in every universe (one shot-s) | JENLISA

(my love can be) the killing kind

It isn't professional, falling in love. And she is, absolutely, a professional. If nothing else is true, if there is no other immutable fact of living, there's that much. That's never been in question. Professional, from top to bottom. Get a job. Get it done.

Professionals do not fall in love. Not with marks. Definitely not with the enemy.

Definitely not with the kind of enemy who turns up every time like a fucking ghost, like a fucking curse, mucking up the job. Only an idiot gets involved with that. Only an idiot even considers following that road. Part of professionalism is the predictability of the thing, the rational assessment of a situation. Can't be surprised, if you keep your head on straight. Don't make stupid mistakes.

Professionals know better than to step off the path into the dark.

Who knows what's waiting out there?

***

The thing is, Leonard Quint shouldn't still be alive. The fact that he is still alive--still drawing breath, filching jewels, charming women out of their checkbooks--is a bit of a sore spot for Lisa, frankly. Leonard Quint was slated for a body bag two weeks ago.

But every time--every fucking time--she shows up to finish the job, who does she find?

The associate from R'Com, that's who.

"How?" Wine asks the third time Lisa turns up empty-handed, slamming down into the seat across from his desk. "How on earth does she keep finding you?"

"Dumb fuckin' luck," Lisa growls, though they both know that isn't true. R'Com is a thorn in their side, always, sniping big targets with American aplomb, but they don't hire duds. An R'Com associate turning up, getting in the way, standing right in Lisa's sightline, is intentional.

Wine wants Leonard Quint dead.

R'Com wants Wine to suffer.

So, not once, not twice, but three times now, Lisa has put Quint on the other end of a barrel. Three times, she has lined up the shot, taken a steadying breath, prepared herself for the squeeze of trigger.

And three times, she's reeled back at the last minute, the visual turning in a breath from Quint's tall, broad form to a young woman. The young woman, with brunette hair and a smile that grits Lisa's teeth each time it turns in her direction.

Even if her direction is, as it happens, on a rooftop across the street.

Somehow, the woman always seems to sense her. Somehow, the woman always knows exactly where to point that smile.

Lisa hasn't failed to bring a job home in seven years. Lisa, recruited out of the prison system by way of a particular back door that seems only to exist for the very wealthy and very well-connected, has never once screwed up a hit. They cross Wine's desk, they find themselves the proud owner of a fresh bullet. Easy as.

Until Quint.

Until her.

"Figure it out," Wine says sharply. "Before he takes to the wind, and your job grows that much more difficult. Or would you rather I outsource?"

Lisa winces. "No. I've got it."

"Lisa," Wine says. She pauses in the doorway, forcing her shoulders to loosen, forcing her hands to hang carelessly at her sides. No point looking like she's out of her depth, not here. "Maybe this one would merit a hands-on approach."

"It's handled," she says, the memory of the R'Com woman sparking beneath her skin.

***