Uncommon Assassins

by F. Paul Wilson

  So I did a little Darknet diving.

  You know Avenue Q? There’s that song “The Internet is for Porn”? Well the Darknet is, too, only it’s the kind of stuff that the average person doesn’t even want to think about. There’s stuff out there that you cannot, and do not, want to imagine.

  Crush vids. Rape. Necro. Pedo. Snuff. And then there’s the stuff that gives the fans of that other stuff nightmares.

  So what I did was this: I waited until I knew that Franklin was home, and, while he was sleeping, I remotely accessed his computer. And, as Mr. Franklin Alfred Bennington, Jr., I—very visibly, very clumsily, very noticeably–-downloaded a metric crap ton of truly awful, extremely illegal pornography.

  (I didn’t check the stuff first, mind you. I know enough to know that there are some things you can’t un-see, y’know? But I have it on good authority that this stuff was foul.)

  Then I sat back and I waited.

  And nothing freaking happened.

  So, after a week or so, I made a few anonymous (and untraceable) calls to the local authorities.

  Still nothing.

  Irritating.

  So I fixed up a recorded message in a lifelike yet computerized voice (no voiceprints on me, thank you very much) and made another anonymous, untraceable call, this time to the FBI.

  As you know, nothing came of it.

  Called the local TV stations next.

  Nothing.

  So the kid had way more juice than I ever would have suspected. Or Daddy did.

  And that meant that I needed to get a little creative. I siphoned and closed his bank account. I maxed out his credit cards.

  I got his country club membership revoked.

  Hehe.

  And all the while, I was careful. Careful as ever, honestly. Until it occurred to me that maybe being careful wasn’t cutting it.

  So I decided to start posting some defamatory statements online about Junior. The worst ones—the ones about his predilections for little girls, for instance—disappeared within a few hours. Still, I assumed that people were seeing the stuff while it was up. These things I did from my own account, under my own name, with my IP address easily traceable.

  Now you might be thinking that was a risky move, right?

  Because Junior could’ve just hired some guys to pay me a visit, yeah?

  Here’s the thing, though. When you have a taste for violence, it’s not enough to just watch from a distance as someone else gets the job done. When you have a taste for it, nothing else will quench that for you.

  Sometimes, you just gotta do it yourself.

  And that’s how I knew that Bennington would make a run at me.

  Oh! Did I tell you? I met Deena Dobrowsky once, did you know that? Yep, the day before Junior came calling. Picture this:

  Late May afternoon. Temperature in the mid-90s. Me—all in black, per usual. Her—work uniform. Khaki pants, red shirt. Black apron.

  She takes my order: bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, and large Dr Pepper. Before she leaves, she smiles shyly and says that she likes my hair. That made me feel good. I had just dyed the tips, y’know, and they were supposed to come out kinda fuchsia, but they ended up looking pink ... well, you’ve seen the photos, I’m sure.

  That was that. Customer and waitress. Although I like to think about my fingers brushing hers when she handed me the check. Not sure if that actually happened or if it’s something I just made up, though.

  Right, Junior. Back to Junior.

  Are you comfortable, by the way? I mean, relatively?

  Alright. I was home alone, that part is true, but the reason I was home alone ... well, I suppose by now you realize that it was no big deal to arrange that sweepstakes, the amazing cruise package, all that jazz, right? I mean, obviously I didn’t want the folks home.

  I hope you’ll forgive me for not getting too deeply into the gory details of Junior’s visit. It was, well, fairly painful and humiliating, as you and everyone else in the country saw—over and over—for months. What can I say? Sometimes you gotta take one for the team. Of course, the “one” I took involved head trauma, some permanent hearing loss on one side, and an extensive hospital stay. But, as you know, my webcam captured my entire beating. And broadcast it live all over the Internet. Given the buzz already surrounding Junior as a guy who preferred the company of young girls, the authorities frowned on his pretty ruthless assault of a scrawny, helpless, sixteen-year-old anime chick.

  So that’s the true story of how Franklin Alfred Bennington, Jr. got sent to a magical place where large, tattooed men inflicted vast amounts of karma on his sadistic, preppy anus.

  But his death?

