Becoming Sir

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Sawyer’s eyes rested on his face in the mirror. What was reflected back was someone he didn’t like, but that he had come to accept; someone cold, hard, and murderous. His dark, ominous eyes held a note of desolation that was hard to hide, and his handsome, scruffy face looked older than his true age of thirty-eight.

His eyes flicked to the sink as he washed the last of the blood from his hands, the crimson swirling into the abyss of the drain pipe. He hoped he had just killed for the last time. Three times he had murdered in the name of loyalty to his friend, confidant and business partner, Dylan Young and his wife, Isabel. There was no doubt in his mind that he would do it again if push came to shove, but he prayed to a God he doubted existed that it would never come to that again. Sawyer had his fill of death and was put off by how easily he found it to take another person’s life. He would be content if only the murders of these three people were on his hands, but there were many more than that. Dozens. Who the hell was he kidding? The number was far more than that and he damned well knew it. He was good at killing and that was one of the many reasons the CIA had hired him.

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