to take it out of their hide."
Jordan glared at him, suddenly beyond angry. "Why should I believe the bullshit you're feeding me? How could your ... friend ... find what no one else has been able to?"
Craig smiled. "Because he was a denizen of the dark web where good is bad and bad is good. No one there will rat on anyone they consider worthy of their admiration. And Jordan, you are definitely that."
"I'm glad somebody respects my skills other than the people who hire me," Jordan replied sardonically. "People, as I'm sure you've surmised by now, who have no idea who they've been communicating with."
"I'm not surprised." Craig pointed a finger at Jordan. "Do not lie about not knowing his name."
Jordan considered how to reply. He could understand why Craig was interested in the answer. He would be, too, if their situations were reversed.
There's nothing he can do to the person if I do tell him, so I've got nothing to lose and it will make him feel ... Not certain better is the right word but I guess it works.
"Don't go anywhere," Jordan said.
"Like where would I go?"
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