  His “mysterious” death?

  How surprised I was to find that it wasn’t me who pulled that job.

  At first, I figured Junior got snuffed just for being a dick. But, like I said, I’m diligent. And while I am really slick about hiding my money trails and my online movements and my various computer crimes—

  Well, let’s just say that you aren’t, senator.

  I’ve seen an awful lot of truly heinous shit, doing this job, but I think you probably take the cake. You paid one of my competitors to fake an accident... for your own son... for political reasons.

  Classy.

  Well anyway, I’ve told you all of that so I can tell you this: That first question you asked, the last thing you managed to get out of your mouth before everything froze up?

  The answer is curare. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Y’know in those movies where the tribal dudes tag somebody with a blowgun dart and they go all paralyzed and stuff?

  Bingo.

  I got mine from a relatively reputable source. Darknet, of course. You can’t get this stuff from Wal-Mart, you know. Anyway, this stuff paralyzes your muscles. If I left you alone, you’d probably asphyxiate once the toxin freezes your respiratory muscles.

  But—

  I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, do you?

  I mean, you see the tools I’ve brought, right?

  Sharp, shiny things.

  If you’re wondering why—well, I already told you. When you get a taste for violence, it’s not enough to just watch from a distance anymore.

  Sometimes, a gal’s just gotta do it herself.

  And for the record, sir?

  This one’s on the house.

  TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS

  BY LYNN MANN

  “Here.” She slid the thick envelope across the greasy Formica tabletop. “It’s all there. Five now, five when it’s done.”

  My eyes flicked down and back to her face, but my hands remained cupped around my drink. The envelope lay uneasily between us, our own Falkland Island.

  “Take it,” she hissed, “it’s what we agreed.”

  “I’ve changed my mind, I want more. Ten now, ten after.”

  She’d been leaning forward, the better to conduct an intimate conversation amid the diner cacophony. Now she reared back, eyes wide and furious. I could almost see her cobra hood flaring.

  “You son of a bitch,” she whisper-screamed. “This is what we agreed and this is what I’ll pay. It’s the easiest ten grand you’ll ever make, you asshole. Did you think I came to this lousy ptomaine palace just to bargain with you? Forget it, I’ll get someone else. Two-bit hoods like you are easy to find.”

  Her hand, nails lacquered red like poisonous insects, reached for the envelope, but mine covered it first.

  “Tell me again what you want and why.”

  She regarded me thoughtfully. “I get it,” she said. “I watch TV, too. You’re afraid this is some kind of sting, right?”

  I shrugged, keeping my hand on the envelope. “I just want to know exactly what you want, and when. Then I’ll decide whether your money’s worth the risk. Start with whom, exactly.”

  “Fine, for all the listening public: I want you to kill my mother-in-law, Hazel Nesbeth. I want her dead, dead, dead. And I want it done soon. Like in the next five minutes.” />
  I sipped my drink, the amber liquid leaving an oily sheen on the glass.

  “Why? You’re no spring chicken. Won’t the old woman be dead soon enough for you? Or is she leaving you some money you need right away?”

  She ignored the insult. “That hag will outlive us all. She’s a cockroach; she could survive a nuclear explosion. Ever since I married her spoiled, pampered, mama’s-boy son, she’s been driving me crazy. Every year it gets worse. I hate her and I want her dead!” She leaned forward again, hissing, “Stop screwing me around. In or out?”

  “When?”

  “The sooner the better. Make it look like a random crime of opportunity, the kind of thing some punk would do.”

  “Fine, where?”

  “She takes a walk every afternoon. Usually she makes me go with her, not that she wants my company. She just likes controlling my schedule. She always takes the same route: down Laurel, right onto Beech, right into Mapleridge Park. She walks along the shady side of the lake, sits on a bench overlooking the lake for a few minutes, then turns around and heads back, same path both ways. Before she leaves the park she sits on another bench, under some shade trees, for about ten minutes. The park’s pretty deserted during the afternoon, do it then.”

  “You won’t be with her?”

  She glared, exasperated by my obtuseness. “No, I won’t be with her, I’ll make something up.”

  “Wouldn’t want to kill the wrong old lady. How’ll I recognize her?”

