A shattered life. A killer for hire. Can she stop?
Her assignments were always to kill someone. Thatâs what a hitmanâor hitwomanâis paid to do, and that is what she does. Then comes a surprise assignmentâkeep someone alive.
She is hired to protect the stunning and brilliant chief technology officer of a hot startup with an innovation that will change the world. This new job catches her at a time in her life when sheâs hanging on by a thread. Despair and hopelessnessânow more intense than sheâd felt after the tragic loss of her familyâled her to abruptly launch this career. But over time, the life of a hired killer is decimating her spirit.
Sheâs confused about the âwhyâ of her new assignment but she addresses her mission as she always does, with skill and stealth, determined to keep this young CTO alive in the midst of the twinned worlds of innovation and high finance.
Some people have to die as she discharges her responsibly to protect this superstar woman amid the crumbling worlds of money and future technical wonders.
Fans of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Dexter will love Exit Strategy
A shattered life. A killer for hire. Can she stop?
Her assignments were always to kill someone. Thatâs what a hitmanâor hitwomanâis paid to do, and that is what she does. Then comes a surprise assignmentâkeep someone alive.
She is hired to protect the stunning and brilliant chief technology officer of a hot startup with an innovation that will change the world. This new job catches her at a time in her life when sheâs hanging on by a thread. Despair and hopelessnessânow more intense than sheâd felt after the tragic loss of her familyâled her to abruptly launch this career. But over time, the life of a hired killer is decimating her spirit.
Sheâs confused about the âwhyâ of her new assignment but she addresses her mission as she always does, with skill and stealth, determined to keep this young CTO alive in the midst of the twinned worlds of innovation and high finance.
Some people have to die as she discharges her responsibly to protect this superstar woman amid the crumbling worlds of money and future technical wonders.
Fans of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Dexter will love Exit Strategy
Today
He proves to be a genial companion. Iâd never doubted that he would. Across the table from him in a romantic restaurant, I can see his pale eyes are sparked with amber. Or is it gold? Maybe it depends on your perspective. A trick of the light.
So much of life, Iâve found, are those things: perspective and also light. Or maybe thatâs saying exactly the same thing.
He tells me heâs in âfinance,â a term that is vague enough to accommodate a whole range of activities. Iâve done some research, though, and I know he is a hedge fund manager; that his apartment in this town is a playpen: weekends only. I know he is based in the City and that he flies down here for the occasional weekend, especially since his divorce, which was messy. He doesnât say that: âmessy.â But when he briefly skates over that episode of his lifeâthe period of time in which âweâ became âmeâ âhe makes a face that is unpleasant, like heâs got a bad taste in his mouth. I let it ride. Where we are going, it wonât make a difference.
He tells me funny, self-deprecating stories. I reflect that he is someone I would dateâin another lifetime. If I dated. If I still had a heart.
âThis is a fun first date,â he says in that moment, as though he has read my mind. His thick dark hair flops over his eye endearingly, and my heart gives a little flutter. Iâd try to stop it, but I donât hate the feeling. That flutter. It feels good, in this moment, to simply feel alive.
âYesterday, Brett. Wasnât that our first date?â I ask, more for interaction than anything real. Because, of course, the few moments on a rooftop we shared were not a date by any standard. Especially since I was trying to think how to kill him for part of that time. But he doesnât know that, so maybe it doesnât count?
âNope,â he says firmly. âThat was a meeting. This,â he indicates our wine and the delicate nibbles between us, âthis is a date.â
âHow does it end?â I ask pertly. Knowing the answer. Knowing he doesnât. Wanting to know what he thinks.
He looks at me searchingly for a moment, then smiles raffishly, a certain boyish charm bubbling through. Itâs a practiced look. Heâs used that smile before, to good effect, I can tell. Heâs probably done that his whole life. I donât dislike him for any of that. It distresses me slightly that I donât dislike him at all. It would be beneficial to me if I could find it in myself to dislike him.
