by Trevor Shane
I took out my notes from the last job. I wanted to see if I could find any openings that I had failed to notice last time. His home was out. There’s no way that they hadn’t beefed up security since my last attempt. Besides, I’d feel like a fool screwing up the same job, the same way, twice. I had to find another location. There was too much security in the strip club. I thought about the university, but I worried that this was too close to you. I hoped that no one knew you even existed and planned on keeping it that way. Plus, there were too many eyes on campus, too many young, alert people who could ruin things. I needed to get my mark as isolated as possible. I needed to start with a smaller crowd.
There was only one option left, the Chinese restaurant where he went for lunch once a week. It was a small place, maybe twenty tables. They had two small rooms off to the sides, which were separated from the general dining area by wooden beads. My mark and his business partners always took one of these rooms. The bodyguards approached the lunch the same way every time. They split up. One ate with the mark, sitting next to him. The other ate alone in the general dining area, keeping an eye on the restaurant. The situation was far from ideal, but it was the best of the bad options. So the venue was settled. Now I needed a plan.
Poison? It would be poetic justice to kill him with one of his own poisons. The idea was too complicated, though. How could I poison him without running the risk of poisoning the other people at the table? I kept bumping into the same fact. Killing people was easy. Killing the one you wanted to kill was hard.
I began asking myself what Michael would do. I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that I had simply overplanned my first attempt. I’d tried it Jared’s way. I just wasn’t up to Jared’s standards. He was the one who’d gotten promoted. So what would Michael do? He’d probably walk in, pull out his gun, take out the bodyguard in the dining room, walk into the side room, plug the other bodyguard, plug the mark, and walk out as if he owned the place. That was just Michael’s style. It went against everything we were taught. But my mark knew everything we were taught. He was taught it too. I would have to be careful not to shoot any bystanders and I’d have to work quickly. I’d have to get out of there before anyone else in the restaurant had a chance to realize what was going on. It was risky, but I was going to have to start getting used to risky.
Lunch in Chinatown was the next day. I tried to concentrate on the job. It wasn’t easy.
The next morning I got up early and headed over to my mark’s house. I had decided that I should follow them throughout the day, all the way up until they went for lunch. I wanted to make sure I had a few hours to watch the new bodyguard. I needed to have his image imprinted in my brain. I needed my aim to be true this time. I couldn’t afford to have any doubts when the hit went down.
The new bodyguard had spent the night at my mark’s house. He was blond with sharp blue eyes. He was smaller than the Aussie, but there was something about him that made me nervous. He looked a little crazy. He was, at most, five foot seven. He lacked the spectacular build the other bodyguards had. Intel hadn’t given me much information about him other than that he was one of them and that he’d been hospitalized multiple times, at least three of which were for gunshot wounds. So I knew ahead of time that he was a tough person to kill.
As I followed my mark, it dawned on me that this was my last hit, my last job. After this, I’d never have to hear Allen’s voice again. I could go wherever I wanted to. I could take you and run to anywhere in the world. We could have a child that wouldn’t have to worry about death and murder and war. We’d be free. The whole idea began to scare the shit out of me. What scared me wasn’t the running. It was what would happen after the running. I began to doubt myself in ways that I couldn’t explain to you then. Suddenly, the idea of becoming a father was terrifying. All I knew how to do, all anyone had ever taught me to do, was one thing. Killing, up to that moment, had been my entire life. I took a deep breath to try to calm my nerves. I felt the weight of the gun in my backpack and found it comforting.