  “The old bitch always wears a blue coat and a fake Hermes scarf. She carries a cane and has hot pink sneakers. You can’t miss her.”

  “Huh,” I said dubiously. “Them’s some of the most dangerous words I’ve ever heard. Why not stage a robbery at the house?”

  “Because I’m not a complete idiot,” she answered strongly. “You really think I’m going to tell you where I live, let you into my house? You’re too stupid to do this, give me back my money.”

  I grinned, scooped the envelope up and tucked it into my jacket pocket. “Nope, it’s mine now. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it tomorrow afternoon. You just practice looking shocked and grieved.”

  “I’ll come back the night after she’s dead, with the rest of your money.”

  She rose but before she could leave I asked, “How do you know I won’t just take your money and not do the job?”

  She leaned toward me, her expression so fierce I recoiled, a rabbit to her snake. “Because you don’t want me to have to find you again, you pissant. I keep my word, you’d better keep yours.”

  She stalked away; I watched long after she turned the corner.

  “How’d it go, Sergeant?” Captain Flannery asked.

  “Fine,” I answered. “I have it all on tape. Job’s set for tomorrow afternoon, in Mapleridge Park. I’m tellin’ ya, boss, she’s a real piece of work. Tell the guys to be careful she doesn’t scratch or bite them—they’d prob’ly die from rabies.”

  Flannery tendered the expected laugh. “Go on home, we’ll wrap it up. Good work.”

  I half saluted and walked out; all I wanted was to wash off the stench of both the diner and that crazy bitch. Behind me I heard the captain setting up the ambush. I felt sorry for old Mrs. Nesbeth, having to find out that her daughter-in-law wanted her dead. Be ironic if the old thing died from the shock.

  “How’d it go?” Lieutenant Michaels asked.

  “Slam dunk,” Detective Jane Landon answered. “IAD was right, he’s as bent as they come. I have it all on tape, he’ll be in the park tomorrow, looking for an old woman wearing a blue coat, a fake Hermes scarf, and hot pink sneakers. Just hope that isn’t a popular look ’round here.”

  “We’re real grateful for your help on this,” Michaels said. “We’re a pretty small department and no one local, not even a statie, could have gone undercover.”

  Jane nodded. “Glad to help. I hate dirty cops. They give us all a bad name.”

  “You want in on the take down?” he asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Jane said, “I’ll be there. Pink sneakers and all.”

  THE WRITERS

  JOSEPH BADAL

  Joseph Badal has had four suspense novels published—The Pythagorean Solution, Evil Deeds, Terror Cell, and The Nostradamus Secret. His latest novel, Shell Game, was released in June 2012. He is also completing a nonfiction book about Relationship Selling. Joe has had a long career in the banking and financial services industries. Prior to his finance career, he served as a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army in critical, highly classified positions in the U.S. and overseas, including tours of duty in Greece and Vietnam. He earned numerous military decorations. Joe has also written dozens of articles that have been published in a variety of business magazines and trade journals, and is a frequent speaker and instructor at business and writers’ events.

  MICHAEL BAILEY

  Michael Bailey is the author of Palindrome Hannah, a nonlinear horror novel and finalist for the Independent Publisher Awards. His follow-up novel, Phoenix Rose, was listed for the National Best Book Awards for horror fiction and was a finalist for the International Book Awards. Scales and Petals, his short story collection, won the same award for short fiction. Pellucid Lunacy, an anthology of psychological horror published under his Written Backward imprint, won for anthologies. His short fiction and poetry can be found in various anthologies and magazines around the world. He is currently working on his third novel, Psychotropic Dragon; a new short story collection, Inkblots and Blood Spots; and is tossing around ideas for a second themed anthology, as well as rereleasing a special edition of Palindrome Hannah. You can visit him online at www.nettirw.com.

