by mike Evans
“But I want to work in the field. I don’t want to end up being an office grunt, sir.”
“Hey! Those office grunts are important; I promise you that. Their intel will keep you alive one day. But I do guarantee we aren’t trying to pull you in just to make you do some job that you hate. We are pulling you in out of nowhere for one reason, and one reason only—we want to have you take out the people that don’t belong here. God knows there are plenty of them, and we think you’ll be a great fit at the company, kid. Try and keep where you're going on the down low and don’t tell anyone that doesn’t need to know.”
“What about my best friend and my girlfriend?”
“Let me ask you this, because if you haven’t thought about it, you should. Is she still going to be your girlfriend, is she going to be okay with you leaving for six months without any phone calls or emails?”
“I think she… well, I know that she loves me, sir, but I don’t know if she could handle me living a lifestyle like we are talking about.”
“Then she isn’t the one for you; she won’t be able to know, anyway. All anyone needs to know about you is that you're a diplomatic assistant until the day you retire—or depending on your health. Sometimes we just bring you back to Langley, where you get to teach future spooks how to be the most effective killers they can be. But that shouldn’t be until you hit forty-five or fifty years old. If you can’t lie to those you love, then there is a good chance you shouldn’t be trying to date that person. A lot of our men are loners. There isn’t anything wrong with that. It can get lonely, but the job is what keeps them moving and working.”
Jacob opened his mouth to speak, realizing the truth of what he was saying was difficult. “I think that I understand. We will be in touch soon, sir. Thank you for your time.”
“You as well, Jacob. My deepest condolences regarding your family.”
****
The following week was the most depressing week of Jacob’s life. But it was also one of the most highly anticipated. He had to think about the unknown, imagining what the job would be like and trying to think of what the downsides would be. He had to also meet his family at the Des Moines International Airport. The funeral director met him there with a van to pick up his sister and parents. He followed them to the funeral home where he gave the director the dresses that his mother and sister regularly wore to church and a black suit for his father.
On the day of the funeral, the priest spoke of things that Jacob could not have disagreed more with, if he tried. He knew that loss was inevitable and that death and taxes were the only things guaranteed in life. He smiled when the priest said that everything happens for a reason. The only reason Jacob could see was that, in God’s eyes, he had chosen him to cure the world of those that had wronged it. He thought of the angel of death named Gabriel, a holy warrior, and thought that if he was allowed to choose his field name, it would be most appropriate.
Jacob looked behind him, seeing family members that felt they should be here to help support him. They could only say how nice everyone was, how great it was to get to see everyone, and how it was such a tragedy. He also noticed that very few of them were able to offer a personal story to him. Jacob could only stand in the corner, out of the way, staring blankly, not sure what to say to people. He found it odd that as people grew in age, they only came together for birth and death; he was damn sure that there was no birth to be celebrated here today.
Chapter 3
Small Pleasures
September 21, 2024 1:00 a.m.
Billionaire software developer and newly widowed Steven Riddick made his way through the party. He had a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cigarette in the other, held between two skinny fingers. The crowd stared at the man with sad eyes. They could not imagine what losing an entire family in one fleeting moment could or would feel like. Wives, who were also mothers, reached their hands out to console him and whisper sweet words of kindness and faith. They were impressed that he was even trying to fulfill his social obligations. Steven nodded his head, a very relaxed look on his face. The bottle in his hand had not been the first of the night. Whispers from businessmen to their wives and girlfriends about how the company would fail. He would not be able to handle the loss of his family and still be able to run a Fortune 500 company.
Steven walked out of the party’s reserved room and made his way to the coat check. He set the bottle of champagne on the counter and fished in his pocket for the retrieval ticket. A young, slim, and plentiful brunette stared at him. She knew exactly who Steven was. She collected his ticket, disappeared into the countless racks of clothes, and brought out a light fall jacket. She said, “Make sure and wear this Mr. Riddick. You don’t want to get a cold.”
Riddick looked up for the first time, seeing a generous pair of breasts and not much else. He fumbled with his words, saying drunkenly, “Oh, it’s not even close to being too cold, dear. There’s still at least another month of driving with my top down.”
“Wow, you must really like the fresh air on your face, huh, Mr. Riddick?”
Riddick leaned in on his elbows, blowing a plume of smoke to the side and smiling. “Well, I like many things with their tops down.”
The woman, who was a good thirty years younger than Steven, smiled. She knew that he had lost his wife and family in a horrible accident recently. She wasn’t sure if he was drunk, desperate, or just a complete asshole. “Sir, are you okay to drive home tonight? You seem to have had a little too much to drink.”
“Why, dear? Are you offering to give me a ride? Because I would love a ride from you.” He peered at the small metal pin on her shirt and went back to eye contact. “Julie.”
She smiled, but was very uncomfortable about the conversation. “Sir, would you like me to call a driver service or arrange for you to be able to stay at the hotel this evening? I don’t want anything happening to you because you drank and drove.”