I followed my mark and his men downtown and watched them as they headed into the same office building I had staked out only a few weeks earlier. Just like last time, I went to the café across the street to watch the building entrance and wait. I remembered that the last time I’d sat in that café I was bored, counting down every moment as it passed. This time, I sat there terrified, wishing that time would slow down so that I’d have a few extra moments to pull myself together. The questions in my head wouldn’t stop. I looked across the street again and watched the motionless door. I prayed that it would never open. I placed my backpack in my lap. I slipped my hand inside it so that I could feel the weight of the gun in my palm. I thought back to the moment, only a few months earlier, when I was sitting in the parking lot of that mall in New Jersey waiting for Jared and Michael to come and pick me up. I remembered watching the people go in and out, being envious of their lives. I looked at them and saw no fear. They came to the mall on the weekend to buy a few things and then head back to their suburban homes to watch television and wait until Monday morning, when they would wake up and shuttle off to jobs they hated. I envied their lives, their “normal” lives—their pointless, tedious, normal lives. Is that what I was destined for? And what about Michael and Jared? What about the others on my side? What about the children that I’d taught? I remembered what Jared had told me only a few nights earlier. They believed in me more than I believed in myself. Could I just give this War up? Give up the only fight I’d been raised to care about? Was I ready for any of this? I caressed the handle of the gun. Maybe I liked killing. Maybe I had seen so much death that it was the only thing that made me feel comfortable. I tried to chase these ideas from my head.
I nursed my drink, watching the front door of the office building, waiting for them to come out, waiting for my destiny to come out that door and head down the street toward Chinatown. I was afraid. I had never felt that type of fear before. Not even when I was kneeling on that beach in New Jersey, my hands tied behind my back, a gun pointed in my face, did I experience fear like this. The fear I felt on that beach was simple. I was afraid to die, but it was only for me. All I had to lose was my own pitiful life. But from now on, if I fail, I fail you and I fail our child. Up until that moment, I had been a soldier in a war that was bigger than me. I was a pawn. I knew it. My only responsibility was death. Even if I failed, it led to death. A successful job meant they died, a failed job meant I did. Now I was responsible for life too. It was terrifying. Right then, sitting alone in that café, the butt of that gun resting in my hand, I had to remind myself that that my only skill in the world was still going to serve me well, at least one more time.
After a few hours, my mark and his entourage came out of the building, the new bodyguard in front, my mark in the middle, the American behind them. The new bodyguard’s eyes scanned the street as he moved. For a second he looked in my direction. I felt his stare in my gut. The three of them left the building and started down the street. It was time to move. Suddenly, the doubt was gone. The fear was gone. I was on the job for the last time. I’d have time for doubts again when I was done.
I didn’t follow them to the restaurant, fearing that I’d be spotted. I knew where they were going. All I had to do was figure out which of the two bodyguards was sitting in the general dining area and which of the two private rooms my mark was in. Then I’d walk through the door, stroll casually up to the first bodyguard, shoot him at close range, walk into the private room, shoot the second bodyguard, and then shoot my mark. Then I’d walk out of the restaurant through the kitchen and disappear forever. If I was successful, it would be a job to brag to people about, though I knew that my days of bragging were over. After this job was done, I knew that I’d never see Michael or Jared again. I couldn’t put them in that position. I couldn’t ask them to ignore the rules for me.
As I walked to the restaurant, I continued to visualize the event. I tried to look at all the angles, tried to
make sure there was nothing that I was overlooking. I assumed that no one in the kitchen was going to try to stop me. It was a safe assumption. I’d have a gun in my hand that I’d proved I was willing to use. I tried to picture it in every scenario. First, my mark would be in the room to the right. Second, in the room to the left. I tried imagining how the job would go with each bodyguard in the different positions. I hoped that the new guy would be in the general dining area. I wanted to get him out of the way first.
When I got to the end of the block, I peeked around the corner to see if I could locate the entourage. The three of them were standing outside the restaurant waiting. The new bodyguard was taking a long, deep drag off a cigarette. He didn’t open his mouth after inhaling, instead blowing two long streams of smoke out of his nostrils. I turned back behind the building, leaning against the wall to make sure that they couldn’t see me. I listened but none of them spoke. I kept looking around me, knowing that I would have to move if I thought I saw my mark’s business associates coming. I got lucky. They came from the opposite direction. I heard my mark greet them. I recognized his voice instantly from the lecture. There was a general greeting, followed by some introductions. There was no discussion of business outside—that would be taken care of inside the restaurant. I knew what these men were here for. They were buying weapons. I just didn’t know for what war. I didn’t really care.
