//Such a shame, really.// I couldn't help thinking, as two startling blue eyes regarded me seductively from over the rim of a cocktail glass. It's a pity I wouldn't get to fuck him first.

That was, no doubt, what he'd had planned. Why he'd brought me back here to his place, with it's decadent furnishings and impressive de'cor. Looking at him draped across the overstuffed couch, dripping invitation, I could see myself taking him in every position imaginable. Pounding into his body until he groaned in rhythm to my thrusts. Make him moan. Make him scream. He'd be good too, I could tell. He had a body that was made for sin.

Such a shame then, such a terrible shame.

A shame he had to die.

His full lips curled into a salacious smile and he all but winked at me, tilting his dark head back to drain the last of his wine from a bowed goblet. The very same goblet I'd laced with a cocktail of poisons earlier this evening when I'd broken into his apartment. Tasteless, odorless, purely without substance, he'd never even know it, but he'd be dead in minutes.

I traced warm fingers down his pale cheek. I shifted closer on the couch, leaning in to nuzzle his neck, dropping soft kisses around his tender throat. These would be his last moments. He may as well enjoy them.

I set to work on his too-eager body, careful to avoid his lips. He purred encouragingly and arched to me, settling further into the folds of material, giving himself up to it. His hands gripped my head as I kissed across his chest, his flesh warm and pulsing with life beneath my mouth.

I knew the drugs were taking effect when his grip started to slide. His breathing grew rough at first, then began to falter. I looked up then, my cheek resting on his stomach, watching impassively as he struggled to gasp in air. His fingers tightened briefly in my hair as panic finally caught - too late.

Then I was looking into eyes lifeless and glassy with death. Again.

Looking down on his body again later, still with unnatural death, I felt a pang of regret. Such a shame. Paige would've been a good fuck.

Then I emptied his wallet. Took a couple of select items from his apartment as well. Nothing that would be missed. Just some things that suited me. Nothing traceable, or the care I'd taken with my setup this afternoon would be for naught. The poisons he'd injested would be absorbed directly into his system. Any coroner would take one check of his sweet body, see it dosed to the gills with ADX - an illegal narcotic Paige'd been snorting all night - but wouldn't find a trace of Ghost's special mix.

Untraceable.

That's why I'm one of the best.

I was just heading for the window when I heard footsteps at the door. My heartbeat quickened as the apartment was filled with harsh knocking, a voice calling through the thick door.

"Paige? I know you're home!"

Fuck. So much for untraceable. I bolted for the window (same way I'd gotten in that afternoon) and lowered myself out just as I heard a key scrape in the lock. A voice I barely recognised filtered out the window.

"I know where you keep your spare, arsehole..."

It was a royally stupid thing to do, but I had to find out who'd busted me. I took a lightning-quick glance inside, immediately putting a name to the face. Jay Gordon.

I didn't hang around for the blissful reunion. I dropped to hang at arms length from the window, so suddenly I felt something twinge in my left arm. No time to see to it then, I hoofed it for my bike concealed a block away.

Fuck but that was close. Too fucking close. I held panic at bay as I sprinted down a deserted alley. I cranked my fatboy and churned down the road, speed limit not even considered. //I gotta get out of this business.//

What business is that? Take a wild guess. You'll get it in one.

That's right, I'm an assassin. Call it what you will - hitman, hired killer, mercenary, scum of the earth, I answer to them all. They call me the Ghost because I'm supposedly untraceable. But sometimes I wonder.

I don't enjoy it, but I'm good at it, and it's a damn sight better than my previous career holo-whoring. Besides I'm not staying in it too much longer. No one does. The most important part is to retire *before* they get to you. Don't wait til they're looking for you, cos then you're screwed.

Just as I very nearly was tonight.

Paige was a job I picked up through an agency. I'm not sure who instigated the hit - jilted lover, ex-wife, corporate mark, underworld connection, I can't be sure. His past was as chequered as mine, so he probably even wouldn't have known himself. That's the beauty of agency work. They don't know who they're paying and you don't know who's paying up.

There was no major deadline so I'd taken my time with this one. Surveilled him for a few weeks, got to know his haunts (a very few underground clubs aimed at male/male companionship), his likes (pretty guys of the strong, dominant persuasion) even how he fucks. Which is why I was so sadly disappointed to have missed out on a bit of *that*.

That was how I'd recognised Jay. He was Paige's last pick-up before me. I'd even employed some of Jay's moves on Paige with great success.

