Hit: A Short Story

                         Hit: A Short Story

                          

(This is just a small story written by me, for my own amusement, and it's honestly, embarassing as all heck, but still, if you like this, and would like more stories, please like, and comment.)

   

The rain hammered onto the road. Rain dripped through my hair, and down my face, where a few drops were caught by my eyelashes, hanging there for a few seconds, then fell in slow-motion onto the pavement at my feet.

    I stared at the road, my body trying to preserve the heat by concentrating to my core, leaving my hands, arms, legs, and feet cold and devoid of feeling in my sodden clothes.

      I glanced at my watch. It was only 6 p.m, but it was already dark, because of the heavy, brooding clouds.

     A bad day, for bad things.

    At last, 5 eternal minutes later, a car arrived, its glowing headlights creating a path of light through the driving rain. The black Mercedes slowed down, and came to a stop right in front of me. I hastily opened the door, and got in, and we were off again.

     "Well, you sure took your time about it." I said accusingly.

     "I'm sorry, but there were unexpected delays." Mike complained, trying, and failing utterly, to look chagrined.

     With slicked black hair, friendly face, and always immaculate clothes, he was the living dream of the perfect big-city banker.

      I eased my sodden frame around in the seat, sighing relieved.

      "I'm afraid your seat is never going to be the same again." I told him.

      "Don't you worry about that, Dom," he said cheerfully. "Plenty more where this came from." 

      "Well, lucky you." I grunted, and relapsed into silence.  

      The car engine ran smoothly, but Mike being a bit of a reckless driver, and the car speeding along the wet roads, great swathes of water sprayed from the car's sides, a bit like a speedboat on water.

       At last, I broke the silence.

       "So what's new? Has he agreed to our offer?"

       It was a while before he answered. "No. That's why they called you in."

       Instead of replying, I reached into my inner jacket pocket, took out a pack of cigarettes, drew one out, put it into my mouth, and taking out a Golden Zippo lighter, lit it.

      Mike glanced at the cigarette, then looked nonchalantly back at the road.

      "I thought you quit."

      "I did," I mumbled. "But tonight...and for the image.."

      After a bit of silence, I asked: "So where we goin'?"

      "The boss staged a party tonight, as a sort of cover." Mike explained. "My job tonight is to bring you there, where he'll meet with you personally, and give you all the details." He eyed me critically. "But first you're gonna need some clothes. Proper clothes, I mean. There are politicians, lawyers, judges, and all those swell folk over there tonight. We don't want you to come in looking like a scarecrow."

     I just exhaled smoke slowly, and glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. 6:45 p.m.

     15 minutes later, we arrived at a large residence in the middle of a huge park. It was hard to tell that we were still in the city, although these were the outskirts.

     We got out of the car, climbed up the huge steps, and to the front door, amid large, Grecian-looking pillars.

     Mike pressed the large bronze bell, and a deep ring emanated from somewhere deep inside.

     A few minutes later, the door was opened by a man who looked like a banker, but was in reality the butler, and was about as friendly and welcoming as Bigfoot.

    "This is him." Mike told him quietly, nodding at me. "You know what to do." Saying goodbye to me, he walked down the steps, got into the car, and raced off.

    When he had gone, I turned back to the butler, who motioned for me to follow him.

    We walked along the kilometer hallway, up two flights of stairs, to a small dressing room, where he opened the door, and bade me enter, closing the door after me.

    I found myself in a small room, with a very large mirror at one wall, and clothes at the other.

    After some consideration, I chose a suit of the kind worn at weddings: black trousers, shined black shoes, white shirt with black tie, and an elegant black jacket. 

    Then I arranged my long hair, combing it behind the ears, and took a small look at my trimmed beard. I was looking fly, feeling depressed. Again.

    I nodded at my reflection in the mirror, satisfied, and opening the door, went outside, where the butler stood waiting, looking about as alive as a polar cap.

    "Okay." I said, and he led me downstairs, to an enormous set of doors, and opening one, ushered me inside.

    The hall was huge. There was a band playing quietly some nostalgic, Victorian tunes, to which about fifteen couples danced slowly, in the middle of the hall.

    All around them, people were standing, sitting at round tables, eating, drinking, smoking, chatting.

    I adjusted my tie, and casually followed the butler to a large, broad-shouldered man who was standing next to a blonde woman, holding a glass of champagne in his hand, and chatting amiably with another black-haired woman and a blonde man.