Riddick, seeing that the ride from Julie wasn’t going to happen, stubbed out his smoke and reached for another immediately. He bid her a drunken salute, smiled with a shrug, and stumbled down the hallway to the valet to pick up his sports car. When he saw the news reporters outside the building, he sobered up for a moment, stubbing out the newly lit cigarette and putting the bottle under his coat.
He walked out with his shoulders high and a practiced look of sadness on his face and gave the valet his card. News reporters and paparazzi screamed for him. He’d been in seclusion for the last month since laying his family to rest. He raised a hand, smiling. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not ready to talk yet. If this hadn’t been my best friend’s fundraiser for children's cancer research, I would be at home this evening. I appreciate all of the kind words in the media lately. Don’t worry, Riddick Software and Development will not falter. It will remain the leader in its field; I promise you!”
The valet came up and opened the door for Riddick, who fell into the seat and set the bottle and jacket upright carefully, so as not to spill it in front of the nation’s largest news media outlets. He also didn’t want to spill the champagne on the Italian leather seats that he loved so much. He held up a crisp hundred-dollar bill for the valet who eagerly snatched it, a smile in his eyes. Riddick waved to the crowd and punched the gas, speeding down the streets of Chicago.
****
An hour later, the much drunker Riddick, who was feeling every bit of his fifty-eight years, drove up the long, winding driveway on the outskirts of Chicago. The private entrance to his country estate was secluded. Mature oak trees created a green canopy enclosure above him. The top was down on his Mercedes SL63 and a cool, crisp breeze blew through his aging light hair. A bottle of champagne lay empty in the seat next to him. He pulled up to his house, leaving the car’s top down. He knew the thieves of the city weren’t an issue this far out of town.
Steven Riddick paid a lot of money to be able to sleep well at night. He studied the front of his house and why it was so dark. Every light was off in the tw
enty-room house. Its shadows gave him the creeps; they looked evil. He had never wanted this house. His late wife had made him buy the estate. He would’ve been much happier in a condo in the city. Right now, the moon was the only source of light. He checked his Rolex and saw that it was almost one in the morning.
He got out and immediately realized he was much more inebriated than he thought. He fell against the car door and gripped it with both hands to keep from losing his balance. He wasn’t “falling down” drunk yet, but he knew from experience that he was close, and he was confident he could get there with another bottle of bubbly.
He straightened out his blue suit and made a drunken stagger up the steps, tripping and cursing the decision to drink as much as he had. Steven’s new goal was to make it to his king-size bed where he would have no issues with falling asleep. Steven laughed, thinking of his fall on the large stone steps. He could just picture the headlines: “Billionaire Found Dead on Front Steps: Cracked-Open Head Likely the Cause”.
He made it to the front door, reaching for his keys while resting a forearm against the frame for balance. When Steven twisted the handle of the door, it opened without a key’s assistance. Steven crashed through the door, curious as to what was going on in the brick palace. He slammed shut the large double oak doors, not caring about waking the staff. He threw his car keys on a side counter. The house was eerily quiet; there were no servants, no guards—nothing. It was the purest of silence. He passed off his worries that it was closer to breakfast than midnight at this point. “What the hell do I pay all you god damn people for if no one is ever here? I should fire every damn one of you. You’re all useless.”
He stumbled through the dark, searching for a light switch, which seemed impossible to find in his drunkenness. He made it about three steps into the hallway when he tripped over something out of place in the middle of the floor. He tried to right his balance, but it was too late and he was too damn drunk. He landed hard on his chest, smashing his face on the marble path. He screamed in pain and rage, “Oh my god, my nose! I broke my fucking nose! You’re fired—every last one of you, god damn it!”
Steven reached for his nose to inspect the damage, expecting blood, but when he lifted his hands off the floor, they were already wet and sticky. He sniffed at it realizing his nose was worthless but still unsure what it was. He rolled on to his back, more than perturbed that he could feel wetness and stickiness through his shirt. It was the same foreign substance as on his palms. He brought out his phone, trying to swipe at it to get the light to come on. He finally succeeded; a light-blue light emitted from it, and the space in front of him lit up.
He pushed himself upright and focused the light on his body. It was hard to tell where the wetness and his dark blue suit began. He put his left hand out in front of him and put the light on it. His fingers became visible, and it looked like his hand was painted red. “What the fuck has been going on here?”
He aimed the light on the floor; when he saw what was in front of him, he muffled a scream, pushed backwards, and dropped the phone. He clumsily picked it back up and held it. The white floor, from his feet to the dark figure in front of him, was almost black with drying blood. His hand trembled, making it difficult to hold the phone steady.
He crawled up slowly until his light was strong enough to show him what was there. His bodyguard William, who he’d seen take on three men at one time and putting all of them in the hospital, lay flat and lifeless on the floor. Steven shook the man whispering, “William, William, what the hell is going on?”
When he didn’t respond, Steven placed his fingertips under the man’s thick, muscular neck, trying to feel for a pulse. There was nothing there. Steven gasped and stood up, slipping in the blood and landing back on his ass.
He dialed 911, leaving bloody fingerprints on the screen of the phone. He anxiously hit the send button but nothing happened; there was no connection. He stared at the phone in awe. There was no more expensive phone or plan that someone could have; a personal guarantee that was worthless at the moment. They swore they’d never leave you without service because service was exactly what you paid for.
