(2013) Shooter

by Jack Parker

  Our parents/parent had given us both up for adoption when I was born, and Constance was six years old. They never had said why, just left us there with a kindly old lady named Frances at the adoption agency. Constance didn't like to talk about them, and I didn't really blame her. She was the only one of the two of us that was old enough to remember them.

  It didn't bother me that much.

  And as soon as Constance turned eighteen, she got legal rights of guardianship over me and moved us out of foster care.

  And here we both are today. A hitman and an accounting consultant.

  Whatever went wrong with me?

  "So what do you want to do?"

  "I dunno." I shrugged. "I kinda liked that idea you had before."

  "Takeout and a zombie movie? Sure. Let's go, Grace. We're taking my car."

  "Well, we really don't have another way to get there. I took a cab. Gas prices are outrageous." I frowned.

  Constance grinned and stood up and fished her keys out of her pocket.

  "Ugh. That means I have to get up." I groaned, and Con laughed and hauled me off the couch by the arm.

  "Ah, crap. You been working out?"

  "No. You're just tiny."

  I rolled my eyes and scooped up my coat and hat and followed my sister outside into the cold.

  About a half hour later, we were strolling out of the Red Dragon, fried rice and noodles in hand.

  I was laughing hysterically, and Constance looked rather sour.

  Starting when we were ordering; and the little Asian lady at the counter had asked, completely innocently;

  "This is your daughter?" and pointed to me, smiling. She really hadn't meant to make Con freeze with a very pained look on her face.

  "This is actually my sister, Grace."

  I'd bitten my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

  "Oh! Lovely to meet you, Constance talks about you a lot." She looked a bit embarrassed as I nodded and grinned.

  And so we left, Con still looking as though someone had actually insulted her.

  "I don't really look that old, do I?" she almost demanded.

  "'Course not." I snorted.

  "That didn't sound like you were very convinced."

  "I mean it." I stifled the rest of my laughter and hopped into the Malibu.

  "Seriously?" She pouted.

  "Yes, Mom."

  Constance just scowled at that and pulled out of the parking lot. And we were back at her house in about fifteen minutes, bad movie and bad food in hand. Which led us in front of the TV and on the couch, where we stayed for the rest of the evening, laughing our asses off at the terrible special effects and whatnot.

  Which led to me being passed out on Con's living room couch when she went to bed, and I vaguely remember her tossing a quilt over me and slipping a pillow under my head. Just like a mother would do.

  But I still tossed and turned like a madwoman all night.

  Until I was roused by a scratching sound at the back door, which I almost immediately dismissed as Constance's yellow lab, Prometheus (don't ask). Then I remembered that he sleeps in a kennel at night, to keep him from tearing things up.

  So… what's making that noise?

  I soundlessly slipped off the couch and out of the blanket and dropped to the floor with a quiet thump, and reached for my bag, beside the couch. I pulled out my gun and crept toward the noise.

  Checking the chamber. Loaded, nine shots. Remember that.

  One almost silent click. The weapon's ready to go.

  I crept toward the kitchen, where the back door was, still hearing the noise.

  The door popped open, and I froze, not daring to move, until a dark figure moved tentatively inside.

  I slipped inside the little alcove that Con used to house her cleaning products. Hopefully the intruder didn't see me.

  I heard boots on the linoleum flooring of Con's kitchen. He was getting closer. I chanced a tiny peek around the corner, and was rewarded with the knowledge that the intruder had a gun. He'd been examining an envelope on the table, and hadn't seen me.

  My pulse quickened as adrenaline chased away the last of the drowsiness as I ducked back into my hiding place. Someone's broken into my sister's house. He's really going to wish he hadn't, if I have anything to say about it.

  Hopefully I would have the chance to say something about it.

  I slowly drew myself up to my full (though not considerable) height and listened.

  He was coming my way, going toward the living room, where I'd been sleeping, not five minutes before, which would lead him right past me. That works.

  Step. A little closer. The click of the slide of a pistol, held out in front of him.

  Step. My heart pounding in anticipation. I heard it as though it were a grandfather clock, ticking away the seconds, and gaining in speed.

  Step. There. He was right next to me, on the other side of the drywall.

  I threw all my weight into a vicious kick upward, connecting with the hand holding the pistol, which went skyward, bouncing off the ceiling and thumping to the carpet.

  I'd disarmed him.

  Unfortunately, that was when things went downhill. I think the burglar/rapist/murderer was proficient in at least one kind of martial arts, as he returned my kick with an open-hand strike to the cradle of my shoulder, knocking me off balance before a knee connected with my abdomen, bringing me to my knees on the floor with a cough and a quiet grunt of pain.

  I focused on catching my breath and standing again, and holding my gun, the only real hope I had in fighting this guy. After all, I'm not very big.

  I must admit, I was wheezing from that last blow.

  I shot to my feet with slightly more power than I meant to and aimed a punch at him, barely brushing his shoulder as he dodged it, boxer-style, and returned my feeble strike with another sweeping kick that knocked my legs out from under me and throwing me to the floor.

  Got to get away. It was my only chance of minimizing his size advantage at all.