I wanted to get a good look at the buyers before they went inside. I needed to be sure I could differentiate them from my targets. I stepped forward for a second and casually looked both ways along the street, pretending that I was looking for someone. As I did I glanced over the faces of the buyers. There were four of them. They were wearing similar outfits. Each had on black slacks, a dark shirt, and a bright tie. They each wore a black leather jacket in lieu of a suit jacket. All had dark hair. They looked like brothers. Once I caught a quick glimpse of them, I stepped back into the shadows. Mistaken identity wouldn’t be a problem. My only worry now was that they’d be armed. If any one of them had a gun and decided to play hero, I was in deep shit. I wasn’t Dirty Harry. A gunfight wasn’t something that I was prepared for.
I stood there for a few moments, my back leaning against the brick wall behind me, and listened, waiting to hear them go inside. I wanted to see them being seated so that I knew which side of the restaurant they’d be on. The left side would be easier, as it provided faster access to the kitchen, but either would do. It was only important that I knew. After walking in and shooting someone in the head, walking to the wrong private room would be a disaster. I waited until I heard the last footsteps on the stairs leading up to the restaurant’s front door, then I turned the corner and peered inside through the front windows. The restaurant was rather small. The building itself was bright red, with a dragon carved into the archway above the door. The entire front of the building had waist-high windows that opened up onto the street on the hotter days of summer. I looked through those windows and watched as they showed my mark to his table. I was in luck. The new bodyguard entered the building last. As the last in, he’d be sitting in the general seating area. While the larger party was being escorted to the private room on the left side of the restaurant (luck appeared to be on my side), another waitress motioned the blue-eyed bodyguard to an empty table in the back right-hand corner of the main dining area. He nodded and took his seat.
I could have still called it off. We could have run. I could have skipped the hit and gone back to get you and we could have left that afternoon. We’d still have a little bit of a head start. It would probably take them a day or two before they realized that I wasn’t going to do the job. It would take a day or two before the manhunt started. We could get pretty far in two days. We could have flown to Europe or Asia. We could have gone to visit the big Aussie back in his hometown. The world was small. A day or two might have been enough time to run and hide, but our trail would be fresh. Our scent would still have been on everything we touched. It didn’t matter where we could get to because they could get there just as quick. We needed more time. We needed time not just to run away but to get lost.
I took a deep breath. One job. That was it. I took the gun out of my backpack and placed it in my jacket pocket. I slung the backpack over my shoulder. The backpack now contained the other two magazines for my gun, three passports in three different names, and a few hundred dollars in cash. I was ready to leave this job and be gone forever. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but I was prepared. I stuck my hand in my coat pocket and wrapped my fingers around the gun. I slipped my index finger over the trigger and caressed it lightly. The silencer was still on the muzzle. I had never removed it. The safety was off. It was time to go.
I walked straight toward the restaurant’s front door. I walked up the steps, pulled open the door, and walked toward the hostess. As I walked, I stared straight ahead, but out of the corner of my eye, I watched the blue-eyed bodyguard. He was watching me too. I took two steps toward the hostess. She smiled at me and was about to ask me how large my party would be. Before she could get the words out, however, I saw the bodyguard move. He gently took his napkin off of his lap, and folded it on the plate in front of him. It was odd. Why would he take the time to fold up his napkin? I stepped quickly past the hostess. I saw the confusion on her face. I took a few large steps toward the new bodyguard. By then he was on his feet. He had an object in his left hand. I stepped closer to him. He began to move his left hand toward me. I made it to about ten feet from him before I pulled the gun from my jacket pocket. I moved quickly, quicker than he did. I lifted my gun toward him and fired. One shot. I hit him in the head. Not between the eyes, but in the head nonetheless. He had gotten his arm about three quarters of the way toward me. Some blood squirted on the wall behind him and he fell to the ground.
