True Conviction

by James P. Sumner

  “That’s great, thank you.”

  I make my way over to the elevators and get in the first one that arrives on the ground floor. I press the relevant button and the doors close. Josh was able to find out that Jackson is staying in the Summer suite, which is roughly in the center of the sixteenth floor. Conveniently, this is directly above my room.

  Anyone would think I’ve done this sort of thing before...

  I ride the elevator to my floor and step out into the hallway as the doors ding open. The carpet is a neutral color and looks expensive, with the walls complimenting the look by being much the same. There’s artwork hanging on both sides of the corridor. Nothing I recognize—probably local artists keen for some cheap advertising, or someone dead who is so obscure, it’s now deemed fashionable to have their work up on display.

  I check the brass plaques to see which direction my room is before turning right and heading down the corridor.

  There’s no sign of life anywhere. It’s too late in the day for the maids to still be clearing out the rooms of the people who left earlier this morning. I imagine most rooms on the floor will be empty during the day… although, I say that, two people are having uncomfortably loud sex in the room on my left that I’m passing right now. The woman’s putting too much effort into the vocals, if you ask me, so I suspect she’s faking it. But judging by the occasional grunt that I can hear from the guy, I don’t think he cares all that much. Possibly a couple having a torrid affair or something.

  I smile to myself and walk on, soon drawing level with my door on the right. I take a deep breath, calming myself for what lies ahead. I press my keycard against the lock pad just above the handle. It beeps once and I hear the lock slide back. I open the door and step inside, closing it gently behind me.

  I walk through the room and place my briefcase on the bed. I remove my tie and roll my shirtsleeves up. After all these years, I still get a buzz of adrenaline when I’m on a job. It’s weird to admit, I know, but I love what I do for a living. In a perfectly normal, non-psychopathic kind of way, obviously.

  I don’t pay much attention to the room itself—to me, if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. I just walk over to the TV, turn it on, and scroll through the channels until I find some music. I find VH1, which is in the middle of showing a classic rock Top 100 show. Thin Lizzy are belting out The Boys Are Back In Town, which is a fantastic song! I turn the volume up, smile to myself for a moment and then move back over to the bed and open my briefcase.

  I take out my Bluetooth headset and place it on my ear. I then dial Josh, who answers as I’m singing.

  “The jukebox in the corner blasting out my favorite song... The nights are gettin’ warmer it, won’t be long...”

  To his credit, he responds immediately. “Won’t be long ‘til summer comes... Now that the boys are here again...”

  All together now...

  “The boys are back in town, the boys are back in town!”

  We laugh.

  Nothing ruins a job more than tension and hesitation. The best bit of advice I can give any budding assassin is to relax, clear your head and just do it. Not methodically, but instinctively. Let your hands and your mind and your eyes just do what they know they need to. Go with the flow, as the saying goes.

  “I see preparations are going well,” Josh says, still laughing.

  “As always,” I reply. “Jackson’s directly above me now. Is everything in place with the hotel?”

  “Sure is. If you ring room service in… four minutes, their afternoon shift will have started. The guy who brings you your food will be roughly your height and build.”

  “Excellent. And the drill?”

  “Should be under your bed, near the window.”

  “Josh, for all of your annoying habits, you are an absolute genius. How do you do it?”

  “C’mon, Adrian, you know a magician never reveals how he does his tricks.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not paying a magician, I’m paying you. Take the compliment and spill.”

  He sighs. “Fine. Well, you know the guy on the front desk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re also paying him.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many more people do I pay that I don’t know about?”

  “Now that would be telling,” he says, with a knowing smile that I can feel down the phone.

  “I think I need to hire an independent accountant—it seems you're spending my fortune on all kinds of things...”

  “Adrian, if I was going to screw you out of any money, I’d have done it and gone a long time ago.”

  “Very true. Right, I’m gonna go do my thing. Ring you when it’s done.”

  “Take it easy, Boss.”

