Deep November

one.

During my career, I'd have to say I'd killed over one hundred people. I was hired by rich men, women, diplomats, criminals. I killed whoever they needed dead. Wives, brothers, Fathers, Mothers. It didn't make a difference to me because at the end of the day, when my job was done I got paid.

And of course, there were some casualties. I couldn't justify leaving witnesses alive and the thought of maiming someone was just too cruel for me. So naturally, if I was ever sloppy, I cleaned up after myself.

My selling point was that only a handful of my murders had ever been investigated as murders; I got creative with how I killed people, and under the right circumstances (which I would sometimes create myself), there was no need for any investigation.

If a man has been unwell recently and drops dead of a heart attack, it generally isn't surprising.

What is surprising is finding out that said man was perfectly healthy before my contract a month prior, when I'd started micro-dosing him with toxins untraceable in a routine autopsy that caused health problems. The final dose I administered would be the one that causes him to drop dead in the office, in front of twenty other people, all of which who say the man hadn't been well all day, in fact, he hadn't been well in weeks, and they're not surprised he's dead.

Most of my clients had preferences for what they'd wanted the deaths to look like; a robbery gone wrong, a health issue dramatically coming to light, an unfortunate accident, a mysteriously sudden death with no explanation or reason.

Suicide was usually the hardest. It was hard to set the stage for suicide when my job didn't include getting to know the person; a well thought out suicide usually meant a plan was made, notes were written, things were given away. There were always signs. If I couldn't plant some evidence to prove there were signs beforehand, the whole thing automatically becomes a lot less believable.

The cops would poke holes in just about anything, and I was expensive because I was good. If you want someone murdered and you want to be the number one suspect, you call someone else. If you want to be patted on the back and consoled for your loss, you called me.

"Suicide is expensive" I nod "and it takes longer. I have to stakeout the target, figure out some things first before I can prepare the stage, set the scene and yell action" I explain, talking as if what we were discussing was no more than a play.

To me, that's what it was; no more than a director showing up to manipulate the resources into a good show that everyone buys. To Derek, of course, it was much more than that.

But it was my job and to me, this was art. The sick twisted parts of my brain enjoyed setting things up just so, making sure everything was perfect and nothing could be questioned. I memorized my lines for everything, I'd never been caught with my pants down.

"How much are we talking here?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. It took every single muscle in my body to refrain from rolling my eyes at him; leave it to the rich assholes to try and haggle down the cost of a hit.

We weren't discussing a new car or a vacation home; this was the cost of me ridding him permanently of someone who was more than likely causing him problems. If he wanted cheap, he could be prepared to spend a few grand and about fifteen years behind bars.

"If you're willing to invest, I can have the project finished in a few weeks tops" a few weeks was plenty of time for me to gather everything I needed; for this to go off smoothly, there were steps I needed to take. I couldn't just show up, kill her, and leave.

That would raise far too many questions. Unlike the movies, there were rules to how and when I executed the execution.

Without speaking, I wrote a dollar amount down on a napkin and slid it across the table. He raises an eyebrow, picks up the napkin, and nods agreeably.