âIt ends well,â he says. A beat. And then: âIt ends as it should.â There is more conversation, just like that. An ancient dance. After a while he excuses himself to go to the bathroom. Once heâs out of sight, I slip a vial out of my purse. It contains
a powder I made myself. Oleander flowers, dried, crushed and mixed with salt and a few strong spices, intended to cover the plantâs bitter taste. I donât know how well those spices mask the taste. Itâs not as though I can test it, and none of my customers have ever complained.
I quickly sprinkle some of this concoction judiciously on the food that remains. I do it using natural motions. Anyone watching would think I was eating. A little OCD, maybe, but it wouldnât look anywhere close to what is true. I mix it quickly into the salsa, the guacamole. I salt the chips with it. Sprinkle it on what is left of the chicken wings. I donât dust the calamari. Iâd noted he hadnât been eating that. It will give me a safe spot to nibble, not that I plan on needing much time to eat. All of this will happen quickly, my experience tells me that.
Before he returns, I have this moment of absolute indecision. I very nearly call out to a nearby server; have her clear the table. Iâm not even super sure why I donât. All of this is going well. Textbook. And yet, I have qualms. Why? Heâs lovely of course, thereâs that. But beyond the way he looks or how he looks at me. Not long ago, things had happened that had made me resolve to do my life in a different way. Then Iâd gotten an assignment and instinct had more or less kicked in. And it was easy to reason around it and to rationalize: if not me, then someone else, right? There would always be some other person ready to do the job. Viewed in that light, there was no earthly reason for me not to do what I do.
But still.
I donât call a server. And the moment passes.
He comes back looking refreshed, like heâs maybe splashed
water on his face or combed his hair, which is behaving for now. Not, for the moment, flopping into his eyes. I figure he probably did bothâsplashed and combed. He looks good.
He smiles when his eyes meet mine. A 24-karat smile that lights his whole face. My heart gives a little bump. âFuck,â I say. But it isnât out loud.
He takes his seat and starts talking again, picking up where we left off. He is easy. Comfortable. But Iâm having trouble tracking the conversation; my mind is elsewhere. Iâm thinking about what my next steps will be. After. And does it matter what he says right now? Really? If it does, it wonât matter for long.
I try not to follow his actions. Try instead to listen to what he is saying. These words will be his last ones, I know that. And part of me thinks I should do him that courtesy. At least. The courtesy of attention. But itâs difficult to follow his words now. I watch one corn chip as he picks it up, dips it into salsa. I watch him consume it, and it feels like all of it is happening in slow motion. All the while I am listening to his wordsâI am!âparticipating in the conversation, not wanting to miss any cues. And wanting to honor the small amount of time he has left. Itâs all I can do.
The chip is consumed. I detect no reaction to the bitterness, so thatâs a plus. He picks up a chicken wing, swirls it in the blue cheese dip, which makes me realize that, in my haste, Iâd missed an opportunity by skipping doctoring the dip. He consumes the wing while we talk; a slight sucking, the meat peeling gently off the bone, all the while, the words flow, though it doesnât come off as rude. He seems adept at eating and talking so everything stays and sounds as it should.
I listen closely, interjecting as appropriate when I think itâs necessary, all the while watching for . . . signs. I detect nothing until another wing and several chips later. His eyes are suddenly glassy. Sweat stands on his forehead. His hands shake.
âBrett, are you all right?â I ask, but it is pure form. I know he is far from all right. All right no longer exists for him.
âI donât know. Iâve never . . . never felt like this before.â
I give it another minute. A little less than that. I know itâs all weâve got. I make the right sounds, the correct motions of my hand. Even when no one is watching, people are watching. Physically, I am unremarkable. A middle-aged woman, so some would say I am invisible, certainly there is nothing about my appearance that makes me stand out. But there will be a future, when questions are asked and people are perhaps looking for clues. I donât want them to be looking for me.