  I threw all my strength into scrambling back, and putting my gun up to aim. But when I was flat on my back, I didn't have enough leverage to fight him off when he grabbed one of my ankles and slid me across the linoleum flooring, and I slammed into the cabinets, shaking the items inside, a mug fell right next to me, shattering. My head hit the wood, and my gun discharged accidentally as stars danced in my vision.

  I somehow managed to scramble to my feet and flip on the light so that I could see. But then he could see better, too. But that was a risk I was going to have to take in order to defend myself.

  My attacker was wearing a mask, so I couldn't see his face. Not that I was too concerned with identities at the time, but it might be handy in case I survived this fight.

  I didn't have time to react before my assailant crossed the kitchen in one stride and caught me across the face with an impossibly hard punch, spinning me around about one hundred and eighty degrees, and pushing me into the wall.

  I felt a strong hand grab me roughly by the back of the neck and hold me there, against that paisley wallpaper that I had secretly hated for years. I coughed and spluttered, blood welling up from several loose teeth, splattering the wall with crimson.

  A thought bubbled up. I'm going to die right here. Right now. What a shitty way to go out, huh?

  Those fingers tightened, and I was finding it difficult to breathe. My neck popped. He lifted me a few inches, and my toes were no longer touching linoleum.

  I decided I'd might as well try to fight back.

  Flattening my palms on the wall for leverage, I pushed with all my little might against that hand, but it didn't give, and I couldn't get my feet under me to get away.

  The edges of my vision started going black as oxygen stopped moving to my brain, and my thoughts went hazy.

  I heard the soft whisper of a knife leaving its sheath. This is going to hurt. Or maybe not? I truthfully hoped for the latter, knowing what he would probably do. Either slit my throat, whic
h would be efficient but messy, or, depending on how long the blade was, slip it in-between my ribs to reach my heart.

  Dude; just get it over with, already. Give me that much, at least.

  "Let go of her!!" Constance's voice came from what seemed like a mile away.

  Ding.

  Those fingers loosened and then dropped away entirely, and I stumbled, but kept my footing as I heard a masculine grunt behind me, and I spun around to look at the attacker and found Constance holding a saucepan and looking terrified. She met my gaze for the tiniest fraction of a second.

  My attacker growled in frustration and turned to deal with my sister, and a sort of animalistic rage welled up inside me. Who in the hell does he think he is, going to hurt my sister?

  "Bad idea, friend."

  I seized his shoulder with more force than I thought myself capable of, and whirled him around to face me, grabbed him by the shirt collar, flung him to the wall, where I had been not a moment ago, and struck, open palm, right in the center of his face.

  The attacker's head snapped back and hit the wall with a thunk, and with no more give between my hand and the immovable wall, I felt his nose give way beneath my hand.

  Hm. Let's see what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.

  I pulled back and hit again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Each time, I was rewarded with a crunch, until the attacker finally went limp and fell to the floor, dead from the pieces of bone and cartilage being shoved into the brain.

  The facemask underneath my fingers was damp with blood.

  I suddenly realized that the slight wheezing I was hearing was coming from me.

  "Gracie? Are you okay?"

  I turned to find Constance eyeing me warily, like I was an animal that was docile now, but could quickly turn violent at a second's notice.

  The adrenaline coursing through my system wasn't letting me think clearly, but it was fading with the seconds that went by. My heart was still racing.

  My face was hurting, my mouth was bleeding, my nose was bleeding, and my abdomen was definitely bruised. "I'm fine."

  I was lying through my broken teeth, though. I was currently finding it difficult to see straight, and I'm fairly certain that's a bad thing. I wobbled on my feet.

  "You don't look like it."

  "Might have been worse." I shrugged.

  "Grace. Why the hell is there a dead man on my floor?" she snapped back to business quickly. At least she doesn't lose her head in a crisis.

  That snapped me right back to business. We have to make sure there's no dead man on this floor. Like, right now.

  "Give me a trash bag, and some tape." I started toward the body, but Con didn't move. "Right now, Constance, we don't have much time."

  She did as I instructed, but didn't look too happy about it.

  I bent to tie the bag around his head; contain the mess, but curiosity stopped me halfway there, and I slipped the swat-style mask from his head.

  If froze for the length of a heartbeat. I recognized this brutalized face.

  "What the fuck is going on here?" I hissed under my breath.

  CHAPTER 5

  I suppose Constance was in her 'don't mess with Grace' mode, because she was completely silent during the car ride. Until, I suppose, the idea of having a dead body in the trunk of her green Malibu got to be too much for her.

  "What the hell is going on, Grace?" she muttered quietly, and I barely heard her.

  "Burglar. You were there." I tried to keep it simple, to keep up my lie.

  "And that was his gun in your hand, huh?"

  "No. That one's mine."

  "And you have a gun for what?"

  "To defend myself, as it is apparently necessary for me to do."

  "You did that very well, didn't you? You killed him."

  Ah, so that's what shes driving at. I played dumb anyway. "Your point?"

  "So, what, are you like some Special Forces agent or something? Because I don't think it too likely that a telemarketer knows how to properly dispose of a corpse." Constance shifted in her seat, agitated. "It's apparent that you've been lying to me for a long time."