  I hang up and use the phone next to the bed to ring down to the front desk and order some room service. Then I move round to the other side, get on my hands and knees, and look underneath the bed. Sure enough, there’s a small, industrial drill lying there. I smile to myself.

  “Josh, you’re a good man,” I mutter.

  The drill bit in the end is a quarter-inch wide and close to a foot and a half long. I pick it up, pressing the trigger quickly to check it works. It does and it’s surprisingly quiet, which is perfect. I stand up and drag the chair from under the desk near the TV over against the wall nearest the windows. I climb on it and reach up, steadying myself for a moment before drilling a hole right through the ceiling. This is likely to be the riskiest part of the job, but the quiet drill coupled with the loud music on my TV should mask most of the noise in the room above. Unless I’m desperately unlucky and Jackson’s standing directly on or near where I’m drilling, he shouldn’t notice anything.

  I break through the ceiling and the floor above. I retract it quickly and wait a moment to see if there’s any reaction. I hear nothing. Satisfied I’ve remained undiscovered, I step back down and retrieve a surveillance camera and monitoring unit from my briefcase. The camera is a long, thin, flexible cord about three feet long. Attached to it is a small notebook-style computer. The seven-inch monitor showed the live feed from the camera. Where the keyboard would’ve been normally are two joysticks, which control both the camera cord and the lens. I fire it up and step back on the chair, feeding the camera slowly through the hole I’ve just drilled. The feed transmits to the computer in my left hand. I work the joysticks with my right to look around with the camera.

  His suite is huge, which poses a slight issue for me. Jackson is sitting at a desk, resting his head in his right hand as he concentrates on whatever it is he’s looking at. To his left are the double doors that lead out to the hall and three doors leading off from the main room which are all closed.

  He certainly looks alone…

  There’s a knock on my door which distracts me. A voice outside announces itself as room service. I quickly retract the camera and climb down off the chair. I pack the equipment back inside my briefcase and take out one of my guns instead. The weight of my Beretta is always a welcome comfort in my hand. I know that I have complete control of any situation when I have a gun in my hand.

  I move over to the door and quickly glance through the peep hole. It’s room service. I open it, stepping behind it as I do. A guy walks into the room holding a tray with both hands. I push the door shut and step toward him. He turns his head, caught by surprise, and before he can say anything, I slam the butt of my gun into his right temple. He slumps to the floor, unconscious before the tray crashes down next to him.

  Goodnight sweetheart.

  7.

  16:49

  I KNOCK ON the door of the Summer suite on the sixteenth floor, directly above my room. The uniform I’ve borrowed fits reasonably well. I've tucked my gun, which I've equipped with its silencer, inside the waistband at the back of my pants, covering it with the bottom of my jacket. I’m carrying the tray that the waiter dropped in my room. I hope Jackson isn’t genuinely hungry, because I wasn’t able to salvage
much of the Caesar salad that fell on my floor and it looks awful.

  “Who is it?” asks a frustrated voice from inside the room.

  “Room service,” I reply.

  There’s a brief pause.

  “I didn’t order anything and I don't want to be disturbed.”

  Luckily, I’ve prepared for this reaction.

  “Ah, dammit! Listen, I’m sorry for the mix-up, sir,” I say. “The thing is, I need you to sign to say that you refused the delivery before I can return it.”

  More silence… I continue with my sales pitch.

  “I’m really sorry to bother you with this, sir. It’s just if I don’t have the correct paperwork, I’m going to get in a lot of trouble. Can you please just quickly sign this, and I’ll be out of your way.”

  I hear movement from inside the room. Bingo! I balance the tray on my left hand and reach behind me, wrapping my right hand around my gun. I hear the bolt unfasten and a second later the handle turns.

