Order Killer Novels & Stories

"He’s forgotten that the world is a very large, very vengeful place." "Who are you thinking of, Boss?" Martin asked, leaning in. "The Russians? The Cartel?" "No. They’re businessmen. They can be bought. They’d sell me to Bane for a percentage of the shipping lanes before I could finish my pitch." “That’s true, Boss” I sat back down, my mind racing through the list of the dead and the exiled. "I need someone who doesn't care about the money. I need someone who breathes for the sole purpose of watching Bane Valak’s world burn. Someone who has been waiting for a crack in the armor."

Ophelia claimed that they died by accident. But now… Now my chest felt like it was splitting open. “You’re saying…” My voice cracked violently. “You’re saying they were murdered?” Kael lowered his head slowly. “Yes.” Silence. Pure silence. I could not breathe properly anymore. Marten’s hand tightened around my arm as though anchoring me to reality itself. “Who ordered it?” he asked darkly. Kael’s eyes lifted again. “Ophelia Houston.” The words shattered something inside me completely.

“He was also the one who told me. That kid was singled out at the auction by someone domineering and ruthless, and before long, he was sold off.” A sudden heaviness settled in my heart at the mention of Derrick Kwok. I had heard that name before; he was a notorious figure in the black market, known for trafficking those who had lost their identity and were left vulnerable. This revelation complicated matters significantly. A wave of helplessness washed over me, but it was quickly overshadowed by a surge of anger and determination.

I pull away from Camille, who immediately looks worried when I grab the phone. When I glance at the home screen and see it's Zakh calling, I answer straight away and get off the bed. "Hey," I say first. "Sorry to call so late. We got the guy who killed the dealer, and it seems like he's the one who's been watching us." "Who is he?" "An asshole who works for the Triad. One of their trackers and assassins." "Triad?" "Yes, looks like they're involved somehow. He had pictures on his computer." He pauses for a beat. "Pictures of you and Camille. And old pictures of your mother."

The woman hurried to sign for the package, and I slipped toward the exit. By the time she turned around, I was already standing outside. “Ma’am, I can’t complete this order today. I’ll file an incident report with the app. If you really need pet care, please place a new order with clear details.” I left immediately. At the time, I thought it was just a weird mix-up. I had no idea that from the moment I stepped into that mansion, I was already being targeted.

A hit-and-run incident claimed his life recently. The bartender didn’t even glance up. “Many individuals perform their duties in this place. A multitude of individuals departs. Several among them meet their end. This issue does not concern me. The compensation I receive doesn't justify my concern for others because my existence already delivers relentless hardship without reprieve. ” I sighed. Individuals of his type required external stimuli to drive their actions. My hand descended into my pocket to extract a pristine hundred-dollar bill which I then slid across the counter with deliberate slowness. How about now? ”

“Let’s go get some answers.” I pulled her back onto me. “We’re just observing him right now, kitten,” I advised, nuzzling my face into her neck. “Why?” Amelie said, then let out a throaty moan as I peppered her neck with kisses. “Because we want to find who he’s taking orders from,” I explained. “He works for a group called the delivery men. He’s a hit man.” “A HIT MAN!” Amelie gulped, her eyes shooting wide open. “Someone was trying to kill me and Zander?”

Nikolai Volkov is dead! The big boss blinked once, then slowly leaned forward in his chair. "Repeat that." "Nikolai Volkov is dead, sir," the man said, a grin forming. "The car exploded. He didn’t get out." A slow breath escaped from the boss's mouth, almost like a release he’d been waiting years for. He stood from his chair, stretching his stiff back, the tension in his shoulders fading. "Finally," he whispered. "Finally, the bastard is gone."

The assassin's name was Revik. He gave it without significant resistance, which told Aldric that names were not what he was guarding. A name was a small concession — a demonstration of willingness that cost nothing and bought goodwill he might need later. He was not from the order. He confirmed this when the comparison was raised, with the expression of someone who found it mildly offensive. Contracted. Private. The kind of operative powerful men used when they wanted outcomes that could not be traced back through institutional channels.