couldn’t swim. He hoped the rest of the information in the file was correct.
Thinking about his mistake, he cursed himself under his breath. He had to tighten up his act. Having drawn attention to himself, he was vulnerable and that was unforgivable. Mistakes were not his trademark and mistakes would get him killed. He closed Michaels’s file, sat back and let his mind drift.
The hit man liked his work. He found it challenging and he had a talent for it. Killing people was something he was good at, but the challenge didn’t come from the killing. It came from making the kill look like an accident.
The concept was his employer’s brainchild—he
regularly needed people killed, but couldn’t afford any suspicion falling upon him. He would think long and hard about what kind of accident suited each of his assigned targets to satisfy his employer. He kept news
clippings of unusual accidents that he could reconstruct or improve on for his assignments. He took great care to make his kills look like accidents, although occasionally he did commit an obvious murder if the case warranted it. In his opinion, a seemingly motiveless murder was just as hard to solve as a well-planned accident.
However, it took time to set up the kills to make them look like accidents. Too much time in his employer’s opinion—he wanted quicker and quicker turnarounds these days, and the caseload had significantly
increased in the last twelve months. Obviously, a quicker kill meant less preparation, so the quality of the assassination couldn’t be guaranteed. If his employer wanted quick kills he could do that, but it would look like murder and murder meant investigations.
He thought of himself as a craftsman rather than a ruthless killer; a member of a dying breed in a world of mass-produced lifestyles. The greatest compliment he could receive was to watch the nightly news and hear it, or read the newspaper and see it—the words “unfortunate accident” in conjunction with his target’s name.
Any monkey with a good aim and a cool nerve could take out a mark, but it took real intelligence, class and attention to detail to kill someone without anyone realizing it had been a contract hit.
Over time he began to need the applause after a superior performance. In the beginning, as soon as his
mark was dead, he was out of there before the body was even cold. These days, he had little to fear cop-wise and hung around the kill zone awhile. The ultimate praise came from the mark’s family and friends. On several occasions he had attended the funerals of his targets in person or viewed them from afar with listening devices.
He loved hearing the target’s loved ones discuss the circumstances of the death. An overwhelming pride filled
him every time. Oh yes, he loved his work.
His work was his life, but it did come with its downsides.
The hit man’s life was a loner’s life. His contact with the real world and the people in it was scant. Most of the time, the people he really saw were through the crosshairs of a gun sight. After years of practicing being unseen, practice became perfect and no one saw
him. His career made his life very impersonal. Even after two years of dealing with the same employer and
over half a million dollars of fees, he’d never met the man face-to-face. His home in Boston was like the motel room he sat in now. There were no photographs of
him or his family, books, CDs or other material possessions.
If someone walked into his house they couldn’t
tell if he had moved in, let alone lived there. He snapped out of his thoughts before he depressed himself.
He had work to do.
He removed one of the three cellular phones from
the briefcase. This one, like the other two, was the payas-you-go type, unregistered and purchased with cash.
This phone he used for his employer. He disposed of the phones regularly to prevent a regular record building up against any one person. He selected the preset number and listened to the phone dial. The call was picked up immediately.
“Yes?” his employer said.
“I have an update on the situation,” the professional said.
“And?”
“The Michaels assignment was unsuccessful.”
“What the hell do you mean? You told me it was
completed yesterday.”
“Your mark suddenly discovered he could swim.
Your files were wrong.” The professional emphasized that the blame wasn’t his.
The employer put his temper on a leash, but it
wouldn’t take much to set it off again. “Is there any police involvement?”
“Yes, but they’ve got nothing to go on. I’ve been monitoring police dispatches on my scanner. I’ve
caught a couple of transmissions and there are no further actions planned unless anything else comes to
light. Which it won’t.”
“It better not. What’s your next move?”
“I’m going to do some more research on Michaels,
get involved in his life. The closer I am to him the easier it will be.”
“I don’t want you exposing us,” the employer said.
“What about the other project?”
“To be dealt with over the next few days. I see fewer problems with that one. She’s less active than Michaels.”
“Let’s hope your next call reports success and not failure.”
“Have I ever failed before?”
The professional heard the line disconnect and
switched the phone off. He bore no resentment for his employer. The man was a greedy asshole who believed he was in control. That was fine with him. That thinking made his employer vulnerable, making it easy for
the professional to eliminate him if the occasion arose.
He replaced the cell phone in the briefcase and removed another of the phones and an address book. The
professional flicked through its pages. The names and addresses it contained didn’t belong to friends, family or business contacts, but victims. Each name was the name of a person he’d killed on behalf of his current employer. He felt obliged to record their names for posterity. All craftsmen kept records of their work, so why shouldn’t he? He knew carrying the book with
him was highly risky, but he couldn’t help himself.
He stopped at the Ms. It listed only one name. The names of Michaels and Macey were to be added very soon. He tapped the page and said, “Not long now.”
He returned the book and the files to the briefcase and locked it. Taking the case with him, he left the motel room for his car. He got into a Ford Taurus, the Explorer’s replacement. He knew the police didn’t have a
make on the license plate, but it wasn’t worth taking risks. Opening the case again, he removed the 9mm semiautomatic pistol. He checked it and holstered it under his jacket.
“Let’s see what Mr. Michaels is up to tonight,” the professional said to himself.
CHAPTER FIVE
Josh walked into the sports bar and scanned the room for someone he knew. The bar was cool and the after work crowd was just arriving. The level of conversation was set on simmer, but Bob Deuce’s voice could always be heard above the level of any conversation. There he was, two hundred and twenty-five pounds of happy
man. His size was the product of beer, junk food and a voracious appetite for sports. Any sport would do; he had even developed a taste for soccer in recent years.
Sitting at the bar, Bob objected loudly to a baseball umpire’s decision on the television. He expressed his dislike to a man sitting next to him that Josh didn’t know. Knowing Bob, he didn’t know the man either, but he had a way of picking up conversations with complete strangers. Bob s disgusted look turned into a broad grin when he saw Josh looking in his direction.