Tanned Hide

Copyright © 2016 by R. A.
Meenan

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www.zyearth.com

Cover art by K. M. Carroll

Cover typography, and interior art by
Omni Jacala, A.K.A. Artsy Omni.

Copy Edited by Beth Cantwell

Discover other titles by R. A.
Meenan:

- The Stolen Guardian

- White Assassin

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Published by Smashwords

Dedications

To my awesome writing group for all the
great suggestions and the unbridled confidence you displayed when
telling me how wrong I was. This story would be a load of nonsense
without you!

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Title Page

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

About the
Author

Glossary

The Zyearth Chronicles

Tanned Hide

From the Color
Collection

By R. A. Meenan

Starcrest Fox Press

Tanned Hide

One

There is nothing noble about being an assassin.

Entertainment media likes to pretend
there is. Video games will put out stories about the “noble
assassin” fighting for the greater good. Movies make it look like
assassins are necessary to “cull the species” or that somehow
assassinating the Enemy-That-Is-Not-You makes your deeds
“noble.”

It’s not. Nothing about assassination
is noble. Only fools believe that.

But some assholes don’t get that.
Trecheon Omnir, for example. He entered the profession, shed a
couple of fake crocodile tears, all “woe-is-me”, complaining about
his second hit like it was worst goddamned thing ever. Then he goes
off becoming this White Assassin as if that suddenly makes him
noble.

But that’s not what being an assassin
is all about. It’s about pain. And he doesn’t know pain. Not
really. Not like I do.

Let me tell you what pain is really
like.

It had started with a visit
to Red’s Garage. I pulled up in my battered old chopper motorcycle
and ambled through the open doors of the Trecheon’s barely-afloat
business, clutching a manila envelope.
The
manila envelope. The envelope
that would change everything. If I could only get Trecheon’s help
on it.

I walked through the hot, smelly
workroom, counting two cars up on lifts and as many mechanics
working on them, both humans. A third car was still on the floor,
with a third mechanic buried under the hood. It was the busiest I
had ever seen the place in all the years I had known Trech, which
was both good and bad. Good, since Trecheon was perpetually
considering leaving the “business” as an assassin and he could use
all the cash he could get. Bad, since good mechanic business meant
he’d be less likely to team up with me on a job.

And I really needed him to team up
with me on this job.

The third mechanic swore as I walked
by, giving up his identity; a twenty-seven-year old named
Christian, one of Trecheon’s better employees. He stood up fully to
set his ratchet down. I grinned at him, twitching my puma tail. He
grinned back.

“
How’s it goin’, Neil?” The
tanned human asked. He moved with a practiced grace as he grabbed a
magnetic pull rod. “I see your tail’s still in one
piece.”

“
Not for lack of trying,” I
shot back. “Choppers don’t really lend themselves to zyfaunos. Is
the boss man in today? I need to talk with him about
something.”

“
Yeah, he’s in the office,”
Christian replied, looking at the blackened tip of a spark plug
before tossing it into a trash can. “Should be finished up with
that blonde in a minute, so your timing’s pretty good.”

I snickered. “His favorite customer is
in today, huh?”

“
Yup,” Christian said,
grinning. “Watch out, Trecheon might not be in the best of moods
because of that.”

“
I’ll keep that in mind.
Thanks, Christian.” I bounced two fingers off my black, rounded
ears in a mock salute to the young mechanic, who absently waved
back, already lowering his head under the hood of the car. He was
nothing if not dedicated. Trecheon had a knack for finding good
talent in his workers. Only way he was actually able to stay afloat
on the outskirts of the grand bayside city of El Dorado.

I stepped into the small office and
leaned against the wall, sizing up Trecheon’s “favorite” customer.
The human customer, a woman, apparently refused the chairs, instead
more content to lean over the desk. On the other side of the desk
sat the proprietor of this establishment, Trecheon Omnir. The red,
black-streaked quilar typed in a few last keystrokes before
printing out a repair order. His catlike ears were slightly splayed
out, though the woman didn’t seem to notice his
irritation.

“
So, we went ahead and
replaced the fluid for the transmission and the differential, and
that’s on top of the spark plugs and the usual oil change.”
Trecheon looked up from the computer’s screen and looked directly
into the human woman’s eyes, ignoring the obvious sway of her hips
as he went through the RO. She appeared satisfied with the work,
but to any straight man with a pair of eyes, it looked like she
wanted more.

“
Mr. Red, I can’t tell you
enough how much I appreciate your help.” She produced a credit card
and handed it to Trecheon, who slid the card through a reader and
processed the payment. She had her elbows on the desk now, and
turned her head slightly to one side. “May I ask when the shop
closes?”