  My plan is simple: drop the tray as soon as the door opens so the noise masks any sound from my gun as I shoot him between the eyes. Then I’ll drag his body into the room and shut the door behind me. I’ll search everywhere for any paperwork that relates to the plot of land he’s supposed to sell to Pellaggio. Once I’ve found it, I’ll clean the entire scene of any trace I’ve been there before leaving.

  The door opens, but it’s not Ted Jackson standing in front of me. It’s a tall, gorgeous, blonde woman in tight clothes, holding a gun in a very steady hand and aiming it right between my eyes.

  Well… shit!

  We stand frozen, staring at each other with poker faces. Each second that passes by feels like an hour, and the silence is deafening. My mind starts racing, purposefully, rushing to find a solution that doesn’t involve me getting shot.

  There aren’t many, I'll be honest...

  But the way I figure it is, if she wanted me dead, I probably would be by now. Therefore, it’s probably best for me to let it play out for the time being, until I can get in a better position to do something constructive.

  “Hi,” she says, pleasantly. Her accent’s hard to pinpoint. It sounds like a blend of different European countries, with a hint of American.

  “Hey,” I reply.

  “Room service? That’s original.”

  “Well, you know the old saying: if it ain’t broke...’”

  “Send a fixer?”

  “Something like that,” I say with a shrug.

  It actually looks like she’s going to smile, just for a brief moment, but she doesn’t. Her face betrays exactly zero emotion. She’s good. And I might’ve been wrong about the whole smiling thing, to be honest. I wasn’t really paying much attention to anything besides the end of the gun that’s pointing at my face.

  “Do come in,” she says.

  I step inside the suite. It really is huge. I turn in a slow circle, absorbing every detail as quickly as I can—the layout of the room, where the doors and the furniture are... putting it into perspective after seeing it from the floor through a small camera. I glance over at Jackson, who is still sitting at his desk but turned around to see what’s happening. His face shows more disinterest than concern—clearly a levelheaded guy who’s no stranger to dangerous situations. Interesting…

  I turn back around to face the woman, who still hasn’t moved the gun even a millimeter. She’s dressed as she was when I first saw her this morning. Her dyed blonde hair is slightly curly at the end, resting on her shoulders. She has dark green eyes, which would be very pretty if not for the fact there was no emotion in them whatsoever.

  She’s really starting to concern me, simply for the fact she seems so at ease with pointing a gun at me. Most people, even seasoned veterans at such things like me, feel an element of pressure when holding a gun on someone. And don’t let anyone tell you different. Also, don’t believe what you see on TV. If you have a gun on someone, your whole body’s tense. You have to try and stay calm, as the slightest wrong movement could accidentally kill someone. You also have to consider every eventuality around you, such as the person you’re pointing your gun at making a move on you. If they do, you have to make sure you keep possession of, and control over, your gun to avoid it going off in any struggle that might unfold. Finally, you have to prepare yourself for pulling the trigger and being so close to the body that you see the effects. You only learn to deal with these things, and be more calm and natural when faced with them, after many years of experience. At the moment, this mystery woman is showing she’s no stranger to any of it.

  She takes a step toward me and leans in close, her face inches from mine. Her lips form a menacing, almost flirtatious, smile as she reaches behind me and removes my gun from the waistband of my pants.

  “You won’t be needing this,” she says, seductively. She throws it on the floor without a second thought.

  “I want that back, it’s very special to me,” I say, quite seriously.

  She raises her eyebrow, but says nothing.

  “I’m gonna put my tray down now, okay?” I continue. “Just letting you know so you don’t shoot me or anything.”

  “Go for it,” she says with a shrug, full of confidence.

  I’m holding the tray in both hands. To most people, it’s just a tray. But to me… it’s actually just a tray as well, really. But, years of experience have taught me how to see an opportunity for violence in everything. I’ll think of something.

