The Hitwoman

Prologue

Heather

Oh, God, can somebody turn the music volume down in this place? And the flashing lights, too. It’s horrible for drunk people in this place. Why would they ever make this place a bar?

My head is spinning from having just a few too many drinks at this bar in Manhattan, New York called. . . what’s this place called again? There’s a lot of people here. Too many for my liking if I’m being honest.

I walk up to a man dancing in the middle of the floor, who looks like he’s about as drunk as I am, “Hey, sir, could you remind me what this place is called again?”

He looks around trying to look for who just asked him that question. After a few seconds, he meets my eyes and says, “Um, I believe it’s called the...The Rusty Cow or something like that?”

After he tells me that, it clicks in my head. I’m at The Lucky Cow. “Oh, yeah. It’s actually called The Lucky Cow but you got it close enough for me to remember it. Thanks, bud.” I give him a slap on his shoulder and leave him be.

I stumble over to the bar and take a seat on a stool next to some man. I think I recognize him but I’m too drunk to even want to try to bother with him. I wave to the bartender and he comes on over to me right away since it’s. . . what time is it? I know it’s really late and so everybody that came here to get drunk already is and they’re on the dancefloor, so the bar is mostly empty.

As I pull out my phone to check the time, I tell the bartender, “Yeah, I’ll have another margarita and two shots of the best and strongest tequila you have. Thanks.”

My phone says that it’s 1:48AM. I should really start planning when I come to the bar and when I leave. I should really start heading home right now because it’s really late and it’s not the safest to walk outside during the night, either. I also just ordered a drink and two more shots, so I think I’ll finish those before I leave.

The bartender walks over to where I’m sitting and sets down my margarita and my two shots of tequila. I easily take down one of the shots, and then I look at the man sitting next to me again. I take a look at his facial features, his chiseled jawline, his hazel eyes, his fancy, jet black hair that’s parted on the right and carefully brushed on both sides. He’s wearing a nice and ornate, but not overly ornate, suit that looks good on him. He definitely reminds me of someone or something, but I’m not entirely sure what that something is. I’m too wasted to be searching through my memories and trying to remember this guy.

I stop trying to think of the man and drink my last shot of tequila and start sipping on my margarita. Great. Now I’m thinking of the guy again. This is starting to get annoying, so I turn towards the guy and ask him, “Do I know you?” I felt like it had to be asked. I really want to remember this guy, because, in fact, it’s really irritating me.

He turns and faces me, “No, I don’t believe you do.” He ponders for a moment, then continues, “But also maybe you do. I know a lot of people and a lot of people know me.”

I take in his face again and again and again. I try even harder to remember him. Then it hits me. I remember him from owning a business a few blocks down the street. I think the business is something along the lines of a general store but more clothing based. I’ve bought a few things from there from time to time.

“Yeah, I think I do know you. You’re the guy that runs the clothing type of store down the road, right?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. Good catch.”

“Okay, thanks. I was starting to get annoyed because I couldn’t remember who you were.” I chuckle softly and return back to my margarita.

It took me a while to finish up my drink, but when I did, I started packing up all of my stuff and put it into my purse. I headed out of the bar and started walking home. I’m only walking home because my house isn’t that far away, just some streets down, give or take a few.

As I’m walking home, I feel unsafe. It’s probably just my anxiety getting the best of me because big cities usually aren’t the best places for drunk women to be walking around late at night. Nothing much has ever happened here, though. I feel fairly safe knowing that I’m probably just worrying myself with my own preemptive thoughts.

As I kept walking, I could’ve sworn I heard footsteps coming from a few yards behind me, kind of like they’re following me. I turn around to calm my nerves, and, as expected, there’s nobody there.

I kept walking and I heard heavy footsteps behind me again, so I assumed it was just my anxious thoughts popping up in my head again and I kept on going. I kept hearing them so I quickened my pace a little, even though my house was only a few blocks away now.

As I’m now approaching my house, I hear a manly voice shout from behind me, “Callista Evermore! Wait up, you bitch!”

After he said that, I froze and a million thoughts raced through my mind. Why was this man wanting my sister? Why was he so angry at her? Did he think I was her? God, I hope not. She was involved in so much stuff that I never would want to be involved in and if this was one of her problems, then I hope it doesn’t affect me.

Then the man calls out again, “Callista!”
I finally turn around and shout back, “What do you want and why do you want my sister, sir?”

And then came the last thing I would ever remember as the man whipped out a .44 magnum revolver from the inside pocket of his coat and shot a bullet straight through my head. The pain only lasted a second. Nothing less, nothing more. That was the end. My own sister’s problems had ended me. I was sad about how my life had just ended so abruptly and in a way that I couldn’t even have predicted happening to me. My only hope is that my sister’s problems will never end her own life.

“Your. . . sister?” the man calls out in a shocked tone. He runs over to the now lifeless body of Heather, Callista Evermore’s twin sister. He puts on a pair of black gloves and checks her pulse. Nothing. Now he realizes what he’s just done and knows he can’t stick around for long, so he runs as fast as possible and never looks back.