The Contract Killer

“CLAP! CLAP!”

Right on target. I unscrew the silencer then disassemble the rest of the rifle, counting in my head.

36 seconds.

My black duffle bag is slung over my shoulder and I’m taking the emergency stairs down to the alley behind the high rise. I have 1 minute 30 seconds to get out of the alley and to my car, a nondescript blue Honda that has seen better days.

Before opening the door to the alley, I hold my breath and listen for any sounds of movement. Feet running, sirens getting louder, static from a police radio. Silence.

I have 28 seconds.

The metal door squeals in protest. The sun is blinding, but I’m prepared with sunglasses. I walk at a quick pace south, knowing this is the riskiest part of my plan, as I’ll be in plain sight on a public street. Anyone could see me with my duffle bag and become suspicious. I hope I look like a middle-aged man that just came from the gym.

12 seconds.

I hear the first siren, my body tenses. I try to stop my legs from quickening.

I’m out of the alley and waiting at a crosswalk for the light to change with two other people. One is a young man with headphones on, walking a small dog, oblivious to the world. The other one is an older man in a suite with a briefcase. He glances in the direction of the sirens, but then pulls a buzzing phone out of his pocket and answers a call. Perfect.

I’m 5 seconds behind schedule.

Inside my blue Honda with my duffel bag in the trunk I turn the key and put on my blinker to merge onto the street. An ambulance flies by. If I did my job correctly, nothing would save my ‘mark’, not even the EMT’s in that ambulance.

8 seconds behind schedule. Damnit.

I’m on the highway heading north. The high-rises turn into warehouses. The warehouses turn into neighborhoods. The neighborhoods turn into farmland. I turn west onto a dirt road and pull over into the shade of some corn stalks.

Turning off the engine, I absorb the silence around me. The heat in the car rises rapidly, causing perspiration to shine my forehead and dampen my shirt. I roll down the window and breath in the smell of earth, manure, and corn. It calms me.

14:56 hours .

My little black book is in my glove box where I left it. I open it and jot down my counts. I’ve slowed down over the last few years. Not a lot, but it’s becoming noticeable. I push the thoughts of retirement into the back of my head. I’m not that old yet.

A bird flies over my head while I’m in the trunk pulling out my satellite phone. I watch as it finds a current and floats above me in the air, its dark wings spread wide, its head up, facing the glow of the sun.

I turn on the phone and wait for it to connect. It is the only way to contact my employer. I received $20,000 before the job and will receive $20,000 more now that it is over. First, I need to check-in, so he knows I haven’t been compromised or killed.

15:42 hours.

47860251. My code gets approved and I’m patched through.

“Michael. Nice to hear from you. A snail climbs 5 meters up a 20-meter hole every day and slides back down 4 meters every night. How many days does it take him to get out?”

“John, it’s been a while. 16 days,” I reply without hesitation. Easy. I pull my burner phone out of my pocket and log into my account. I should have the rest of the money in a few minutes.

“How did it go?”

“8 seconds behind,” I mumble. I refresh the page. Still no money.

“Slowing down I see.”

I can hear the pretentiousness drip off his words. Like he could do my job for one day. I refresh one more time, but still no money.

“Where is it?”

15:53 hours.

Silence.

“Where is my $20,000?” I growl into the phone.

I meditate daily to keep my anger under control. I count time in my head to keep my brain busy. I have learned to stay calm in situations where I used to black out from rage. My employer knows this. He knows what I would do if I don’t get paid.

He clears his throat. “The ‘mark’ is in the hospital in a coma.”

Now I’m the one silent. This can’t be. My aim was impeccable.

“Your mission is not over.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and count backwards from 10 in my head, focusing on my breath as it leaves my body. “Details.” My teeth are clenched.

“St. Josephs Hospital. 2nd and Broadway. 4th floor ICU.”

“Timeline?”

“24 hours.”

“Impossible.”

“24 hours or your contract is terminated.”

I hear a click and lose connection. I turn off the satellite phone and place it back in my trunk. My hands are shaking. I clench my fists as I sit down behind the wheel. 1 2 3 4 5 breath in. 6 7 8 9 10 breath out. 24 hours is not a lot of time. Plus, there will likely be police guarding the room. I needed to come up with a plan, and I need one quickly.

I open my little black book to a blank page and think. The corn stalks wave in a light breeze. The black bird circles overhead, carefree and innocent. A light goes off in my head. Who says I have to enter the hospital when there is possibly a window in his room? I jot down a list of supplies then glance at my watch.

16:12 hours. 23 hours and 48 minutes remaining.

I start my car with a smile on my face. Time to go to work.