James P. Sumner
True Conviction
1
Jesus Christ, it’s hot… I’m not complaining, I’m simply stating a fact. The long, straight highway that cuts across the unforgiving, barren Nevada landscape is steaming in the afternoon August sun. I know I’m still wearing my leather jacket, but I’m on a job and image is everything in my line of work. I suppose I could've stayed on the air-conditioned Greyhound bus for the last four miles, but it’s a lovely day and I feel like walking.
But it’s damn hot.
I was in Milwaukee when I got the call telling me about the job in Heaven's Valley. I was standing on the balcony of a fifteenth story apartment. It was early evening and the temperature had been a refreshing sixty-four degrees. Inside the apartment, on the bed, was a dead man. I'd tracked him across the city for three days, and struck when I knew he was alone.
I'd knocked on his door and when he answered, I’d kicked it hard so it flew open and hit him in the face. I'd assumed there would be a security chain fastened in place, so figured the initial force would have been necessary to gain entrance. He'd stumbled backward and fell over clutching his bleeding, and presumably broken, nose. He'd stared up at me wide-eyed, his face a mixture of fear and confusion.
“Sit on the bed,” I'd said to him.
He didn't initially comply, but when I'd taken my gun out and aimed it at him, he didn't hesitate a second longer. With him sitting down, staring at me confused and afraid, I’d reached into my pocket and attached the silencer. I’d made a point of taking my time. Letting him see what was coming. Letting him process the terror. Letting him realize it was the last night of his life.
“Why?” he'd asked. “What do you want with me?”
I’d said nothing. Remaining silent forces them to start thinking, eventually coming to their own conclusions. It was a standard psychological tactic. Plus, it was more entertaining.
Now don't get me wrong, I never take pleasure in doing what I do for a living. If anything, I find it quite monotonous at times. But the money’s good. So I remain detached from the job and keep out of my own head. It allows me to see everything objectively. Every angle, every possible outcome… I operate by relying purely on my instincts.
The man struggled to figure out why I was there, bless him. I’m assuming he’d reached the conclusion that I was going to shoot him, at the very least, but the reasons why seemed a mystery to him.
My phone rang, interrupting the scene. I’d put my Bluetooth earpiece in and answered. It was my handler.
“Gimme a second, would you?” I’d said.
I’d aimed my gun and fired. The muffled sound of the bullet was the last thing he’d heard. He wouldn't have felt a thing. It hit him in the center of the forehead, causing an instant explosion of crimson and pink to spray across the wall behind him. His body twitched as it fell back, leaving him lying motionless on the bloodstained covers.
“Sorry about that,” I’d said, walking out onto the balcony and looking out over the beautiful city that unfolded in front of me.
Then my handler gave me the details of the next job. Easy work, a good payout, and I got to visit a city I'd never been to before. I took it without more than a second thought.
The next morning, I'd taken the first Greyhound I could up to Minnesota. From there, I'd flown down to Las Vegas. There were some delays along the way, but nothing major. Plus, the advantage of being self-employed was that you rarely had to rush to be somewhere, so I took my time and did my best to enjoy the trip.
By the time I was on the Greyhound heading here, however, the traveling and the lack of legroom, and the loud, sweaty people were all starting to annoy me. I felt the beginnings of a headache, and my stress levels were slowly climbing into homicidal territory. So when we drove past a sign that announced the city limits were only four miles away, I made the decision to walk it.
The sweat’s running down my head and into my eyes, stinging them as I walk beneath the blistering sun. I squint ahead, seeing the steam rise off the blacktop on the horizon, making the faint image of the city and mountains beyond wavy, like a mirage. My shoulder’s aching from the weight of my bag. I always travel light, but fatigue’s setting in and I could do with an ice-cold beer.
I've heard of Heaven’s Valley’s reputation, but I've never been. It’s a basin city in the middle of the Nevada desert, about a hundred and fifty miles north of Vegas. Bordering it to the north and the west are mountains; to the south and the east is nothing but sand.
People say it's easy to lose yourself in the Valley, a place that thrives on the sins of the common man. Drugs, money and women — it’s all there, for those who want it. But one man's Heaven can be another man's Hell.
Me?
I've made a living out of being invisible and anonymous. But as time’s gone on, I’ve developed somewhat of a reputation. You see, I'm an assassin — a damn good one. Probably one of the best operating in North America today. I say that with no ego, it’s just a fact. I’ve honed my craft over the last eleven years or so, ever since I left the CIA. Before that, I was military — first one through the door during Desert Shield. But since retiring, I found it hard to hold down a job that didn’t involve shooting people. Old habits, I guess. So I’ve worked hard and done a few… questionable things over the years, but with some help, I’ve become a legend in the criminal fraternity as the only person worth hiring when you want a job done right.
Does that make me a bad person? I like to think not. I’m not an assassin like you see in the movies. I won’t ever pull the trigger unless I have proof the person deserves a bullet. And in my line of work, you deal with a lot of people who do terrible things, so I don’t feel bad saying someone deserves to die.
On the other hand, I suppose you could argue that, strictly speaking, I go around killing people for a living… I’m hardly going to win any humanitarian awards. And I doubt I’ll ever receive a Christmas card from anyone working in law enforcement. In fact, if I think about it, if I ever got arrested and someone could prove what I’ve done over the last decade, I’d probably be given the death penalty before I had chance to swear on a bible.
But, luckily for me, that won’t happen. Don’t forget, I’m the best. There’s no evidence I’ve ever been to any of the places I’ve taken jobs in. The people who hire me typically aren’t fans of cops or Feds themselves, so they’re not likely to rat me out or anything.
So think what you want. I’m going to continue taking money off bad people in order to rid the world of other bad people. Once you’ve worked for the CIA, it’s almost impossible to find your moral compass again. I just listen to my gut and do what I believe is right.
So, who am I?
My name is Adrian Hell.
Welcome to my life.
2
I’m sitting on a stool at the bar in a small, local, anonymous place called Charlie’s, leaning forward and resting on my crossed arms with a half-empty bottle of Bud in front of me. Just to the left of it is a double Johnnie Walker Black, which I like to drink alongside a nice beer. It’s just before eight p.m and I’m tired after the walk into town. I came in the first place that looked like it would have a half-decent jukebox and ordered a drink.
A thin layer of dust from the road covers my jeans and boots. The sweat’s soaked my white t-shirt through, so I’ve not removed my brown leather jacket. My shoulder bag is at my feet, resting against my bar stool.
Before I sat down, I’d walked across the bar to the jukebox and cycled through all the crap I’ve never heard of until I found a couple of good songs to listen to. I’d fed some quarters into the machine, selected my tracks, sat back down in my seat, and quietly resumed sipping my beer.