“
We close at six, so if you
notice anything off with the car before then, bring it back and
I’ll take a look at it.” He held out the card with a receipt, not
even meeting the woman’s eyes.

I smirked.
Damn, Trech. That’s cold as ice as
always.

The woman gave a slim smile and
narrowed her eyes slightly. “Oh, I’ll let you know. Thank you!” She
took her keys and turned to leave, walking out into the garage, her
hips swaying with every step.

Trecheon put a hand to his face as he
leaned back in his office chair. “Will this chick ever learn? I.
Am. Not. Interested. I’ve made that abundantly clear, but the
flirting and borderline innuendo comes up every time she
visits.”

“
Just tell her to take a
hike, Trachea,” I put in with a grin.

Trecheon shot me a glare for the use
of the hated nickname, then shrugged, his metal bionic arms
catching a glint of sunlight from the windows. The prosthetic
replacements were a constant reminder of the cost of our time in
the War of Eons, though these particular arms were also souvenirs
from Trecheon’s last assassination hit. Something he wasn’t proud
of.

“
She’s a reliable customer,
what with that expensive Mobiüs coupe,” Trecheon said. “The last
thing I need to do is alienate steadfast paychecks.”

“
Y’know, I don’t get you.”
I tracked the woman’s lower half as she crossed the garage to her
car still swaying her hips and chancing a few glances back toward
the office. “She’s very clearly interested in performing
-ahem-
acts upon your
person, but you’ve turned her down every time I’ve seen her here.
You’ve got to admit, she’s pretty cute for a human. She has an ass
like an onion.”

Trecheon turned up a confused eyebrow
and splayed an ear. “The hell do you mean by that?”

“
It makes you wanna cry,” I
said smirking. Trecheon rolled his eyes at me. “Seriously, I gotta
know. What’s the deal?”

“
Eh. Not my
type.”

“
Not so hot for
blondes?”

“
Not so hot for humans, at
least not anymore. Not since high school, really.” Trecheon printed
out a second copy of the RO and placed it into a file folder behind
him. “Besides which, I’m not really looking.”

“
Well, I’ve got a hot date
for us,” I looked to the door. “Mind if we speak behind closed
doors?”

Trecheon pressed his lips together,
then waved a hand.

I shut the door, making a point to
lock it. “Got a hit that I need your help with.”

“
Why am I not surprised,”
Trecheon said, flattening both ears. But then one perked up. “Wait,
hit? You never call them hits. They’re always ‘jobs’ with you. What
gives?”

“
This isn’t a paying gig,”
I said, trying to keep the tone light.

Trecheon raised a cautious eyebrow.
“I’ve never known you to take a hit for free.”

“
Special circumstances,
Trech.”

Trecheon glared at me. “Don’t call me
Trech.”

Ugh, so sensitive. “Sorry. But trust
me, you’ll want in on this.” I leaned over the desk with a mocking
hint of the sensual human customer Trecheon had just been dealing
with and slid the manila envelope across the battered desk. “I’ve
got my magic hit.”

Trecheon perked both ears with a
shocked look crawling across his face. He knew what I was talking
about. That magic hit. It was somewhat of a hopeful rumor in
assassin circles – that one hit that would actually save thousands
of lives. Killing for the greater good. The idea that we might be
taking out the next dictator or mass murderer and save millions
from suffering. That, somehow, developing our skills had a
purpose.

It was faulty logic though, and we all
knew it. We were paid killers. Paid killers don’t take out future
dictators. They work for politicians, businessmen, and spurned
lovers, taking out rivals that slowed or halted their climbs to the
top.

But we can dream, can’t we?
We had to. We
needed
to. It was the only way to stay sane in this business. Dream
of the magic hit or fall into despair. Dream of that hit, or lose
your humanity, for lack of a better term.

Or take the easy route and kill
yourself. Plenty of assassins took the easy route.

But not me. And not Trecheon. We
needed that magic hit. And if I could provide it, I’d catch
Trecheon hook, line, and sinker. And I needed to catch him. This
magic hit couldn’t happen without him.

Trecheon’s metal fingers gingerly
caressed the envelope. “How’d you manage this?”

“
I’ve been doing research
for ages,” I told him. “And I finally found a hit I can handle. And
one that I think will do this town some good.”

“
As if anything could do
this town some good,” Trecheon muttered, shifting the envelope
between his hands. “Let’s see what you got.” He lifted the
envelope’s flap and slid the papers out. His eyes widened. “You’re
kidding me.”

I frowned. “What?”

“
The Fawn Family?” Trecheon
gaped. “Are you mad?”