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It's a pretty big day today, and I'm already pumped. It's 5 am, and I'm scanning through the newspaper at the kitchen table while I drink my first cup of coffee.
I imagine this must be how a concert pianist feels before they go on stage to deliver an awesome performance. Some people would say the butterflies in your stomach mean your nervous, but I don't see it that way. For me, it's just a part of the excitement that builds in anticipation of a perfect kill.
Killing is an art, at least it is to me, and like that concert pianist who performs an amazing concert, I give every operation 110%. It's a pride in a job well done thing, sure... but it's more than that too. It's taking pride in the little things, in every tiny detail of a job, so that when it goes down without a hitch, you can look back and see the beauty of it, the artistry involved.
You know that old saying, “the devil is in the details”?
Well, it's true, but so is the art. If you take the time to plan, to work through all the little details, then you and the devil can be great friends. There's really no reason not to work together.
The day passes quickly enough. I'm not the kind to get all crazy with impatience, no matter how much I'm eagerly anticipating something.
And then it's time.
As I wait in the shadows by Dr. Harry's parking spot, all the details are laid out in my mind, like a beautiful painting that tells a complete story in a single glance. It's a story of sadness. A story of betrayal, and a story of retribution. The sadness and betrayal has been played out, and the retribution is about to happen any moment now.
Dr. Harry comes through the door to the parking garage a moment later and heads straight to his car.
The chirp of the remote in his hand breaks the silence followed by the soft click of the car doors unlocking.
As he reaches for the door-handle, an explosion goes off somewhere to his left, and the silence is broken once again by the ear-splitting sound.
I've got ear-plugs in my ears, and the noise is still loud, and even at this distance my head is thrown slightly back from the shock-wave.
Dr. Harry has fallen to the ground beside his car and is reaching desperately for the handle of the door, trying to open it to get inside. His mind is still reeling from the explosion and likely hasn't fully processed what has happened yet. I can hear him start to gasp for breath, and I see his hands fumbling for his pockets as if he's desperately trying to find something.
A moment later and I'm at his side, asking him if he's OK and helping him up. His breathing is raspy and labored now, and he's frantically trying to get something out of his coat pocket. I reach into his pocket to help him, and as he takes the asthma inhaler from my hand, the relief in his eyes is already showing.
Dr. Harry takes several long pulls on the inhaler and leans against the car to wait for the medication to take effect. Within moments, his breathing becomes more regular, and the color returns to his face. He smiles at me as the attack passes, obviously grateful for my assistance.
A moment later, his breathing back to normal, he thanks me profusely for my help. As the asthma attack passes, the memory of the explosion that caused it returns, and he asks me if I'm OK. I confirm that, yes, I'm fine. I explain that I was further away down towards the other end of the garage when I heard the explosion and saw him fall down.
He asks if I saw anything else. Did I see anyone around? Did I see what had happened? The questions flow as his mind tries to explain what just happened.
I tell him no, I didn't see anyone else, and that I wasn't sure what had happened, only that I heard the explosion and saw a bright flash of light. I told him that's when I saw him fall down too, so I rushed over to see if he was OK.
He thanks me again, still not sure what has just happened, but grateful for my assistance none-the-less.
I tell him it was no problem, that I was glad I could help, and turn to walk away before he starts thinking about anything further, like calling the police. I slip quietly away in the shadows and listen as the sounds of his car door closing, followed by the motor coming to life, echo through the quiet darkness.
I smile to myself as the whole scene is replayed in the theatre of my mind, each moment rich in vivid detail, a testament to a perfectly executed plan. Dr. Harry will most likely take another pull of his inhaler shortly, just to make reassure himself that he won't wake up later this evening with another attack.
It doesn't really matter if he does or not. He's already inhaled more than enough ricin to kill two people his size. He doesn't know it yet, but he'll be dead within the next 36 hours.
***
There's always a period of time right after I finish a job where I'm on a bit of a natural high. I guess it's like a football player who's just scored the winning touch-down, or a hockey player who got the winning goal. It usually lasts for a day or two, and then starts to taper off as normality sets in again.
That's what I was feeling today. Last night had gone off without a hitch. No problems. No unforeseen events. No glitches. Nothing. Just the way I like an operation to unfold.
Today was another matter. I'm jittery, pumped up like a coffee addict on his twelfth cup, nerves on edge, and itching to do something. Itchin' to do something, but not having a damn clue what.
I often get this way after a job. I guess it's the combination of the come-down after the adrenaline rush and the exhilaration of pulling off another job well done, another perfect kill. I guess that's part of it too. The thrill of the kill. Some people probably wouldn't admit, but I'm OK with it. It is what it is.
Today I'm doing what I often do after a kill. I'm going to beat the shit out of someone.
