An Assassin’s Holiday Read Online Free PDF

shake my head as I step away and go back into the living room.
    Before I sit, I open the cabinet against the wall and take out a bottle of fine Bourbon—sipping whiskey—and a couple of crystal glasses. I pour myself a portion and sit, gazing out the windows at the lights of the city. Everything is lit for the holidays, with buildings in red and green, trees on roofs and balconies. All of New York seems ready and poised for a celebration. For years I’ve ignored it all and gone about my business.
    “Isn’t it pretty?” Robin says as he comes into the room and wanders over to the windows, staring out for a while. “Why don’t you have a tree?”
    “I haven’t celebrated the holidays for a long time.”
    “Can I ask why?” Robin asks without turning around. “For me it was one of the best times of the year. At the home there were candy canes, and the nuns let us stay up later so we could watch Christmas movies and shows on television. There was even a Christmas party. That’s where I got Stewart. Then a few years later, it was Christmas when I was officially adopted and found a home for good. Mom and Dad were good to me. They still are, and I work hard to make them proud.” Robin turns toward me, biting his lower lip. “I still want to do that, because I never want them to regret adopting me.”
    “Would they be proud of you now?”
    Robin hesitates. “I think they’d be disappointed that I’d allowed myself to be duped, but I swear my mom would fly to New York and rip his balls off if she knew what he did to me. My mom is fierce. Always has been.” The pride and warmth, combined with latent fear, is almost too much to resist. “Can I ask if you ever had someone stick up for you?”
    I think about not answering. How could someone I’d met just a few hours ago know exactly the questions to ask to get to the heart of me? The answer is obvious: because Robin is me, or he could have been me if circumstances had been different in his life. He was among the lucky ones; I wasn’t. “I did once.”
    Robin watches me with his deep blue eyes. “Is that why you do what you do? Because you think no one cares?”
    At first I want to lash out, because pity is the last thing I want from anyone. But I realize it’s understanding that I’m seeing—and maybe concern.
    I growl slightly. “You mean kill people? You think I don’t feel, or that I’ve turned my feelings off so I can do this? I have feelings just like the next person. But I’m also pragmatic enough to know that if I don’t take a job, someone else will. So I take life and I’m paid for it. There isn’t some grand psychological system at work here, and I’m not a psychopath or mentally ill. It’s my work and I don’t think too hard about it. Do you think about the implications of your job, or just go to work?”
    “My job isn’t killing people.”
    “It’s still a job,” I counter at the self-righteous tone. “And you can’t tell me that being an accountant isn’t without its disappointments. How many times have you had to tell someone that their financial life is over?” I take another sip from my glass and ask Robin if he wants one.
    “I suppose. I mean, this whole night has been too strange for words. Maybe a little heat will help me think.” Robin takes the glass, and I pour him a tot. He sips and shivers, making a face like this was the first time he’s ever had anything this strong.
    “I have something else. You don’t need to put up a front on my part.” It would also be a rotten shame to waste high-quality whiskey on someone who doesn’t appreciate it. I expect him to demur, but Robin takes another sip and settles back in the chair.
    “Man, it feels warm.”
    “Dutch courage, they used to call it. It makes you feel warm, but it’s only the alcohol close to the skin. People used to freeze to death with only this to drink because it forces blood to the skin where it can cool quickly. So I never have more than a single