The Deadly Order

My name is Anna Lincoln, twenty-two years old, and I've been running the "Alley Convenient Store" for just over a month. The store was left by my brother—he had an accident three months ago and is gone. Dad wanted me to join the family business, but I was afraid of that rigid life, so he had no choice but to give me the store, repeatedly telling me: "Don't touch anything in the store recklessly; only serve familiar customers." The store hides at the end of an alley in the old district of the Capital City, with a repair shop on the left and a noodle shop on the right—it looks completely ordinary. The cola, potato chips, and cigarettes on the shelves are all decoys—the cola might trigger the order for the killer, the chips could be hiding refined poison, and the cigarettes might contain plastic explosives. I'm the middleman, finding killer for clients and delivering the "goods" for the killer too. That evening, dark clouds hung low, like they were about to swallow the alley whole. In less than ten minutes, a downpour started, raindrops slamming against the glass door with a crackling sound that rang painfully in my ears. I glanced at my phone — just past seven. Time to close up; regulars never show up this late. As soon as I hung the "closed" sign on the door, it was yanked open violently, wind wrapped in rain rushing inside. I shivered. Three young men in tailored suits stood at the door, their pant legs muddy but hair perfectly slicked back. They didn't look like anyone from the neighborhood — more like trouble looking for trouble. The lead man with light brown hair wore a diamond earring and had a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Without greeting me, he blew a smoke ring right in my face. The mix of smoke and that metallic, rainy smell was overwhelming. "Taking shelter from the rain." He spoke with a cocky tone and headed straight to the inner shelf. Two underlings followed, throwing their umbrellas on the floor without care, water splashing everywhere. I bit my lip, not wanting to entertain them—there were too many rules in this line of work, and strangers often invited trouble. But the rain was pouring hard, and kicking them out would just look suspicious, so I had to say as calmly as I could: "If the rain lets up, you guys leave. I'm closing up, not doing business." The man turned his head and sized me up from head to toe, his eyes full of contempt: "Open for business, how can you turn customers away? How much do you think your crappy store makes in a day? My dog's allowance beats what your whole store earns in a month." The underlings chimed in, dripping with mockery. I didn't answer. My eyes dropped to the Cola in his hand—the bottle from the far back of the shelf, signaling it was the order for Black Eagle, a top killer. Black Eagle is one of the top three on the killer ranking list; his orders never allow backing out. This bottle of Cola requires 300 million cash plus a right hand. The moment you twist off the cap and activate the microchip, the order goes live immediately. My chest tightened, and I quickly took two steps forward. "You can take shelter from the rain, but don't touch anything in the store." He paused for a moment, then laughed. "So what if I touch something? Think you can stop me?" With that, his finger pressed down on the Cola bottle cap. I panicked and lunged forward. "Don't touch it!" But I was too weak; he easily shook me off. I stumbled into the shelf, and the potato chip cans spilled all over the floor. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" His face darkened. "Deliberately disrespecting me?"