CONFESSIONS OF A HITMAN
It started as a one-off, a passing conversation in the back of a Wellington craft-beer bar, the waft of warm knee-pads rising through the crowded seating, mud-flecked bikes gathered at the door like horses outside a saloon.
This guy had a plan, an objective, and he was used to getting his way. The light flashed from his gold watch, and his darting eyes skipped from the floor to his carbon Nomad and