The sound of dress shoes echoed on the imported Italian marble floor. They got louder as they got closer, filling the large, open entry space of the home. Steven stammered, “Who… who’s there, what do you want?” No answer. “I said who is there? This is a private residence. I will have you know that the police are on their way here right now. I hope you can comprehend that. I just dialed 911 and they’ll be here in no time. I have guards and they will stop you.”
The man entered the room, giving off only a long shadow. “You do realize that dialing 911 and speaking to 911 are two very different things, Mr. Riddick. Your guards, which is really just ‘a guard’ is lying in front of you. I don’t think there is going to be very much that he can do right now.”
Steven was predictable in every way imaginable. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t live in the same world of reality as normal people did. His mind had been brainwashed over the years with “yes men” walking behind him, telling him how he could never be wrong. He had been a rich man for too long, not knowing the limitations of a normal human. Riddick was relentless in his plea, though. “I… I have money. I can give you whatever you want. I can get you whatever you want.”
The man in the dark continued his approach, slowly taking his time and staying just out of the light from the phone. A foot came from the shadows, connecting with Steven’s hand and sending the thin,sleek phone into the air. The light from it caught the intruder’s face for a moment; it was square and had the beginnings of a beard. The phone spun on the floor in a circle, the shadows dancing on the walls wildly until it came to a stop, and its glow faded as it went to sleep. “There’s nothing you can do for me; it’s men like you that keep me from sleeping at night.”
“Men like me… men like me made this country what it is! What the hell did I do to you?”
The man stepped from the shadows, the moonlight barely exposing his face through the large windows that led up the double staircase. “My name is Gabriel. Your bodyguard, the one on the floor, whose throat is slit, tried to hire me for a job. I have been out of town, or this would have happened much sooner. But If I hadn’t left at all then your family would be here as well.”
“What job? What are you talking about? Please, I’m still grieving over the loss of my family. Just leave.”
Gabriel screamed, “Do you think this a good time to lie? He tried to hire me to kill your family. To make it look like an accident. I’m sure he got my name from someone that was very important; it would seem they didn’t mention it, or your man was too stupid to listen to my rules about who can and who can’t die.”
This shut the man up. He still didn’t understand Gabriel’s motives. He said, “I can pay you what you would have made. Money is no issue.”
“Money is always the issue. Unfortunately, Mr. Riddick, you cannot buy your way out of this. I am doing this for free… of course, your software rivals will not be broken hearted.”
“Well, for god sakes if you don’t want money then why are you here?”
“You killed your entire family, that’s why I—.”
The man did not let him finish his sentence; he knew his time was short. “I didn’t do anything to them. It was the bodyguard; I didn’t know.”
Gabriel, infuriated, took one step towards Steven and kicked him in the soft part of his stomach, sending him down flat on his back and knocking the wind out of him. When Steven tried to sit back up and catch his breath, Gabriel whipped him across the face with the butt of the gun. Fresh blood poured from the man’s mouth. “You might not have pulled the trigger yourself, but you hired it out; that is good enough for me.”
Steven in a last attempt, with blood and tears pouring down his face, pleaded to Gabriel, “I can do anything—I can change. Please, what is there that I can do for you? I want to live.”
Gabriel took a step back staring at the
man; blood and snot flowed freely at this point. As he lifted the pistol, the moon glimmered off the blued barrel. He pulled the hammer back. “You can pray that God has more compassion and mercy than I do.”
He pulled the trigger once, sending a round through the front of the man’s forehead. He collapsed back to the ground, hitting hard. Gabriel looked around seeing, no one but the dead. He walked a can of gasoline around the room, spreading it everywhere. He lit a zippo and dropped it on the floor, into a pool of glass.
The fire grew as it spread across the room and climbed its way up the walls and curtains. Gabriel smiled, knowing he played his part in helping to keep the balance between good and evil. When he went out the back, he left a folder documenting the man’s actions.
Chapter 4
Other Hitters
September 13, 2024 9:00 p.m.
Harry walked up the long set of steps. He stopped when he saw that the light was out above his door. He looked behind him, making sure that no one was trying to follow him. Paranoia was a part of the trade, and one he thought he was particularly good at. He reached up with a hand, wiggling the light bulb. As soon as he touched it, he realized it had not simply burned out. He let go, pulled his pistol, and jumped into the air and out of the way. He landed hard and hit the flashlight attached to the pistol; he aimed it up the stairway, ready to fire. What he saw was an empty, wooden staircase leading up to the fourth floor. He smiled, thinking that a stupid coincidence and his paranoia might just be what kills him.
He pushed up off the ground and looked down the hall, hoping no one had seen him pull his gun out in public. Harry knew people would get a little skittish if he was pulling out guns in the middle of the apartment complex for no reason. He also knew it would be a little hard for people to believe he was a tax accountant if they saw that. He put the gun back in the holster. Harry walked to the condo’s door for a second time, twisting the light bulb until it began shining. He opened the door and turned on the lights, tossing his coat and bag on the floor.