No one in the restaurant moved. The hostess, sensing that something was wrong as soon as I walked past her, stifled a scream. Other than that, the place was a museum, a funeral home. I’d expected everything to move slowly. I’d expected time to slow down. I’d expected to see everything in slow motion. For a few moments, it was like that. Once I pulled the trigger the first time, however, everything went into hyperspeed.
I walked immediately across the restaurant, toward the private dining area. No one in the restaurant moved. I tried to stay focused. All the images outside the small tunnel of my vision became blurry. I walked holding the gun out in front of me. I pushed the hanging beads in the doorway aside with my left hand and stepped toward the long rectangular table. All six of the diners looked up at me. My mark and his bodyguard were seated against the wall facing me. The four buyers were in chairs with their backs to me, but they turned to look at me when I entered. I didn’t bother to make eye contact. I lifted the gun again and fired one shot directly into the chest of the American bodyguard. He looked at me for a second and then looked down at his chest, confused. Then I turned toward my mark. I aimed my gun at his head and fired. Then I fired again. Then again. I don’t remember how many times I pulled the trigger. The first two shots went into his head. After that, I just riddled the bullets into him. With each shot his body jerked and each time his body moved I lost confidence that he was actually dead. Everything hinged on his being dead. By the time I was done pulling the trigger, I could have killed five of him.
Just then I heard a loud popping sound coming from behind me. It broke my trance and I stopped firing. I looked around the table. The American was just sitting there, his eyes glazed over, not moving. My mark was hunched over in his chair, his face nearly touching his plate. All the planning and work that went into the first attempt on his life and now he was dead just like that. It really had been that simple. Then I looked over the stern, ugly faces of the buyers. They looked stoic. They weren’t about to involve themselves in someone else’s battles. One reached down for his spoon and continued eating his soup.
I heard another pop from behind me and suddenly felt a searing, burning sensation in the back of my left leg. I tu
rned and looked back through the beaded curtain. There was the blue-eyed bodyguard, standing, holding his gun out in front of him. Half his face was covered in blood. He kept one eye closed to avoid getting blood in it. He stumbled forward and pulled the trigger again. This time the bullet buzzed by my head and entered the wall behind me. I heard someone scream and saw a few people run toward the front door. The bodyguard lifted the gun again, but before he could pull the trigger, I pushed my way through the beads and headed toward the kitchen. Until I took my first step, I had forgotten about the pain in my leg, but as I walked the leg screamed out in agony. I had been shot in the back of my thigh, luckily a few inches above my knee. I made my way toward the kitchen as fast as I could. I heard another popping sound and a whizzing by my ear. I had to get out of there.
I walked quickly through the kitchen, holding the gun up by my head. The kitchen staff stayed out of my way. I limped toward the back door. I exited the building near the Dumpsters in the back. It smelled like rotting meat. The scent from the garbage combined with the searing pain in my leg almost made me sick. I swallowed hard. I had to keep moving. I had to get away from the scene. I made it about a half a block down the back alley when I heard the kitchen door open behind me. I looked back and there was the blue-eyed bodyguard stumbling toward me like a zombie from a low-budget horror movie. He was a walking nightmare. I could see where I had shot him, grazing the top of his head and blowing off a piece of his skull. It wasn’t a direct hit. He lifted his gun toward me and fired again. The bullet whizzed by me and I heard glass shatter. The bodyguard’s aim was gone. He was losing blood, getting weaker. His one closed eye must have been wreaking havoc on his depth perception. Still, throw enough darts with your eyes closed and you’re bound to hit the bull’s-eye eventually. I wasn’t going to stand around and let him use me for target practice.