    I coughed politely , and he turned to me, making a sign at the butler, who left.

    "Ah! Dom, my boy, how are you? Glad you could make it!" he said, wringing my hand forcefully, and trying to break numerous bones, apparently, before turning to the man and woman he had been talking to.

    "Cora, John, this is Dominic Masters, who works for me sometimes, and is a very capable young man." Turning back to me, he introduced them to me.

    "Dom ,this is John Key and Cora Engel, good friends of mine."

    He didn't introduce me to the woman at his side, and I had a feeling that it was better that way.

    I nodded to them in greeting.

    Cora Engel smiled at me, and asked: " So how do you help Mr. Farricane?"

    I glanced at Farricane, and answered slowly: "Well, I...I solve his problems. I break them down into little pieces, that kind of thing."

    "Really?" commented John Key, smiling a crocodile smile.

    My gaze wandered the hall, then flicked back to Key. "Yes, I'm a professional who's highly paid." I said steadily.

    "But you're not American, are you?" Engel said.

    It was a few seconds before I answered: "No. Not full-blooded. But I've lived most of my life in America, and my father was American; well, his roots are in Ireland, but..."

    I shrugged. "And your mother?" she asked.

    My green eyes narrowed slightly, a completely involuntary reflex, whenever my mother came up during the course of any conversation. "She was Mexican, and died in Juárez."

    Farricane cleared his throat, and said: "If you will please excuse us for a minute, lady and gentleman, as me and my young friend have important business matters to discuss." He ignored the woman by his side.

    We walked away slowly, side by side.

    He shuddered. "God, I hate that witch. But I have a character to uphold."

    I scoffed. "Yeeah, let's not. Let's get down to business."

    "Sure," he agreed. "The subject is two hours car ride from here, in a small hotel, downtown. You will be provided with a car and the tools for the job. I want it quick and clean. If anything can be traced back to us, this war, this transaction, this...this operation is finished, and years of hard work will have been destroyed. You will receive a large (secret) bonus for this, on your already big salary."

   After a pause, he said: "OK, I'll have to go back now, and pretend I'm just as animalistic, and disgusting as them. Good luck. My butler will see to your needs."

   He left, and his butler came. A few minutes later, I'd left the hall.

   20 minutes later, I was standing at the bottom of the stairs outside, when my car for the night rolled up, a black BMW X6. The butler got out, leaving the engine purring, and I got in, without a word being exchanged between us. He closed the door, and I sped away.

   While keeping an eye on the road, I opened the glove compartment, extracted a Beretta M9 with leather-gloved hands, glanced at it, and put it on the passenger seat beside mine.

   The Beretta M9 was first adopted by the US army in 1985. A powerful and very able weapon, it was made for tonights job.

   Using the bluetooth in my car, I dialed my home number.

   "Yes, hello?" My son.

   "Hey Jamie, it's Dad. Give the phone to Mum, will you? Attaboy."

   There was silence at the other end for a few seconds, then a female voice tuned in.

   "Dom ,where are you?"

   "Yeah, it's great to hear you too." I laughed, and continued: "I just wanted to tell you that I'm working tonight, so I won't be home before tomorrow."

   She sighed. "If you must. But take care of yourself Dom."

   "I will, Jenny. I'll see you tomorrow, so go to bed, and sweet dreams."

   "Good night, Dom."

   She hung up, and I smiled in the darkness. My family was the only thing in the world I would have gladly put down my life for, and maybe that was why I was doing this job: to protect them from worse things, things could tear us apart, in more ways than one.

   This is life, pal. Do what you were born for, made for, lived for.

   I had put thin, black leather gloves on before I'd got in the car, so as not to leave any fingerprints, and was now drumming my fingers nonchalantly on the wheel, as I guided the car easily through the black, empty streets, until I caught sight of the small hotel.

  I braked to a stop just in front of the hotel, thought for a few seconds, then drove slowly into a small side-street, parked, turned off the engine and extracted the key. I reached over for my M9, stuck it into my trousers, at the small of my back, and got out of the car.

  I breathed deeply several times, my eyes closed, deep in thought.

  Show time.

  The street was nearly empty, except for a few pedestrians and a car every now and then.

  I strolled easily to the hotel, entered the shabby front door, and walked to the reception, where a young, tired-looking man was typing on his computer and looked up as I leaned my elbow on the counter, and smiled at him.

  Friendly. As innocent as a choir boy. A nice guy with nothing to hide.