  I really had to hand it to her; she didn't lose her head in a crisis. Unfortunately, this came with the very likely outcome that I would have to spill my guts soon.

  Hell, why not right now?

  "Yes, I have… and you're not going to like the truth."

  "Is it on the wrong side of the law?" I didn't like that this was her first assumption. But at least she was correct.

  "Yes." I answered simply. I glanced over out of the corner of my eye at my sister. She was paler than usual, and her jaw was set. She took a deep breath.

  "I didn't really think it was Special Forces. You're too small." Was her feeble attempt at levity. "Drugs?"

  "No."

  A sigh of slight relief. "Gang?"

  "No. Little white girl like me? Please."

  "Organized crime syndicate?"

  "No. Isn't that close to gang?"

  She ignored me. "Substance trafficking?"

  "No."

  "Black market?" she was running out of illegal activities.

  "No."

  And then she finally hit on the correct answer.

  "Contract killings?" She grunted with a slight tone of hysteria in her voice. She was grasping at straws.

  I winced, sighed through my nose. "That's the one."

  "What?" She stared at me, not believing. Like I would even make a joke out of that.

  "I'm kind of a hitman, Connie."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "No." My knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, and my teeth gritted together with screaming protest. I need to see a dentist. Badly. "I'm not."

  She must have seen the truth in my stiff posture, because she made a weird choked sound, and stared at me in horror. "God…"

  I didn't begrudge her a bit of a breakdown, because hell, she just found out her little sister kills people for a living, has a cadaver in her trunk, and also has no idea where her serial killer sis is taking her.

  Just when you think you know someone, right?

  But it still hurt me that she was looking at me that way. I was still Grace, wasn't I? Still her little sister. The one she herself had raised and loved for all the time I had been on this earth. It didn't just hurt, it tore me apart inside and rubbed salt in the wound.

  She was glaring at me as though I was some sort of monster.

  But then, she'd never seen me as anything other than her rude but dependable little sister.

  "It's still me, Constance." I fought back the tears that threatened to stream out. "I'm still Grace. I always have been."

  Why doesn't she see? I am not a monster. My inner voice shouted, but my resolve wavered.

  Yes you are. My conscience said. Ever since you took that first life.

  Constance seemed to have found her voice at last. "No you're not. I don't know who you are, but you're not my Gracie."

  I almost heard the rip as my heart tore in two.

  She was as cold as ice, her frigid tone cutting me to the quick. And the utter truth of her words hit me as well. She's right.

  No, I'm not little Graecia Pryor. That weak little girl who was too afraid to say no when they put a gun in my hand and told me to shoot. That frightened little girl who took away another innocent life just to save her own. I was too terrified to die when Kendall handed me a revolver and ordered me to murder a faceless stranger. To see if I had the nerve. I didn't have nerve. I just had the will to survive. And that was what I had told myself for the longest time; that I had been preserving my own life. It was justified.

  My pathetic logic withered before my self-scrutiny.

  It wasn't justified at all. Because I had continued to do so for years afterward. And why? Because there was an immediate threat to my pathetic life? Because Keller was going to kill me if I didn't do what he told me to?

  A
nd why in the blue fucking hell do I still follow his orders? What is this? I'd become attached to my captor. This is so fucked up.

  Why had I never thought about it before?

  I choked out a sob. "You're right."

  One tear slid down my cold cheek. I hadn't bothered with a coat and was shivering. But I didn't care. In fact, I barely even noticed that we had somehow reached our destination.

  The freezing black waters of the reservoir stretched out ahead of the car for about a mile. I stepped out, leaving Constance in the car, shivering more violently. I popped the trunk and grabbed a handful of black plastic trash bag.

  Somehow, I managed to heave Reno's body over the edge by myself. I'll never figure out how I got those two hundred pounds of dead weight over there. But I did.

  He fell slowly, it seemed like, for ages before he hit the water with a sharp splash and sank. "Goodbye." I murmured to myself.

  And now I had done the last thing I could do for my sister, by eliminating the evidence. She was safe now, and that was all that I wanted. I stood there by the cliff's edge, and a thought occurred to me.

  It would be so easy to just stop hurting. Right now. Right here.

  Why not? All I do is hurt people. All I do is take people away from those that love them. No one would miss me. Not even Constance, now that she knew what a monster I was.

  Julia? Maybe, but she'd understand why I did it.

  And that way, I couldn't hurt anyone else. It was better this way, wasn't it? Was it?

  And I realized that I still had my gun in the waistband of my jeans.

  "Grace? What are you doing?" I heard my sister behind me. She sounded… concerned? I noticed I'd been leaning toward the edge, my toes touching the rock that covered the cliff face.

  A shuffle of feet. She scooted closer. As though she were afraid she would spook me. "Nothing." I answered. But I reached behind me and gripped my pistol in my frozen hands; pulling it out and looking at it, contemplating.

  "Grace…" Constance froze, staring at the gun in my hand. "Stop."

  "Stop what?" I asked distantly, studying the cool gunmetal.

  "Look, Grace, it's not worth it."

  I laughed mirthlessly. "Isn't it, though?"