The knife slipped from Willa's heart as the heat of Alard's lips left hers. Barely registering the pain at first, she grimaced, a look of confusion and then sudden awareness blossoming across her paling face.

Had he not already relieved Willa of the lethal syringe stashed in her quilted wristlet, Alard'd have felt bad about killing her.

As the crimson stain spreads, gravity pulling her blood southwards, overtaking the cotton apron sash at Willa's waist, Alard frowned while releasing her. Willa barely remained upright, leaning against the graffitied brick wall behind her. She swayed as blood continued to drain from her lithe frame.

A pity.

Willa was quite lovely in a low-key kind of way. So modest, really, that Alard was afraid he'd been given bad information for this mark.

Her skin was like goat's milk. She had Pennsylvania-Dutch-blue eyes, and little freckles dancing across her cheekbones. Willa's hair was spun-gold blond with undertones of white-lace threading.

There was a wholesomeness to this almost-child that went against all claims to the contrary.

It's not like she was wearing pigtails or anything.

Of course not.

Nothing so blatantly homegrown.

But damned if Alard couldn't imagine this cherub helping her arthritic Papa with chores around some quaint little dairy farm back home in the Midwestern, United States. She said she was sending money to him to help keep their family afloat. Recent rainstorms had been decimating their lands, or so Willa had claimed.

Man, she could spin an innocent tale.

Alard scratched his head and paced, kicking a crushed bottle cap in his wake. When he turned to look down at Willa he had to restrain himself from trying to stop her bleeding. Punching a nearby dumpster, he sucked his teeth and swore through the pain as he continued hitting the dank, rusted metal. The pain of his busted knuckles felt good. It revived Alard's determination to stay the course; the throbbing thrusted adrenaline through his tortured veins.

This one was going to haunt him.

"I don't understand," Willa whispered hoarsely, choking on her own fluids. As her pulse slowed, a look of wild panic shot across her face along with the blood that dripped down her chin.

"I'm so cold, Alard."

When she cried for her mother next, Alard nearly lost it.

"Mama, I miss you. I want to come home, Mama."

Unable to help himself, Alard ran over to cradle Willa's head softly in his arms as they slid down to the ground together. "Shh. Shh. Hush now, little one."

As her breathing slowed, regret overtook Alard like a tsunami. He layed Willa's cooling body onto the concrete ground beside him, watching the light go out of her eyes forever. He leaned his head against the brick wall behind him and fought to retain his dignity.

It was mid-December and there was a bite to the crisp, winter air; drastically different from the cozy, little coffee shop they'd just left only moments beforehand. The smell of urine was strong and Alard wished he could leave Willa somewhere better.

She was the enemy, yes, but still.

Alard felt like he ought to lay Willa out somewhere better. Leaving her dead in this filthy back alley, among the broken glass and discarded drug paraphernalia, felt wrong.

Crouched by her side, ensuring she was in fact good and dead, Alard waited. He would need to report back as soon as he returned to the safe house. He could take no chances that a by-stander would find this little angel of death and try to revive her. Responsible for the demise of four fellow agents over the course of the last 18 months, it was Alard's responsibility to ensure Willa had finally been neutralized.

Pulling an unfiltered cigarette from within his overcoat, he lit the end and inhaled it deeply.

Perched against the nearby rubbish bin, Alard thought back over the course of the evening; the look Willa had given him when their eyes first met.

Alard smiled despite himself.

Willa had blushed.

An interrupting cough from her boss, though, and Willa was hustling to hide her flirtatious smile. The hard-looking woman wasn't having any of it. "Our customers aren't here to wait on themselves. Are you going to ask this man what he would like? Or perhaps you would like to buy him and all of the customers waiting behind him a drink when you're done ogling him."

Alard shuddered.

Now there was someone to fear.

Willa's boss, Mila (the paperwork provided), had claws. They weren't out in the open, but Willa's boss had been around the block a few times, of that he was sure without needing the dossier back at his flat to tell him so.

Alard knew the look, wore it in fact, every day.

The things he'd seen.

The things he'd done.

They never left him.

Alard knew that like him, Mila had some skeletons hidden in the depths of her closet. No one's eyes were that hard without their hands having gotten dirty along the way.

Alard wondered what Mila's story was.

He'd wished, in fact, that Mila had been his mark. Yes, it'd been a much harder of a job to pull off, but killing Mila wouldn't make him lose sleep at night.

Not much, anyway.

Inhaling from his cigarette one last time, Alard decided not to think further on the matter. The assignment complete, it was time for him to go.

Glancing to the girl at his feet, Alard twisted his mouth sorrowfully and reached over to shut Willa's eyes. A shake of remorse and Alard was on his way down the alley. He had spent all the time he could lamenting Willa's death. He had to report in.

Job done.

As he rounded the corner of the nearby street, Alard didn't look back.

He, therefore, didn't see Mila slip outside to watch his retreating form.

She wasn't smiling when she pulled out her cell phone to call the agency. "Scheißkerl," she muttered in vain at Alard as he withdrew from the scene, while she waited for the familiar, grizzled voice on the other end of the line to pick up.

When Oskar answered on the third ring, Mila was out of patience.

"What the fuck took you so long to pick up?" she hollered at him, barely containing her fury when she heard him chuckle in response.

"Don't worry, Mila, we will be there straight away to clean up your unfortunate mess."

Before she could reply, Oskar had hung up.

Kicking the stupid weibstück at her feet, Mila scowled. She knew hiring Willa was a good diversion for what she was doing, but Mila hadn't expected to develop an affection for Willa the way she had. Looking her over, Mila tried to harden herself against all emotion.

An American tourist, the naïve little cunt had no idea what waters she was swimming in when she was offered the job at Mila's café. The sharks circling her pond, Mila had no choice but to hire Willa. A diversion was needed and Willa became Mila's solution.

Closing her eyes, Mila cursed before swinging the rear door open to go inside.

The cleaners were on their way, which meant she had about 75 seconds before they arrived. Unless she wanted to be wiped away with Willa, Mila needed to get going.

She had unfinished business to attend to.

Fortunately, Mila would enjoy killing Alard.

Sure, he was only doing what he thought was right; killing poor Willa when he found the needle Mila had planted in that stupid farm-girl purse. Damned if Mila wasn't going to feel good when she surprised him later, however. After smacking a full magazine into her pistol, Mila thrusted it into her bra holster.

It wouldn't take much.

After months of counter-surveillance, Mila had noticed how easily Alard could be diverted while on the job.

Just like the four other agents before him.