 "Good evening." I began. "My friend checked in here a few days ago, and I've come to see him. But he forgot to tell me his room number, so if you could please give it to me, I'd be very grateful."

  He turned to his computer. "Could you tell me his name, Sir?"

  "Ah, sure. His name is Logan Harper."

  He pursed his mouth. "Ooookay, I got it. His room number is 11."

  I thanked him, and and walked to the small elevator, opposite the receptionist. I pressed the "Open" button with my thumb, before stepping in and pressing the button labelled 2. 

  A few seconds later, the doors opened again, and I stepped into the small, narrow hallway. I glanced at the numbers on the doors, until I saw Room 11, the third door on my right.

  I went up to it, and examined the lock carefully.

  This lock would be easy to open. I wondered why he hadn't checked into a larger, more expensive and safe hotel, which still wouldn't have stopped me, but at least he would have tried. But he had probably thought that it would be easier for him to remain undetected in this cramped, inconspicuous "hotel".

  Stupid.

  I took out my set of skeleton keys, and went to work.

  Within half a minute, I had the lock, and was pushing the door gently open with one hand, while drawing out my Beretta and holding it loosely, pointing toward the floor.

  I waited for noise. 

  Nothing.

  I passed inside the room, aiming the M9 with both hands at the bed, which I could just discern in the darkness, and crept stealthily up to it. A cat creeping up on a pigeon on an sunbathed lawn had nothing on me. 

  Harper was snoring quietly. 

   I reached for his shoulder, and shook him roughly, until he opened his eyes, and saw me. He opened his mouth to scream out, but when I showed him my gun, his clapped his mouth shut pretty fast.

   "Good evening, Mr. Harper. Could you please stand up?"

   Keep your voice friendly, melodic. Calm him down. Put on a show.

   He hesitated, but I shoved the pistol into his face, so he stood up.

   "Turn around." I ordered.

   He turned around. I hit him, just behind the ear. with the bottom of the pistol-grip, caught him as he collapsed like a felled tree, and dumped him unceremoniously onto the bed. 

   I proceeded to gag him using a small, longish towel, which I found in the claustrophobic toilet, then took out a pair of slim handcuffs which I always carried around with me, and clapped them onto his wrists, arms behind his back, the typical stance for prisoners. 

   I unclipped my paracord bracelet around my wrist, and unraveled  the thin, but extremely strong paracord, tied one end firmly around Harpers wrist and just wrapped the other end a few times around my palm, then walked to the window, which was located above the alley where my car stood, and opened it carefully, before returning to Harper and dragging him to the open window. 

   I took a deep breath, and lifted him up, panting with the effort, and heaved him slowly through the window. I had left enough slack paracord so that he wouldn't hit the ground, just hang inches above it. 

   I left him swinging in the air by his wrist for a few seconds while I grabbed my breath, then lowered him to the ground, unwrapped the rope from my hand, closed the window, and grabbing his room key from his bedside table, left the room, closing the door behind me with a quiet hand. 

   This time, I didn't use the elevator, as the receptionist would inevitably catch sight of me as the elevator doors opened, no matter what I did. But the stairs were located at the side of the reception area, on his left, and he was much less likely to notice me.

   I prowled down the stairs, doing my best to keep in the shadows, until I was back in the reception. I scanned the room, saw the man behind the counter turn around to the ringing telephone, and pressing it to his ear and turning around.

   Perfect.

   I loped across the floor, up to the counter, and discreetly deposited Harpers room key onto the counter, so that it wasn't in full view, but at the same time not immediately eye-catching, and stepped back a few steps.

   The young man hung up, and turned around, just seeing me stride up.

   "Finished so soon, Sir?" he inquired.

   I frowned slightly. "No, it seems as if he wasn't in."

   He raised his eyebrows, and looked confused. "But that would mean that he's outside, and if that is the case, where is his room key?"

   (In some hotels you always have to turn in your key whenever you go outside, in case that it might get lost or something.)

   I started theatrically, and pointed at Harpers key. "Whose key is that?" 

   He grabbed it and groaned. "It is his key! He must have gone out when I went to the lavatory, or was telephoning. I'm so sorry Sir!"

    Lavatory. Aren't we refined. I smiled benevolently. "Never mind, I'll find him. Looks like we'll just have to grab a beer in some club. Good night."

   I ambled towards the exit, and stepped into the cool night air.

   First stage's over.

