The Angel of Demons

She tucked the knife into her boot and picked up the gun from nightstand. Beside her, his lifeless form didn't make a sound. His blank eyes stared up at the ceiling with dazed wonder. He hadn't seen it coming. They never do. They always see the dark brown hair and deep, soulful blue eyes and fall right into her trap. Briefly, she wondered who he was. The blue sheets were a sky littered with bloody clouds giving him a skyline that he soared upon as the sacrificed angel.

She stood, picking up the discarded denim skirt and shimmied it back on. She'd always put on her boots first for some reason. Perhaps it was because she was armed that way. Tying on her halter top, she gave one last look at her mark and grinned. That was an easy fifty grand.

*~*

"Laundry is clean," she reported. "Fold it and put it away by midnight into the drawer." She hung up and tossed the disposable cell into her purse. By midnight, her money would be at the bus station in a locked briefcase. It was the same routine, just a different drop each time.

How does one become the most highly trained assassin in North America? That was something she'd been asked several times. Is it in the blood? Is it the nurture versus nature? That was something the she'd asked herself many times. There really was no easy answer. She was raised in a typical American home and did average in high school. She'd even been the prom queen. So how, only five years later, did she end up making millions by killing people? How could she sleep at night and think nothing of the life she'd taken?

She was the dark angel.