I’m wearing a more conservative t-shirt underneath my leather jacket, with simple jeans and boots. My custom holster is attached, holding both of my Berettas in place at the small of my back. I never leave home without them.
We walk into the diner — a long and low building with simple décor and a family-run look about the place — and sit down in a booth at the back that gives us a full view of the interior, as well as the main entrance and the doors to the kitchen area and restrooms. We take a quick look at the menu and, after a few moments, a waitress walks over to us — a young, pretty girl with dark, shoulder-length hair and a practiced smile. We both order coffee and stack of pancakes.
The diner looks nice enough. Not too big, half-full with what I presume is a local crowd who probably sit in the same seats at the same time every day. The morning rush has long since died down, and the lunchtime crowds are likely still an hour away.
The counter runs along the back wall, facing the door and windows, and two career waitresses approaching retirement age permanently man it. Sounds bad to say it, but they clearly have the younger, better-looking waitresses working the floor, bringing in the tips.
A few minutes pass, and our waitress reappears with our coffee and advises us the pancakes will be along in a few moments.
Josh opens his bag and takes out his laptop, which he sets up on the table in front of him, boots up, and starts typing away.
“I’m just contacting our client, letting him know we’ve arrived in town,” he says, offering an explanation without my asking. “How do you wanna do this?”
I shrug. I’ve not really thought about the specifics of the job yet, but it’s a simple hit. I know complacency can get you killed, but this won’t take much planning or too long to execute.
“Just get me the guy’s address and find out when he’ll be home,” I say. “I don’t want to spend too long on this — we’ve got a long drive ahead of us. Should have it done in the next few hours, hopefully.”
He nods his acknowledgement as he types.
Our pancakes arrive, and we both eat them with gusto, swilling them down with another mug of coffee.
Josh is working away in silence on God-knows-what, so I sit back and let my mind drift again. I run through the past eight years in my head, like viewing a thirty-second movie. From finding my wife and daughter, dead on my kitchen floor, dealing with my demons, working the hundreds of contracts I’ve done over the years, Heaven’s Valley, San Francisco — all the way up to that last mouthful of pancakes and the journey ahead. I’m under no illusions how hard this is going to be. Even setting foot in Pennsylvania again after all these years isn’t going to be easy.
I shake my head, trying to clear my mind so I can focus on the task at hand. Wilson Trent is still close to a thousand miles away, and right now, I’ve got a job to do in South Dakota.
“So, tell me about my target,” I say, trying to change the subject of my own internal dialogue.
Josh closes the lid on his laptop and looks up.
“The guy’s name is Jonathon Faber,” he explains, as if remembering the details off a cheat sheet. “He’s been married to his wife, Tania, for five years, but they’ve been together almost twice that. According to Tania’s brother, the beating’s started a couple of years into the marriage. She’d have a fresh bruise or a black eye every other week, and explain it away with a weak excuse of having fallen or walked into something… the usual, sad affair.”
I shake my head with disbelief. A part of me can’t understand why any woman would allow herself to be treated that way. First sign of domestic abuse and they should get out of there without looking back. But at the same time, I fully understand fear can do strange things to you. Thanks to her husband’s abuse — which I suspect would be mental as well as physical — poor Tania probably blames herself or feels she deserves it. You hear about it all the time — too scared to walk away; too ashamed. Still in love with their other half, in spite of everything.
My jaw muscles tighten, and I force myself to stop thinking too much about it… to stay detached. Emotions will get you killed.
“So why wait three years to make the call?” I ask, referring to our client.
“Well, about a month ago, he happened to call round to see his sister and was standing on the front porch when he heard a beating taking place inside the house. He said he was too afraid to react, but stood listening as Faber hit her. That particular one was nasty, and she was in hospital for almost a fortnight.”
“Jesus…”
“He asked around locally, and finally got in touch with a contact who I deal with from time to time. The request was pretty simple: money was no object, but he wanted this Faber guy dead.”
I nod, absorbing the information and formulating the plan in my head.
One of the many reasons I’m so successful at what I do is because I harness the rage and violence that circles around inside me and use it to my advantage. Josh is always on hand to rein me in and make sure it doesn’t consume me completely. But I use that unbridled fury to walk into any situation and pull the trigger with zero hesitation. It’s one of my rules: don’t think too much about it, just do it — like an instinct.
Right now, I can feel my inner Satan cracking his knuckles, limbering up, ready to rush out from behind his door and claim another soul.
“Where do I find him?” I ask.
As if on cue, the laptop dings and Josh opens it up to check the incoming message. After a few moments, he spins it round to show me the screen.
“I just heard back from my contact,” he says, gesturing to the laptop. “Here’s the address, and confirmation that Jonathon Faber is at home right now.”
I nod and take a final gulp of my coffee. “Drink up,” I say. “We’ve got a job to do.”
The Faber’s live in a small suburb just outside the center of town. It’s a nice, quiet neighborhood. All the houses on the street are detached properties, with good-sized front lawns, driveways, and a garage on their individual plots.
It didn’t take us long to find the place, and we’re parked up across the street, a few doors down. We’ve been here five minutes or so, looking for any sign of life, but we can’t see any movement.
“How do you wanna play this?” asks Josh.
“I figure I’ll knock on the door, wait for him to answer then shoot him between the eyes,” I reply with a hint of nonchalance.
“Hmmm… it’s not the most subtle of approaches, but undeniably effective. Can I suggest that you at least talk your way into the house first, so the entire street doesn’t see you off the guy?”
I shrug. “Fine, but I’m not saying anything to the piece of shit that I don’t have to.”
“I can live with that.”
“Okay, wait here.”
I get out of the Winnebago and adjust my jacket, to make sure it covers my Berettas. I quickly cross the street, walk up the driveway, and knock on the front door. There’s no answer. I knock again and this time I hear movement inside. After a few moments, a key turns, a lock clicks, and then the door swings open.
In front of me is an average-looking man, just a shade below six feet in height, with a thick head of black hair and a moustache. He has brown eyes that seem to permanently frown and a thickset jaw. He has an average build — not fat or slim, but not well built or lean, just… average. He’s wearing a pair of black suit trousers and a light-blue shirt with no tie, as if he’s about to head out to the office or something.