Web of Death

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So far, my retirement was turning out to be a fucking bore.

I supposed that I should have expected it to go this way. Mainly because my day job, well, my night job, had been a little more interesting that most folks’ had. No pushing papers around a desk for me. Instead, I’d moonlighted as the assassin the Spider for the last seventeen years.

That’s right. An assassin. Someone who killed other people for money. And I’d been damn good at my job too—some would even say the best.

Which is probably why making the adjustment to just being myself, Gin Blanco, owner of the Pork Pit barbecue restaurant, had been a little more difficult than I’d thought it would be.

And a lot more fucking boring.

So boring, so mundane in fact, that I now found myself standing outside on a chilly October evening, peering into the trunk of my Mercedes Benz, regarding the cardboard boxes inside that held all of my worldly possessions. Books mostly, along with some high-end cookware and knives—lots of knives. Some of which were used for slicing and dicing more than just vegetables.

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