I sat in my old Honda staring at the back door of a store in a strip mall. My car blocking a portion of the one entrance in and out of the alley. Washington D.C. is cold in January. My car heat didn't work well enough to fight the freezing air making its way through the gaps in the doors. But this was my chance to change that. This is my entry exam into a life changing career.
I had been doing this same thing every night for the last 6 days. Watching the same man, learning his routines. This guy had a routine, the same thing every day. I didn't yet know how to go about this. I didn't have a problem with the task at hand, but all of my training was in group tactics. Never solo, and never with the necessity of being unseen. He would show up here at around two in the afternoon, he left around three in the morning. Every day. It is quarter to three now, and I didn't want to sit in the cold for another night. Tailing this guy was boring. No matter what it was happening tonight.
I turned the car off, retrieved the 9mm pistol from the glove box, and headed for the door.
"Oh fuck!" I muttered as I turned back to my car. I had forgotten the suppressor. A rookie mistake if there ever was one I imagined.
I walked back, now twisting the the suppressor onto the barrel of my pistol as I fought to keep the light snow, sleet mix out of my eyes. I stopped a couple of yards from faded and chipped green door and just stood there. I still didn't know what I was going to do. I considered trying the door and barging in, but thought better of it. I didn't know if anyone was in there with the bookie. I only knew he left alone every night. So I just stood and waited, thinking up, and thinking better of, multiple ideas.
Suddenly the smell of cigar smoke and sweat cut the cold, assaulting my senses and demanding I focus. The door I had been staring at was now open. Replacing it, the figure of an overweight, balding, white man illuminated by the single light left on in the building.
The bookie began to speak "Who are you and wha".
The thwap of the round leaving my pistol cut him off. His body fell back into the doorway, his legs still outside. Blood spotted the bluish gray bricks along the door frame. I was sure I had hit him square in the forehead, the lack of movement or cries of pain indicating I had likely already completed my job. I wasn't going to take any chances though. I stepped over the fat fuck and put two more rounds in his head, snapped a quick photo for my employer, and hurriedly walked back to my car.
I was shocked by the complete lack of emotion I had felt. I had killed before, many times. The situation then was much different and less clear to me than it was that night. He was just a bad guy that needed to be dealt with. There wasn't much to think about. It was a problem solved. All I was concerned with now was the paycheck I would receive. Ten grand for seven days worth of work. I could handle that.
YOU ARE READING
The Hit
Mystery / ThrillerRyan Jackson is great at his job. When he starts to question what he does he finds himself under intense pressure to perform,or risk everything to make a change.