Reddit Stories 2019

Match Bus Mobile

It's done.

The text flew away, landing halfway around the world to my handler's hands. It was lunch in London, so maybe I'd get lucky and have half an hour to myself. For once. The sun was slowly rising over the desert, glinting off the little pools of blood that formed by the bodies. The good thing about being in the middle of nowhere was the lack of curious cats sneaking up on me while I worked.

The worst part was being miles away from a shower and a good breakfast.

After a quick change, I hopped in my rental, leaving behind the smoldering pile of murder clothes and less than smoldering pile of persons. The instructions had been clear. The client wanted his rival to know what happened. He was trying to send a message, like every classic movie mobster. I didn't care that much. Sure, it made me look sloppy, but it's not like I was putting it on my resume.

My phone chimed just as I pulled into the diner and I let out a long exasperated sigh. Forty-five minutes of mid-2000's pop wasn't much of a break, but it was more than I expected and I didn't have much of a choice. I had student loans to pay; I couldn't turn down the work. At least my handler was kind enough to space out hits, around the world so I could sleep on the plane.

I'm sure any who passed by enjoyed the series of confused facial expressions that crossed my face. No new text. But the orange app with the heart had a pulsing one next to it.

Match Bus Mobile was a silly app with a dumb name that the company came up with when their flag line matchmaking service flipped over to empty. Everyone insisted it worked, just like they had with the Match Bus, and the countless dating services before then. It asked a series of personal questions and, for the adventurous, a spit swab. A few even submitted tax returns and birth records if it guaranteed the perfect match. MB Enterprises knew everything about their customers.

It was a terrible choice for an assassin.

Settling into a booth at the corner of the diner, I stared at the app, slowly building the willpower to open it. Maybe if I ignored it, it would eventually go away. Algorithms couldn't guarantee perfection, right? I already made a mistake signing up for it. The smartest thing I could do was not use it.

I opened the app.

"The fuck?" I exclaimed far too loud in the quiet diner. The waitress filling my coffee shot me a glare.

The man on my screen was undeniably handsome, though a little older than I would have ordinarily gone for. His eyes - somewhere between blue and green - pierced through the screen. He had just enough stubble on his strong chin to be ruggedly handsome, like some kind of model for a woodsy adventure. I couldn't see it, since the picture was just a headshot, but I imagined his shirt fit just tight enough around his chest to outline his pecs without highlighting his nipples. The epitome of sexy. His warm smile pulled me in.

The FBI clearly had good dental.

My handler kept a close eye on the various agencies, somehow, and made sure to inform us whenever a lawman was on our trail. Mike had been after me for almost five years, and though there had been a few close calls, he hadn't gotten much more than a glimpse as I fell out of a high rise window in New York. The standard procedure was to lay low and disappear. Maybe change your looks. Definitely leave the country.

Hey.

DM via dating app was definitely not standard procedure.

I closed my phone and left, tossing way too much money on the table to cover my coffee. Hopefully the waitress would remember the nice tip I left and not what I looked like, what time I was there, or what direction I went. I'd have to dump the car. Fortunately, I rented it under an alias, but I guess Hannah Montana would be blacklisted from Enterprise.

I turned off location services. Better safe than sorry.

My phone dinged. The cropped image of his profile pic focused on his nose, but god damn if it wasn't a perfect nose. The kind of nose sculptors would spend their lives trying to recreate. Next to it floated the message: Hello, Zoey.

"Fuck me." I should have made my profile under an alias, like any normal person would've. Not that it would have done me much good. I was sure he already knew my name.

I stared at my phone in wide eyed horror as ellipses flashed next to Mike's nose. If I was lucky, I would only get life. At least then I wouldn't have to pay off my loans.

If I was unlucky, I'd get... well, not the chair. Whatever they were using instead of it.

Still would be out of debt, though.

Every sensible part of me screamed at my dumb brain to toss my phone and leave. At the very least, shoot my handler a text and explain how fucked I was. Maybe he'd let me get out of the field and behind a desk. I could pray for a miracle.

Coffee?

God, he typed slow.

I chewed my lip. My mind raced with possibilities. With memories. I'd only been in the industry for a couple years, but New York had been early in my career. There was a chance, a slight chance, that he didn't remember my face. The mask had only slipped for a moment and I immediately jumped out a window.

We only shared the one dance at that wedding.

Besides, I'd dyed my hair since then.

Sure.