This should be easy. I am an assassin. He is my target.
Why is this not easy?
Turn around.
I stand in the shadows at the corner of the muddy alley, staring at him. He stands with his back toward me in the dark doorway of a wooden building. The alley drips with sparse raindrops.
The mud hut was thatched with grass that stuck out like my hair in the morning. Its only difference from the other huts was the paper nailed to the door. I had to squint to read the orange gel pen writing: Archibald Waverly.
I knocked.
An old man with tufts of white hair
I climb higher.
Sweat drips off my forehead, and I look down. Bad choice. My vision blurs, and the clouds below me start spinning.
“Daylin!”
Shut up, Dexter. You’re going to make me fall off this cliff.
After I blink a few times, the clouds are still again. I look up the cliff,
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