Mr. Black's Death Day

Sitting in the centre of the hospital's first floor cafeteria was neither criminal nor suspicious. If not for the pistol under his jacket, and the target emblazoned on his brain, he might seem like any frequenter of the refuge for the mourning. The cafeteria constituted jell-o for the future widow, stale coffee for the broken mother, and a hitman for Mr. Black.

Based on his medical history and uncanny ability to make enemies, Mr. Black would surely die sooner than he expected. The mission of taking a life was delivered to Taylor; at least, that's what it read on the visitor's badge. False names were essential, of course. For the price of $1 million and getting a rat off the street, Taylor accepted.

There was a man lying in this hospital in a vulnerable state. He was a business tycoon, crook, cheat, and murderer. To the hospital staff, he was George Hines, a name so perfectly plain there was little chance of arousing suspicion. His location was determined easily enough. Experts in espionage snatch up any critical information as fast as it becomes available. It was unfortunate that George found himself with coronary trouble. Maybe it was angina from a lifetime of stress and secrecy. In correlation with his alias, George did not have security posted at his hospital door. He wouldn’t want anyone thinking someone ‘important’ was inside. This was the time, finally. George had made mistakes, but never had he been so vulnerable. The hitman smirked inadvertently. George had been a source of aggravation in his life. Embroiled as they both were in criminal activity, each had threatened to expose or terminate the other on multiple occasions. Now the hitman had the upper hand.

His eyes swept his surroundings at intervals, like a metronome. Across the cafeteria sat a woman in a black sweatshirt, hood pulled over her greasy hair, shielding her red-rimmed eyes from the hospital light. She was bent over a steaming mug. He watched the sad scene, a reminder of the distressed families, coming and going. He was required to be careful, a mere shadow. This time there were too many civilians and too much artificial light to allow any mistakes. Every possibility had to be analyzed. The hitman had a plan, but carried the pistol in the event of an unravelling. 

George was in Room 250, on the second floor. He would die in his hospital bed, having been injected with strychnine. Symptoms would appear five minutes following injection, long after the hitman had exited through the window, where no security cameras would note his mission, and disappeared into the night. The poison would cause George's already damaged heart to fail and the toxicology report would come far too late to indict the hitman.

His opportunity would appear moments before the night shift nurse announced herself. The sweet spot of the shift change would allow just enough time to slip into the room undetected and commit the deed. At 9:55pm he must appear at George's bedside and inject the poison directly into his IV. When the nurse made her rounds at 10:00pm, George would be on his way to the afterlife, the fabricated DNR order ensuring his death. 

The clock was the loudest sound in the nearly vacant cafeteria, ticking past 9:50pm. The woman in the hoodie sipped absentmindedly as she dreamed of happier days. 

The hitman stood at 9:53pm, and made his way vigilantly to the second floor. Eagerness would be his undoing. He came to Room 250 at 9:54pm and quickly slipped inside. Surveying the room, he noted the IV stand, the window slightly ajar...and the empty bed. George Hines was nowhere to be found. In the dimly lit, sterile room the hitman spotted a square note taped to the bedrail. Miss me?

The hitman’s hands convulsed with anger. He crumpled the note and spun on his heel. A swift movement, imperceptible to the untrained eye, flashed in the doorway of Room 250. The hitman burst through the door and dashed after the lurker, catching a glimpse of black clothing turning the corner at the end of the hall. The hitman ran full tilt, his silent-shadow manner abandoned entirely. 

"Excuse me, sir!” yelped the night-shift nurse, "Please, stop running! This is a hospital!" 

As the hitman dashed passed the nurse, his visitor's badge fell at her feet. She picked it up, preparing to call security on the name scrawled there. The badge read John.

"Slow down!" she implored. He was already gone. 

He pursued his foe to the cafeteria, drawing his pistol as he went. He turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. Across the space, beneath the ticking clock, stood George Hines. He was perfectly well, a menacing smile twisting his face. 

“Hello, Mr. Black,” said George.

A stand-off in this hospital was not what either had imagined to be the end. 

This was the day of Mr. Black's death. Mr. Black, the hitman who had been seated only moments before in this hospital cafeteria, wearing a badge bearing the name John. A medical history listing 'seizures, induced by stress', an excited hitman who forgot to take his medication, had placed a bull's-eye on his own back. Moments before, across from him, wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled over her greasy hair and leaning over a steaming mug was Taylor, tasked this day to ensnare the vengeful hitman by none other than George Hines.

The second killer, the shadow pursued down a second-floor hallway, now stood behind Mr. Black. She eyed George across the cafeteria, as Mr. Black lifted his pistol. Taylor jumped into action and stuck Mr. Black with a syringe, injecting him with a poison far deadlier than strychnine. Just moments after the poison entered his bloodstream, Mr. Black's brain began to seize. He toppled to the ground and lay there, convulsing, as his adversary looked on. Two minutes until he lay still. 

The night-shift nurse appeared in a frenzy and looked up toward George and Taylor, placing her fingers on the side of Mr. Black's neck in a feeble attempt to detect a pulse. 

 "What happened, here?" 

"Today, he was John," replied George, "I knew him as Mr. Black." 

 Then he turned and walked away, on Mr. Black's death day.