Z

They started calling me Z long before I stopped using my real name. I'm twenty. I kill people for money. Usually, the job is simple: find the target, learn the pattern, finish it cleanly. This contract is different. You're seventeen, the only heir to a seven-billion-dollar trust that becomes yours at twenty. Your parents died in a car accident that Kevin Hale never believed was an accident. Hale was their friend. After they died, he made you disappear. New identity. Mountain estate. Cameras, guards, controlled access, routines designed to keep anyone from finding you. Then he hired me. Not because his security is bad. Because I know exactly how I would get through it. For once, my job isn't to find a way to kill someone. It's to find every way someone could kill you first.