When he collapses, face directly into salsa, I scream, as one does. Not bone chilling, but an alarmed scream. Our server trots over, clearly distressed. The manager is on her heels. All as expected: itâs pretty terrible for business when customers collapse into their food.
âMy date...heâs...taken ill...I donât know what to doâ etcetera. All as one would expect. I donât deviate from the script.
An ambulance is called. Paramedics arrive quickly. The man- ager has already pulled Brett from the salsa, but itâs clear he is not all right. They take him away, one of the paramedics offering to let me ride in the ambulance. I decline.
âIâll follow you,â I say, heading for my rental. And I start out following, but a few blocks from the restaurant I make the turn I know will lead me to the freeway and then the airport. My bag is in the trunk and itâs all mapped out: I am ready to go.
With this moment in mind, Iâd left a ballcap on the passenger seat before I entered the restaurant. It is emblazoned with the logo of a local team. While I drive, I push my hair into the cap and wiggle out of the jacket I know Iâll leave behind. These are simple changesâhat on, jacket offâbut it will change my appearance enough. I donât anticipate anyone will be looking for me, but I like to think forward. Just in case.
I have no way of knowing for sure what will happen to him, but I can guess. From the amount of food I watched him consume, I figure heâll probably have a heart attack before he reaches the hospital and will likely arrive DOA. And at the age and heft of him, and with a high stress job, they will probably not test for poison. And the woman with him at the restaurant? I figure no one will be looking for a girl who doesnât follow up on the date that ended in hell.
From there it all goes like itâs being managed by a metronome: tick tock, tick tock. Arrive at airport. Drop off rental car. Get through security. Get to plane while theyâre boarding. Claim aisle seat at the back of the plane. Keep my eyes peeled for both watchers or people who might recognize me from the airport. But everything goes exactly as it should. No watchers this time. No one looking at me in ways I donât understand. In fact, everything is perfect. Everything is exactly as it should be. Except.Â
What if your job description made a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn? Would you be able to handle such a seismic shift? What if that change saved you from the demons that haunt your life?
That is the overarching premise of Exit Strategy by Linda L. Richards. The protagonist, whose name we never learn, is a hit-person ... hit-woman ... hired killerâ someone who kills people for money. And all of the killing is killing her, emotionally and morally. In fact, the only thing that keeps her going is her dog â a gentle golden dog who is also nameless. Knowing that her dog needs her is what saves her from self-harm.
After our protagonist decides to end her career as a hired killer and take no more contracts, her handler (also nameless) contacts her with a different type contract â a contract to keep someone alive instead of making them dead. And using the same level of planning and dedication as she would with any other job, she sets out to keep Virginia Martin alive. There is one proviso though â Virginia cannot know that she is being protected. Complicated? Yes. But our protagonist is up to the challenge, immersing herself into the world of a high tech environmental start-up, while trying to figure out who, amongst those who have a stake in the business, wants to see Virginia dead.Â
The story moves along at a good clip, as the circle of suspects widens. It is told from the first-person perspective, and the narrative is sparse and rapid-fire. That was one of the surprises â the difference between the protagonistâs inner narrative voice and her exterior dialogue. The outer dialogue voice seems like a different person is talking compared to her inner voice â which is actually accurate, as our main character is always pretending to be someone else. The only time her two voices meld is when she is speaking with her handler and is able to be her authentic self. Both characters speak in a clipped, staccato dialogue, and Iâm not going to lie, sometimes those cryptic dialogues were lost on me. Eventually, though, I figured them out after a bit of head scratching, and eyebrow furrowing.
I liked Exit Strategy and I really liked the character. I didnât realize that this was the second book in what I hope will a series. The first book, Endings, is the genesis story of the main character. Iâm interested in this character â sheâs very compelling â and would like to read the first book. And, Iâm looking forward to the next book in the series. All in all, a good read.