Wind beating my face as I rode, I considered my very near failure tonight. Jay was my great fuck up. I'd totally under-estimated him and Paige's connection. In my book they didn't even earn the title fuck-buddies. Jay was a one night stand. I should've known better. I'd watched them fuck. Sat there with my high power night vision binos and my hard on digging into my leg and watched Paige make Jay come so hard I didn't need my advanced surveillence mic to hear him scream. I should've known Jay'd be back for more.

Back at my apartment, I kicked out the stand on my harley and made my way inside, still cursing fate and myself.

I slipped inside the back way, avoiding security. The mood I was in, I didn't want to deal with anyone. Once inside, I slammed the door, hard. The loud bang was pleasing, but not as cathartic as I'd hoped. Shrugging out of my leather jacket I caught my reflection in a mirrored window. Not too bad. I still had a face that could turn a head or two, as I'd proven tonight with Paige. A little gaunt, a little peaked from lack of sleep, but I could work it.

I threw my jacket aside in an agitated motion and settled in to check out my arm. Peeling back synthetic skin on my wrist, I checked the DAE reader. Some light sensory damage from my fall at the window, but nothing major. I plugged in the auto-repair kit and waited.

That's just one of the drawbacks to bionic implants. Constant upkeep. Had the operation when I started the assassin gig. It's pretty much required for the job. When it comes to business, I try to avoid anything physical, I'm not a fan of gore. But you do need the assurance of knowing you can break someone's femur with one hand, if required, in this business. People with nothing to lose tend to get violent. And you need to be able to handle that. Plus it meant that in dead periods I always have the option of fallback work as hired muscle. Not that I've had to do that anytime recently - I'm making a killing. *cue ironic laughter*

The auto-repair kit bleeped its completion. I sighed and shut it off, deciding to call it a night before things could get worse. They did.

That night I couldn't sleep. Not that unusual for me, mind you, but it was particularly annoying that night. I kept thinking and re-thinking my fuck-up with the Paige job and tearing myself down for it.

Maybe I was losing my edge. Maybe it was time to get out.

But I couldn't. Not yet.

I abandoned sleep and decided if I was going to depress myself, I'd do it right.

I unsheathed the guitar carefully, almost reverently. It was a fender strat. Green. Gorgeous. A beautiful, vintage instrument. The one thing I couldn't bring myself to sell in the very low period of my life when I was living on air. But all those hungry days were worth it 'cos I got to keep this baby.

I delicately uncoiled the cord and plugged in the amp. Slipped the strap carefully over a shoulder, positioning her meticulously. Her shape fit my body just right, perfect. I took up my pick, placed fingers carefully on the fretboard and strummed the guitar.

The amp emitted the most agonisingly awful sound. I tried again, but the guitar continued to wail and moan, filling the room with shockingly off-key and disgustingly pathetic sounds. Just as I knew it would. I don't know why I even try.

I dropped my head back on the couch, eyes closed in disgust. Never-forgotten words rolled in my head.

'Strength, not dexterity. Force, not precision.' He'd said. He'd made it perfectly clear. 'Sure you can get bionic implants that wont detract from physical performance, allow you to retain sensitivity and dexterity - but not in that price range.'

So I'd bought the grunt arm. And regretted it every day. But it isn't like you can just get the bloody implants removed. No. The operation's irreversible. So I'm stuck with a fucking musically retarded left arm until I can afford to upgrade. But I'm getting close. So bloody close.

Just one more job.

Morning found me still on the couch, an arm still twisted in the guitar strap. Pathetic I know. Tossing the thought aside I turned to my workstation. As I booted up, she bleeped with mail. Probably details of my next assignment.

True enough. I checked the file. Male, late-twenties, possibly homosexual. (I seem to be attracting these cases. But then I do excel at them.) Nothing outstanding about his career or contacts, but then that didn't surprise me. There are very few people in the world who's demographic details scream "kill me".

As was standard procedure, surveillance photos were attached. I checked the image files and caught a breath. The photos were grainy and the resolution was crap, but there was no hiding the fact that this guy was fucking gorgeous. Longish dark hair, perfect face, incredible eyes. An absolute babe. Goddamn, I hoped I'd get to screw this one first... I think I'd forgo my fee for a piece of that arse...

I checked the bottom line. My eyes about fell out. Either my value as a mercenary had just tripled, or this was a severely over-priced hit.

Fuck.

I counted the zeros on the email. And I could almost hear the music.