His eyes narrow, probably wondering who I am. I stare at him for a moment, looking into his eyes and see the angry, drunken bastard that lies just underneath the surface.
“What?” he asks, curtly.
“Jonathon Faber?” I reply.
“Yeah… who are you?”
I throw a lightning-fast straight right punch and connect flush with his nose, breaking the cartilage and sending him staggering backward into his hallway. I quickly glance around the street, my eyes meeting Josh’s, who’s sitting behind the wheel of the Winnebago shaking his head. I shrug, failing to see what his problem could be; I step into the house, pushing the front door closed with my foot.
Faber’s struggling to his feet, his eyes watering from the impact to his nose. Blood’s dripping steadily down his chin and onto his shirt.
“What the fuck?” he shouts.
Before he can stand up, I punch him again, hard, on the side of his face. It’s not hard enough to knock him out, but there’s enough power behind it to send him sprawling to the floor once more. And, from experience, I know there was enough behind it to leave him with a serious headache.
“Shut your mouth,” I say, bluntly.
I take one of my Berettas out and reach into my pocket to retrieve the silencer. I screw it into place with practiced efficiency and take aim at Faber’s head. He looks first at the barrel of my gun, then at me. His eyes go wide with sheer terror, and his bladder weakens — the stench of urine instantly strong on his clothes.
“Oh my God, really?” I say in disbelief, honestly disgusted by the very sight of him. “You pathetic piece of shit.”
“I… I don’t understand… P-please, take whatever you want!”
“Amazing how cowardly you are now, yet you’re the big, scary man when Tania’s at home…”
I don’t think his eyes could get any wider. Honestly, they look like they’re going to pop right out of his head.
“Wh-what’s this about?” he manages to ask.
“This is about you, you overwhelming waste of sperm, and the fact you’ve been beating on your poor wife for so many years, somebody has felt it necessary to hire a professional assassin — that’s me, by the way — to kill you. So, any last words?”
Fear spreads across his face like the plague across Europe. Pure terror etches on every inch of his bloodstained features. He repeatedly opens his mouth to speak, but every time he does, words seem to fail him. He’s the epitome of a beaten man, and he’s about to reap everything he’s spent the last few years sowing.
“I’ll take that as a no,” I say, having given him ample opportunity to say something deep and meaningful.
Without any farther warnings, I squeeze the trigger three times, putting one bullet in his balls, one in his stomach, and one between his eyes. In that order.
I’m a killer; there’s no escaping that. I made peace with what I do a long time ago. But I’m not a bad person, and I take no pleasure in doing what I do for a living. I certainly don’t intentionally make people suffer unless I absolutely have to. I look at what I do as being similar to working in a slaughterhouse. It’s a dirty, messy business, but it needs doing and you do it as humanely as possible. But, as an exception, I felt compelled to make sure that in the last few seconds of his life, Jonathon Faber felt pain he couldn’t have imagined. It might not seem like much, but I did it for his wife and I’m sure she’d agree it made all the difference.
I look around the hallway. The blood has stained the walls and the expensive-looking beige carpet. I make sure not to step in any as I walk back down the hall and into the living room, which is the first door on the left. I carefully walk across the room in search of a pen, ensuring I don’t touch anything and leave any forensic evidence. I see one on the side and take it, then reach into my back pocket and pull out a blank check. I write out the check to Tania Faber, for the amount of fifty thousand dollars — what her brother intended paying me for the job. I keep the pen and retrace my steps back into the hallway. I place the check on Jonathon Faber’s dead body. I take one last look around then open the front door, covering my hand with my jacket so I don’t leave any prints. I walk casually across the street, for the sake of appearances to anyone who might be looking, and climb in the Winnebago.
“You good?” asks Josh.
I look at the house, then at him.
“I’m good. Tell our client to tell his sister she should make a fresh start. I’ve left her with a little something to help her on her way.”
I stare out of the window, gazing at nothing in particular as my mind instantly wanders back to the larger task ahead of us. I can feel Josh staring at me silently for a moment, but I ignore him. He worries too much. I’m fine, just a little pre-occupied, which is understandable.
Without another word, he pulls away from the curb and we set off, back on the road and heading for Pittsburgh.
3
Wilson Trent looked over the balcony as Tommy Blunt dangled precariously, held by his ankles by Trent’s two enforcers, Duncan and Bennett. Blunt was only a small man, around five-eight, and he weighed just under one-seventy. A stark contrast to the two men holding him. They could’ve been twins. Both were over six feet tall, and both weighed around two-forty — which was solid muscle. They looked like their bodies were chiseled from granite, and they’d loyally served Trent as his personal enforcers for several years.
“Holy shit!” yelled Blunt. “Please God, let me go!”
Blunt lived on the fourteenth floor of a high-rise block of flats in downtown Pittsburgh, overlooking the Ohio River. It was expensive to live there, but he could easily afford it on what he made. He was in charge of the day-to-day running of one of the larger-scale cocaine distribution operations that Wilson Trent owned in the city. They also made a healthy profit from crystal meth and ecstasy, but cocaine was the primary source of income. Blunt managed the finances and logistics for the entire north-west area, from Brighton Heights all the way down to the North Shore. So when Trent was reviewing the books and saw that, every month for the past six months, he was exactly fifteen thousand dollars down, Blunt was the first person he queried it with.
All the blood was rushing to Blunt’s head, making his temples and his ears throb. Understandably panicked and very afraid, it took him a moment to realize he’d just said completely the wrong thing.
“Okay, no — wait!” Blunt yelled up, quickly backtracking. “Don’t let me go! Pull me up! Please!”
He heard laughter above him, and straining his stomach muscles, he looked up at the two men who had a hold of him to see big smiles on their faces. Clearly they were people who enjoyed their jobs.
Next to them, Trent looked on impassively. “So, Tommy,” he shouted down, his deep voice and East Coast accent bellowing all around. “I think me and you need to talk… You got anything important you wanna say to me?”
“Oh my God, please Mr. Trent, I don’t know anything about any missing money, I swear to you!”
Trent shook his head. “Why’s it I don’t believe you?”
“I swear! I’ve never stolen from you in my life. I make good money for you, Mr. Trent. I’ve always done right by you. You have to believe me!”
Trent didn’t say anything; he regarded him from the balcony, clenching his jaw muscles, and trying to decide if Blunt was telling the truth.
Blunt relaxed, allowing himself to dangle for a moment while he composed himself.