Or something. All depends who's at Eddie's when I get there. Eddie is my unofficial trainer. He's skilled in more martial arts systems than I can remember, but most significantly, he's one of the best there is in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. If you know anything about MMA, you'll know that Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is basically king of the hill when it comes to martial arts, fighting, and self-defence.
One of the main principles of BJJ is that size doesn't matter, which is obviously a big plus for a woman. Basically you use your opponents size and strength against them through a series of joint-locks and chokeholds. Properly executed, the smallest fighter can take down the roughest and toughest opponent in a matter of seconds. That's if you're any good of course, and I am.
I mean, I'm not as good as Eddie, but I can hold my own. Eddie's actually gets a kick out watching me get challenged by one of the new testosterone muscle monkeys that come out to the gym. I'm always up for a round in the ring, and no one ever thinks they're going to get their ass handed to them by someone my size, never mind a girl.
Somehow, the word has kinda spread around the gym. Most people are very respectful of me, although no one really knows who I am besides Eddie. That's probably why the new guys like to throw down the glove. They come into the gym, don't know how things work, and hear the whispers about staying clear of that girl over there sparring with Eddie. And that's all they need to hear.
Funny how testosterone works like that. A well-meant warning turns into a challenge when it's filtered through the testosterone smoke coming out
the ears. Fine with me. Gives me someone to work out on. The regulars won't fight me. Only Eddie and one or two others will train with me, so these new guys that come in are a great opportunity for me to stay sharp.
I always hope one of them will surprise me and make me really work for it, but, truth be told, it's been quite a while since anyone really gave me a run for my money. Eddie's pretty much the only one who keeps me on my toes these days, which is fine since he's damn near the best anyway.
Eddie is short for Paulo Eduardo de Montoya. He's got a slightly tanned complexion and jet black hair with the brown-black eyes to match. Eddie's built like a piece of finely forged steel. He's not a muscle-head like a lot of the fighters you see these days, but he's ripped like a razor blade. I don't think he's been over 4% body fat since he was a kid.
Eddie came up from the streets. His parents were killed in a fire when he was twelve, and he learned how to look after himself fast. By fourteen, he'd already gained one hell of a reputation as a street fighter and was making more money in one fight than most people see in a year.
I don't know all the details, but somehow he ended up meeting one of the Gracies and was taken in by the family. It wasn't long after that Eddie became a legend on the MMA scene. Almost overnight he became the reigning champ, and it seemed like there wasn't anyone that could touch him. And then, as fast as he'd arrived, he disappeared from the scene.
There are a lot of stories whispered about what happened, but no one really knows what happened. One minute he was king of the ring, and the next minute, no one knew where he'd gone.
And then, as mysteriously as he'd disappeared, Eddie quietly returned with the opening of his gym. No fanfare, no swarm of reporters or TV personalities questioning him about where he'd been, just a quiet return that was hardly noted except in hushed conversations among those in the game. This was pretty strange in and of itself, as normally the media would've been all over someone of Eddie's fame, but somehow it just never happened.
How did I meet Eddie you're wondering?
Well, that's a bit of a story in itself, not to mention a stroke of luck. Luck that I met Eddie, not luck that what happened, happened.
I was downtown, on the other side of the tracks as they say. You know, the wrong end of town. Every town has one. My job just takes me into it more often than most. Most people make a point of steering clear of these kind of areas, unless of course you're one of the unfortunate ones that have to live there, or are just a scumbag, drug dealer, gang banger, or meth head.
I was doing surveillance, and I probably don't have to tell you, it's important to blend in and make yourself invisible, or at least seem like you belong so that you don't attract attention. But sometimes things happen that I can't just overlook.
I know, I know. A real pro would just concentrate on the job and not let anything distract them. Fine. I accept that. But that's just not me.
One minute I've got eyes on my target, and the next minute I see this banger attacking this little old lady. She's doing her best to fight him off with her cane, but he's got a hold of her purse, and as you can imagine, she's not much of a match for him.
So ya. I can't just let this go.
I'm on him before he knows what hit him. He's eating sidewalk a second later, and I'm handing the old lady her purse back. My bad. I see her eyes widen a moment before I feel the blow to my head.
I'm dazed but not down. I think this startled him because it took him a second before he struck again.
That was a second too long. I stepped inside of his strike, threw him over my shoulder as I locked onto his arm and cranked it. This is the point where you stop and wait for your opponent to tap out if you're sparring at the gym. I followed through with the movement, breaking his arm and dislocating his shoulder. This wasn't the gym. Besides, it was his choice not to stay down where I put him in the first place.
I leaned down, got in close, ignoring his moaning and put my lips right next to his ear. I told him if he ever went near that old lady again, I'd find out, and I'd kill him. He was already pale from the broken arm and dislocated shoulder, but his face went a shade paler still, and he stared at the ground scared to look at me.
When I started to walk away after making sure the old lady was OK, that's when I saw Eddie standing there with a big grin on his face. I paused for a moment and stared at him. He just kept standing there grinning.