   One minute later, I picked up the still unconscious Harper, carried him to my car, lay him on the ground for a second while I opened the trunk, before picking him up again and dropping him in.

   I closed the trunk, walked to the drivers side, got in, and engaging gear, drove away.

   

   Forty-Five minutes later, I slowed, as I arrived at a large, deserted field in the outskirts of the town. I bumped slowly over numerous potholes, and ruts until I had arrived at the middle of the field, and came to a shuddering stop.

   I left the engine running, got out, and walked to the trunk, unlocked it, and stepping back a pace, aimed the M9 right at his red, angry face. Seemingly he had woken up, and was probably very angry, judging by the torrent of unprintable swear words he spat at me, sitting in the cramped space.

  I let him rave, for a few seconds, then poked the pistol into his belly.

  "Shut up. I'm going to kill you."

  When he realized that I was serious, and that this wasn't some stupid teenage prank, the blood drained out of his face, assuming the colour of a dead fish.

  "You're a killer." he whispered hoarsely.

  "Right." I faked an empty, hitman smile. In reality, I felt sick. "You were going to betray us. Or should I say them. You were going to go to the Juárez Cartel, and that was unforgivable."

  He licked his ashen lips, too terrified to say anything. I hate when that happens. Every time before I pull the trigger, or stab with the knife, or choke with my hands, I always empty my mind completely; all thoughts, all regrets just vanish. My brain empties; then I take a life. I'm not even fully conscious of the act, as if I'm detached, watching myself execute a human being. 

  I pressed the muzzle of my pistol against his right cheek. He gazed at me with eyes that were sick with terror. I firmly pulled the trigger, and the gun discharged.

  Not much noise came, as a sort of seal had been created between the muzzle and the skin, and so the blast was expended into his body. Particles of unburnt powder exploded at the breech of the M9, peppering my gloved hands. A perforation of his skull was created as the projectile was fired, and the bullet, twisting and spiralling, particles of molten metal being thrown off as it traveled over a thousand feet per second, created multiple fractures of Harpers skull. The copper-jacketed lead bullet, mashed and fragmented into four pieces, penetrated left and laterally and finally lodged in the left temporalis muscle.

   In perfect unison, the slide and the barrel of the gun recoiled until the barrel's movement was arrested. Continuing backwards, the slide passed over the hammer, cocked it, and slammed against the receiver as the empty casing was seized and ejected onto the floor of the trunk. The slide sprung forward again, peeled off the next cartridge from the magazine, and forced it into the chamber, then relocked with the barrel. The gun was ready to take another life.

   There was nearly no blood or flesh on the ground, as I had positioned him so that all the gore would spatter into the car.

    I threw the gun into the trunk, closed the boot, went to the front, got in, and pressed the gas pedal to the floor

   

    I arrived at Farrikans residence a few hours later. I got out, waited at the bottom of the stairs, and waited for him..

    A few minutes, and Farrikan came down the steps, with a tall glass of champagne in his hand. He took a swig, threw the glass away over his shoulder, and shook my hand.

    "Thank you very much, Dom. The DEA, FBI, CIA, and many other people will all one day be grateful for you. We've just successfully infiltrated the cartel, and flipped some informers, and Harper was the only one who had been informed about this Black Ops. He would have been the cause for many deaths, and of one of the largest cocaine transportations in history. He had to die."

    I nodded, then ordered. "Destroy the car and whatever's in it completely. No trace can remain. You know what to do." 

    He nodded, shook my hand once more, called the butler, told him to first drive me home, then to torch the car completely.

   

   As soon as he'd left, the inevitable guilt and reasoning set in. I told myself that I had done what was needed; what had been necessary. I had killed a man so that better men could live. It was that simple.

   I opened my eyes, and saw the butler driving up in a new Volvo, and stop in front of me. I reached out slowly, opened the back door, and got in. The car accelerated, and I'm back on the road; to my family. My wife, my son, my home, my life. I was still alive. Another mans life had ended tonight. I cowered down,feeling like I was gonna vomit, the bile rising up in my constricted throat, my stomach knotting together.

    The never-ending horizon stretches across the windshield, its infinite expanses filled with countless, twinkling stars, all looking down, and wondering. Wondering about us, about me, maybe..or is that very narcisstic?

    I contemplate the heavens, hoping that one day, God won't turn away from me when I need him the most, when I stand at Heaven's Gates, and he just turns away. Because I wasn't deserving. Of his love, of his mercy. I hope I will never see that day.