  I kneel slowly to place it on the floor, keeping eye contact with her the whole time. The second I look down at the tray, I fling it like a Frisbee into her legs, hitting her just below her knees. It catches her off-guard and I use the moment of distraction to lunge forward, stepping in close to her and grabbing her right arm by the wrist. I turn into her so my back is against her chest and, keeping her gun arm under control with my right arm and my upper body, I jab her twice with my left elbow—once in the stomach and again in her face. She falls backward against the door, stunned but not out of it. She drops her gun, which I very quickly bend down to retrieve.

  Don’t get me wrong—despite what I do for a living, I won’t normally tolerate any violence toward women. But in this particular situation, she was pointing a gun at me, so as far as I’m concerned, the bitch had it coming.

  As I take aim at the woman, I see out of the corner of my eye Ted Jackson’s cool, calm demeanor suddenly leave the premises. I quickly glance round at him as the color quickly drains from his face, leaving the quivering wreck of a man I’ve been paid to kill. Papers scatter everywhere as he scrambles out of his chair and makes a run for one of the other rooms.

  “Teddy, be cool,” I say, before shooting him in the foot with his bodyguard’s gun. He stumbles and falls, landing awkwardly. Blood starts dripping all over the expensive carpet. He’s screaming, which is understandable, if not a little annoying. I walk over and kick him in the side of the head.

  Now he’s not screaming.

  I looked back over at the front door and the woman’s slowly getting to her feet, shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. I aim the gun at her again.

  “Don’t do it, darlin’—I’m better than you are.”

  She looks like she wants to protest, but I can see her assessing the situation and realizing that right now, she has no move. She drops back down to one knee and puts her hand to her head where I hit her.

  “You’re in way over your head,” she says.

  “You might be right,” I reply, shrugging. “But I’ve got a few questions I need answers to, and you’re going to give them to me.”

  17:16

  I’ve secured Jackson and the woman to two of the chairs in the suite using some cable ties I’ve brought with me. I’m now sitting on the sofa in front of them, over by the main window, leaning back with my feet on the table in front of me. I was even kind enough to wrap a towel around Ted’s bleeding foot. After all, I don’t want him passing out or moaning too much before I have chance to speak to him.

 
Despite my first instinct to just shoot him and walk away, I now find myself in a position to find out exactly what the hell is going on around here and I can’t resist. It’ll drive me mad otherwise.

  The woman hasn’t said anything. She’s just staring at the floor, almost disinterested. I lean forward and slap Jackson’s face to bring him round. Up close, he doesn’t look as high and mighty as he did when he was walking around chatting on his phone and swinging a briefcase around. He groans as consciousness washes over him once again.

  “Hey, Ted,” I say.

  “Wha-what’s happening?” he asks, groggily, still a little confused from being shot and kicked in the head.

  “Right now, you’re tied to a chair in your suite at the Four Seasons. You have a hole in your foot, which I put there to stop you running off.”

  He frowns, as if in deep concentration. He turns his head and looks at his female bodyguard sitting next to him, in much the same position. Except she hasn’t been shot…

  “Don’t worry. Your lady friend is here next to you. We’ll get to her in due course, but first I really must get the formalities out of the way.”

  “Wha-what formalities?” he asks. “I don’t understand.”

  I can hear the fear slowly creeping into his voice, replacing the confusion.

  “Sure you do, Teddy. You agreed to sell some land to a mob boss named Roberto Pellaggio. But you pulled out of the deal with no notice or explanation, and kept his money. He’s hired me to ask you really nicely to reconsider your stance on this matter and to let him have the deeds to the land, as per your original agreement.” I lean forward, gesturing with the gun. “Say, Ted, don’t suppose you fancy selling my employer the land you just screwed him out of, do you?”

  “What? Oh God! Oh Jesus!” he exclaims, as the full-blown panic attack that’s been slowly brewing beneath the surface finally kicks in.

  I figure I’ll hammer the point home, for effect.

  “Pellaggio is going to pay me a hundred grand to kill you if you don’t sell him the land. You shouldn’t have screwed him over, Ted. People like him… they don’t—can’t, tolerate things like that.”