  J. CARSON BLACK

  When a suspected child-killer’s plane landed with all the pomp and circumstance of the space shuttle in Boulder, Colorado, J. Carson Black, a political junkie, took note. As it turned out, John Mark Karr did not kill JonBenet Ramsey; he’d merely played the media and fed their insatiable 24/7 appetite. This was the New American Way: celebrity for its own sake. That seed grew into into J. Carson Black’s bestselling thriller, The Shop. In “The Bluelight Special,” Black brings back The Shop’s idiosyncratic black ops specialist, Cyril Landry. In addition to being a stickler for good grammar, Landry has a wife and daughter who don’t know about his secret life as a killer. When he visits his brother’s horseracing operation in the Midwest, Landry finds a cause worth fighting for—and a foe worth taking out.

  DOUG BLAKESLEE

  Doug Blakeslee lives in Portland, OR and spends his time writing, cooking, gaming, and following the local hockey team. His interest in books started early thanks to his mom, but it wasn’t until 2005 that his friend pushed him to participate in NaNoWriMo—that got the writing ball rolling. This is his first published story and he still can’t stop smiling. He can be reached at simms.doug@gmail.com and can be found on Facebook.

  AL BOUDREAU

  Maine-based mystery/thriller author Al Boudreau has traveled the globe in order to gain first-hand knowledge of the various locales and cultures his fictional characters encounter. Boudreau feels this lends an authenticity to his stories unattainable by simple research. He also maintains a keen eye on geopolitical events, pushing the envelope to make his novels come alive. His fiction is based on the real world and the hidden truths buried just beneath the surface.

  KEN BRUEN

  Ken’s bio is:

  Ph.D in Metaphysics.

  32 books published.

  Headstone, the latest book is out now.

  A recent spate of acting roles have added a nice slant to his work.

  The Web site is www.kenbruen.com

  WELDON BURGE

  Weldon Burge, a native of Delaware, is a full-time editor, freelance writer, and creator of Web content. His fiction has appeared in Suspense Magazine, Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine, Grim Graffiti, The Edge: Tales of Suspense, Alienskin, Glassfire Magazine, and Out & About (a Delaware magazine). His stories have also been adapted for podcast presentation b
y Drabblecast, and have appeared in the anthologies Pellucid Lunacy: An Anthology of Psychological Horror, Don’t Tread on Me: Tales of Revenge and Retribution, Ghosts and Demons, and Something at the Door: A Haunted Anthology. He has a number of projects under way, including a police procedural novel and an illustrated book for children. He also frequently writes book reviews and interviews for Suspense Magazine. Check out his Web site at www.weldonburge.com.

  ELLIOTT CAPON

  Elliott Capon’s novel, The Prince of Horror, has sold well on Amazon Kindle and other e-book sources. Several of his stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, one of which was reprinted as title story of an anthology (Fun and Games at the Whacks Museum and Other Stories); one other story was reprinted in Signet’s Mystery for Halloween and was read onto books-on-cassette. His stories have also been published in Amazing Stories, Fantastic Science Fiction, The Horror Show, and American Accent Short Stories.

  CHARLES COLYOTT

  Charles Colyott lives on a farm in the middle of nowhere (Southern Illinois) with his wife, daughters, cats, and a herd of llamas and alpacas. He is surrounded by so much cuteness it’s very difficult for him to develop any street cred as a dark and gritty horror writer. Nevertheless, he has appeared in Read by Dawn II, Dark Recesses Press, Withersin magazine, Terrible Beauty Fearful Symmetry, and Horror Library Volumes III, IV, and V. You can contact him on Facebook, and, unlike his llamas, he does not spit.

  LAURA DISILVERIO

  The author of nine mystery novels and counting, Laura DiSilverio is a former Air Force intelligence officer. She writes the Mall Cop series (Berkley Prime Crime) and the Swift Investigations humorous private investigator series (St. Martin’s Minotaur). The third book in that series, Swift Run, hits bookshelves in Dec 2012. As Ella Barrick, she is the author of the Ballroom Dancing mysteries for Obsidian. Her articles have appeared in The Writer and Writer’s Digest and she is a faculty member of Mystery University, sponsored by Mystery Writers of America, and serves as secretary for the national board of Sisters in Crime. She lives in Colorado where she spends her mornings plotting murder and her afternoons parenting her teen and tween, and tries to keep the two tasks separate. Find her at www.lauradisilverio.com or friend her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/lauradisilverio.