Taking A Hit

Taking A Hit: Prologue

The man stirred, some premonition cutting through the fog of opiates and alcohol and making him try to look up. He raised his head off the pillow, but the flat was dark beyond the pool of light from the lamp by the bed. He liked doing drugs by himself, it was more chilled, more civilised. He never did it at the office, not even a sniff of coke now and then like some of the younger lads, and only rarely during after-work drinks; he preferred to do it in company he trusted, in private and where he felt comfortable, and from experience that tended to be in his own flat, alone. He hadn't even been intending to use tonight, but he'd got talking to that young girl in the bar earlier, after work, and she'd promised him this was good shit.

And it was. Fuck knows who she was, where she got it from. She wasn't a regular in that bar and he knew most of the regular girls who hung around places like that, hoping to pick up a rich boy or sugar daddy. She'd been cute, but he'd sensed an indifference to his half-arsed attempts to flirt. More importantly, she'd given him good stuff, powerful. He let his head drop back onto his pillow and closed his eyes, and enjoyed the drug rushing though his system.

He didn't hear the slight click of the en-suite window, and if he had he would have been disinclined to move to investigate, because the rush the drug was giving him was just too exquisite. He also didn't see the slight figure in black slip into the bedroom, and he was only vaguely aware of her bending over his face carefully to detect his breath.

He did feel her hand cover his mouth, sure enough, and her fingers pinch his nostrils shut, and he was able to open his eyes and focus for long enough to recognise the distinctive shade of her eyes. He wondered why the drugs girl from the bar was now asphyxiating him, and how she'd got there, and why she had put cheap plastic gloves on. He'd preferred her in that cute little dress, too, not black jeans and a fleece. He wondered if he should make the effort to get up.

He felt the drugs and the lack of oxygen compete to take him, and closed his eyes. If this was for real, he was fucked. If this wasn't real, these drugs were fucking great. Had she cut them?

~

The girl held her hand over the businessman's face carefully but firmly, until he stopped twitching and she knew he was dead. The drugs were indeed good, but to be on the safe side she had also cut them with just enough of a useful little powder they'd developed back at the Agency. When the pathologist opened him up, it would just look like one good night too many for this guy.

She checked the man really was dead, then left the flat quietly through the bathroom window again.