James P. Sumner
One Last Bullet
1
We left San Francisco a couple of days ago, deciding to take Josh’s Winnebago all the way to Pittsburgh. It’s a long journey, but we’re not in any great rush to get there. I’ve decided it’s finally time to go after Wilson Trent, and now the wheels are in motion, I figured it’s best to take our time, get our heads straight, and make sure we do this right.
Josh is driving, whistling along occasionally to the radio. I’m sitting next to him with my feet resting up on the dash. Outside, the gray clouds overhead have started to spit down on us. I gaze out of the window, my mind racing in every direction as it tries to process what lies ahead.
“You alright?” asks Josh, his trademark British enthusiasm subdued by concern.
“I’m good,” I reply, without looking over. “You?”
“Honestly? I’m a little nervous. But also a little excited, I guess.”
I smile, but remain silent.
“So, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a job for you along the way,” he continues.
“I dunno about that,” I say, turning to face him. “I wanna stay focused on Trent, not get distracted by some small-time hit that anyone could do…”
“I wasn’t asking for your opinion, Boss — you’re doing this job. You absolutely need to stay focused on Trent, you’re right. But you also need to stay sharp and keep on top of your game. The whole Pellaggio thing took it outta you, and practice doesn’t do anyone any harm every once in a while.”
I smile as I regard him while he drives. His shoulder-length blonde hair gives him the look of an aging surfer. Josh Winters has been by my side almost half my life. Over the years, we’ve come to know each other better than brothers. We can have an entire conversation without saying a word. He knows what’s best for me, even when I don’t, and I know it goes without saying that he’s got my back right to the bloody end of the crusade we’re embarking on.
I sigh loudly, mostly for effect, acknowledging one of the rare occasions when he has me beat in an argument.
“Alright, fine… What’s the job?”
“That’s the spirit! The job’s in Vermillion, South Dakota. A rich investment banker has put the word out that his sister’s being violently abused by her husband. It’s been going on for years, apparently, and she’s too scared to do anything about it. Our client has taken matters into his own hands, and wants to hire us to take out the husband.”
My jaw muscles clench as a wave of white-hot anger sweeps over me. I might be a highly skilled, highly paid assassin, but that doesn’t make me a monster. I can’t abide any kind of violence toward women. There’s the occasional exception — namely, if the woman’s trying to kill you… In those rare situations, it’s perfectly acceptable to impose violence. But something like this situation in Vermillion — there’s nothing anyone could say to me that would convince me it’s justified.
I take a deep breath, to subdue the growing rage I feel inside.
“Tell the guy I’ll do it for free,” I say, after a moment.
“Really?” asks Josh, sounding surprised.
I shrug. “I need the practice, not the money. And from the sounds of it, I’d be doing the world a favor. So, yeah, set it up.”
“Alright then,” he says, nodding his head in agreement.
I turn back and resume my staring out the window, watching the world as it passes us by at eighty miles an hour. Since we hit the road, I’ve found myself in a somewhat reflective mood. Understandable, I guess. I’m heading into a war that I inadvertently started eight years ago… A war that’s already cost my wife and daughter their lives… A war that I’ve been running away from ever since… I know I’m a different person than I was way back when — I’m far more capable than I used to be, and mentally I’m in a much better place. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still a little apprehensive.
I quickly massage my temples and rub my eyes, eager to get out of my own head. I look back over at Josh.
“How do you find these jobs?” I ask, my curiosity randomly piqued as my mind wanders, trying to think about something else.
Josh laughs. “All these years and that’s the first time you’ve ever asked me that,” he says.
“Is this going to be one of those things, like when you first find out where milk comes from? Is it going to ruin the magic for me?”
He laughs again. “Not quite. There’s a network of people out there who collaborate with each other to find work,” he explains. “They look at who’s best suited to take the job, then pass the details on to guys like me, who then send guys like you to carry out the hit. We get paid by the client, and my contact gets a percentage, like a finder’s fee.”
I raise my eyebrows, genuinely surprised and impressed at how organized it all is. I can’t believe I never knew all this…
“Fair enough. It actually sounds like pretty slick business. So do we have, like, a union or something then?”
Josh laughs so much he almost swerves the Winnebago off the road and has to quickly fight to keep control. I smile to myself and resume my observations through the window.
We drive on in silence for a few more miles before Josh speaks again.
“It’s not too late, y’know,” he says. “If you wanna change your mind?”
“No going back now,” I reply, shaking my head. “One way or the other, when all this is over and the dust has settled, I’ll have put both my girls to rest.”
Josh nods slowly. “Amen, brother.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small device, which he connects to the vehicle’s radio.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s my music player,” he replies, like it’s the most stupid question he’s ever been asked. “Stocked full of MP3s.”
I roll my eyes. “I stopped paying attention when CDs hit the shelves,” I say.
He smiles. “You’re such an old fart sometimes, d’you know that?”
“Is that a British insult?”
He shakes his head with mock disbelief and selects a song, which starts blasting through the Winnebago. The opening guitar riff is brilliant, but I don’t recognize it.
Well I’m standing by the river, but the water doesn’t flow… It boils with every poison you can think of.
“What’s this?” I ask. “It’s good.”
“Sure is,” he replies. “A bit of British rock and road music — one of Chris Rea’s all-time classics.”
“Never heard of him,” I shrug.
“You Yanks — don’t know you’re born!” Josh sighs purposefully.
“You Brits — don’t speak proper English!”
We laugh again, relaxing and enjoying the light mood during such heavy times.
This ain’t no technological breakdown… Oh no, this is the road to hell.
I smile at the lyrics as the music plays on. You can say what you want about my life, but you can’t deny it’s always got a damn good soundtrack!
2
The weather’s still dull and miserable as we arrive in Vermillion, South Dakota. We’ve headed straight for the first place we could find that provides food and drink. Josh pulls up in the parking lot out front and we both get out, stretching appreciatively. My back and neck crack — a small cry of relief after a few hours on the road.
It’s not particularly cold, despite the clouds and the light rain. I quickly duck in the back of the Winnebago and throw my jacket on, leaving it unfastened. I step back out onto the parking lot as Josh walks around to stand beside me. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that has a silver skull on the front of it with knee-length denim shorts and work boots, and a backpack over this left shoulder. I can’t decide if he’s going for the surfer or the rocker look, and I haven’t the heart to tell him that he ultimately looks like someone who refuses to accept they’re no longer in their twenties. Although, now that I think about it, I doubt he’d care even if I did say anything.