The Special Request

Author's Note: This story is a heck of a lot better if you listen to some intense gaming soundtracks while reading it. I recommend this one: https://youtu.be/DeXoACwOT1o

     Who am I? I'm Jonas McDuff, a world class contract killer. Now, don't go getting your feathers all ruffled up; I don't always enjoy it, but this isn't the kind of business that you can get out of very easily. Besides, I am very picky when it comes to gigs; only the worst of the worst of the worst could call my face the last they'd ever seen.

     If I'm being honest, which I most definitely do consider myself, I've done all sorts of jobs. Everything from dentists to anthropologists, you name it. None of them have ever really surprised me, though; I'm pretty used to the random and extraordinary. This time, though, was an exception.

     I had gone to check my dead drop—which was a concealed compartment on the underside of one of those blue post boxes—come home, and sat down at the kitchen table to sort through it, as I did every Monday. But today, when I dropped the rather small stack of envelopes on the table, instead of the usual fwap, it made an extremely loud thump as it hit the dark oak table. It made me jump. I gently swept envelopes to the side, searching for the cause of the unexpected sound. It was a baby pink bubble wrap lined envelope near the very bottom of the now quite disorganized pile. The colour threw me off a bit, but not much. It was the writing on the front that really caught me off guard. It was very messy and, interestingly enough, written in purple crayon.

Melanie Ross

3903 Caldwell Road

Burlington, Wyoming 82411

Jonas McD.

1877 Archwood Avenue

Burlington, Wyoming 82411

     I fairly quickly dismissed the intriguing handwriting, chocking it up to a creative way of staying anonymous. Suddenly I realized how heavy the envelope was. It must have weighed at least a pound. I shook it. It made a soft scratching sound.

     I went and got a pair of scissors and cut the top of the envelope off. The bubblewrap on the inside made a slight pop-ish rustling sound as the blade sliced through it. I looked inside and found a piece of composition paper and...dimes? Dimes. Dozens of the small, silver, germ covered things.

     I took out the piece of paper. It was covered in the same messy, purple-crayoned handwriting:

Mr. Jonas,

My name is Melanie and I'm 9. I heard you where one of the best asasins in the world. Well, I need your help. I need you to kill my mom's new boyfriend. He is mean, and hits her and yells alot. Pleese do not ignor me becuz I am 9. Thanks.

I have mailed you all the money in my piggy bank, 23 dollars and 45 cents.

Sinserly,

Melanie Ross

     I read the letter over again, then looked back into the envelope sitting on the table. I was truly at a loss of words. Questions swirled in my mind. What nine-year-old would resort to hiring a hitman? How the heck did she know where my dead drop was? 23 dollars, should I even take the job? I mulled it over in my head. This kid—I looked at the paper—Melanie, wanted someone dead, and was willing to shell out everything she had to make it happen.

     It honestly sounded pretty reasonable, I decided. An abusive mother's boyfriend, yelling and hitting. I'd want the dude to bite the dust, too.

     I began to become engulfed in my thoughts, and jerked myself back to reality. I came to a conclusion rather quickly. Why not it? A job was a job, after all, and who wouldn't want an extra twenty bucks in their pocket?

     I got out my black MacBook Pro and began to plan out the job, the hardest part. I opened Google Earth and surveyed the house. There weren't a lot of windows, less than a normal house should have, which wasn't good in my favour. The more windows, the easier the hit. I already knew what weapon I'd use; the AR-15 was the most popular in Wyoming, so not only would it be easier to keep from getting caught, but there would also be less suspicion when I bought it.

     The next day, I drove my black Toyota Corolla to 3903 Caldwell Road and got a better visual of the house. It was your typical two-story cookie-cutter house, with baby blue siding, black worn out shingles, and a brown door in the perfect center. I spent the next week parked a bit away from the residence, getting a fair idea of the boyfriend's schedule. Quickly I discovered that he was the live-in-the-basement, eat-all-your-food type. He went to get the newspaper on Sunday mornings, and took out the garbage on Wednesdays, but that was all the times he was ever outside. I weighed the pros and cons, and decided that it would be better to shoot him when he took out the trash, that way I'd have more time to get the job done. I made sure to note the time he came out, about 9:20 a.m.

     The next Wednesday, I traveled in my (very loved) Corolla to my chosen refuge which, since Burlington was a very interesting city, happened to be an old abandoned four-story hospital on the next street from the Ross's house, about 500 yards away. I chose the roof of said hospital as my hideout, since it offered a bee-line view of the front of the house. Placing my scoped AR-15 on the edge of the cold concrete roof, I got settled, and waited. I had to be prepared to get in, shoot the shot, and get out.

     Just as I was about to fall asleep from boredom, the front door opened. Melanie's mom's boyfriend walked out. He was a black trash bag. I watched him as he put the bag into the dark green garbage can, and tugged it, slowly, to the end of the driveway.

     Adrenaline pumped through my veins. I always felt a bit of a rush when I took someone out, but this time it was different. This rush of adrenaline completely took my breath, it fogged my eyes and ears and made everything move in slow motion. But why? I thought. Why was this job any different? It was the same thing, showing up, killing, and getting out. I began to think about Melanie and her mother, having to deal with being beaten and screamed at on the daily, being forced to tolerate being bruised and hated, day in and day out.

     Suddenly I became overrun with memories. My own father, slapping me across the face, the stinging pain flitting through the nerves in my cheek. Yelling so loud it made my brain scream in return. Being made fun of by classmates in school for having a new bruise or black eye every at least once a week. Anxiety shooting up my spine as I walked on eggshells, afraid to step too heavily or wash a dish too loud or even breathe in the wrong direction. The feeling of helplessness; becoming numb to everything even though I didn't really want to. Never feeling emotions, never smiling, never being asked what was wrong, instead always being told to cheer up.

     I snapped out of whatever trance you could call that with a gasp. The cool winter air blowing mercilessly against my face made me realize that I was sobbing. Tears streamed down my face as I leaned into the scope of my gun. I panicked for a slit second—the boyfriend had just reached the end of the driveway, and was walking back. I took a deep breath in and exhaled, calming and steadying myself. This was it. His last moment. I laughed to myself; how funny it was to die while taking out garbage.

     Settling the butt against my shoulder, I leveled the scope to my eye and placed my finger just beside the trigger. I took another deep breath in and out, and lined the intersection of the crosshairs up against the center of the back of his head. He was half way back to the house. My face was still wet from tears.

     The moment had come. Slowly exhaling, I gently and slowly squeezed the trigger, keeping the target lined up with his head as he walked. I tugged the trigger all the way back, and time seemed to slow again. I could almost feel the firing pin striking the primer, which in turn ignited the powder, creating pressure that sent the bullet flying through the barrel. I felt the gun kick back as the bullet left the tip of the gun, silent and fast. It flew through the air with a quick, airy swoosh, and hit right on the mark. 

     The man dropped dead to the ground instantly.

     I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I fished it out; it was a call. I pressed answer and held it up to my ear, preparing to say hello. But before I could even draw breath to speak, the voice on the other end of the line beat me to it. It was a deep, gravelly voice, like that of a long time smoker.

"Get out of there, now," the voice said. "They're coming."