When I asked him if he had a problem, it seemed as though his grin got even wider before he answered, or maybe it was just the way his eyes mirrored the grin on mouth.
“No,” he said. “No problem at all. Actually, I think just the opposite. My morning's going from good to great.”
I guess I looked a little puzzled at his response. I had no idea who this guy was, and his answer was a little cryptic. That, and the fact that I wasn't getting any bad vibes at all off him. I almost always do when there's going to be a problem. Instead, I was oddly intrigued by this smirking stranger.
“Oh?” I replied.
And that was how I met Eddie. He had just been visiting the home of one of the younger fighters he trained. Apparently the kid was having a hard time staying away from one of the local gangs that his friends were involved with, and Eddie was concerned enough to take the time for a visit to talk to him about the choices he was making and how they were going to effect his future.
He'd just been leaving the kids house when he saw what went down with me and the banger, and I guess you could say he liked what he saw. Not just the fact that a teenage girl was helping an old lady, but the fact that she took out a banger twice her size in no time flat.
He told me later that he could see I was a natural. He immediately wanted to get me into the gym. I don't know if he saw me as some future protégé, or what, but it was the start of a great friendship. Not only did we grow pretty tight pretty fast, Eddie had a lot to teach me. I've always been able to handle myself, but what I could do before was nothing compared to what I learned from Eddie.
Eddie's actually one of the few people, perhaps the only person, who knows pretty much everything there is to know about me. I'm not really sure why. There's a reason I don't let people in all the way. It's a liability. But somehow with Eddie it was just different.
Don't get me wrong. It was a long time before I shared much of anything about myself with him, and even then it was sparse. Maybe that's why. He never seemed to be bothered with not knowing anything about me. He was always just content to spend time with me, teach me, and train together.
In a lot of ways, I feel like Eddie and I are kindred spirits, brothers in arms as it were. He's got his baggage to carry, and I've got mine. We've each had a hard life, survived it, and overcome it. And we each live life on our own terms.
Anyway, enough with the trip down memory lane. I'm at Eddie's today to fight, blow off some steam, release some built up energy. Therapy for the mind, fine-tuning for the body.
Eddie was happy to see me walk in. He always is. He was just finishing up with training one of his younger fighters. Kid is fifteen and already damn good. Sure, he's got a lot of room for improvement, but he's going somewhere if he sticks with it. Eddie knew it the first time he saw the kid fight, and I so did I. Some people are just naturals, and those of us that are can recognize it others too.
By the time I changed, Eddie was finished and leaning against the ropes with his arms crossed waiting for me. He smiled when I slid through the ropes into the ring and a second later his foot was flying at my head. I blocked and slid under him, counter-punching as I did.
We both surfaced again, eyes on each other, ignoring the quiet that had descended over the gym. As usual, everyone quietly gathered around the ring to watch as we circled each other. When Eddie and I were in the ring, it was usually the highlight of the week at the gym. Those that were there when it happened were excited, and those that found out later they missed it were pissed.
The sweat dripped down my face as I moved, quick and precise, like we were engaged in
some beautiful dance of death. A bead of sweat fell from Eddie's face too, but other than that, you would've never known he was exerting himself. His breathing was normal, strong and steady, and his body was a picture of perfect calm except when he struck.
We went back and forth for almost an hour, striking and countering, grappling and dropping to the floor only to slide and roll out of each other's grasp and come back again. The hush still hung over the gym as the crowd watched on, as if some unseen wizard had frozen them all in place. The only thing that moved was their eyes as they followed every move Eddie and I made.
Finally, Eddie stepped back and leaned against the ropes. He ran the back of a hand across his forehead and laughed.
"OK, I give in. You're just too good for this old man to keep up to."
"Whatever," I replied. "I counted at least five times you had me and didn't move on it."
"Six," Eddie said with a smirk, "but who's counting. You still keep getting better every time. You sure make me work for it."
I smiled, happy with Eddie's compliment. Eddie wasn't the kind to blow smoke up your ass. If you sucked, he'd tell you. He also wasn't free with his praise either. Everyone in this gym could tell you that, and all of them would kill for the compliment Eddie had just handed me.
***
You know that old saying, "When it rains, it pours?" It's funny how work is like that. You go a few weeks, or even a couple months, and it's quiet as a nun sneaking out of a priest's room at 2 am. Then, out of nowhere, you're up to your eyeballs in it.
I'm on my way to meet with another new client. There was a message on my cell when I got back from the gym. Some guy named Francis, which when I think about it is probably a first for me. I don't think I've ever met a Francis, let alone worked for one.
I made a quick call to check references, grabbed a few things, and I'm on my way to meet my first Francis. He works at a high-end fashion designers. Apparently he's on his way up where that scene is concerned. Most teenage girls would probably be thinking that's a pretty awesome job and be a little excited to meet a guy like Francis. Not me.
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