The Fervidus River

[CameronS]

Hey, folks.

This is another story that I've been thinking about for a while. If it's all right with the mods to have multiple stories running at once, I'd like to post it here. Hope you like it.

Oh, yeah, one more thing: It's not inspired by Ten Millimeter. Yes, I did borrow the idea of corporate assassins, but I got my plot ideas from my own head. Just figured I should clarify that.

The Fervidus River
Begun December 22, 2009

Someone very wise once said “There is no happier man than the man who loves his work.” I’m one of those men.

Unfortunately, my work is controversial, to say the least. I’m wanted by several different police units, including Interpol, all over the globe. At last count, I was wanted in five countries, including my own. In the U.S., I’m wanted in thirty-one states. All of the crimes for which I’m wanted go under different things, but they all boil down to one thing: manslaughter.

My name is Tony Smith, and I kill people for a living.

I don’t consider myself a murderer; I prefer to think of myself as one who dispenses justice. I don’t just kill willy-nilly, there’s a process to it. I work for a company called Gilliland. If you feel someone has really wronged you, we’re the place to come. Gilliland is run by a man we all call Mr. Walter. If you want someone “removed,” you talk to him and he’ll refer you to one of us, and then you’re set . . . after payment of course. We’re not cheap. The cheapest hit I ever took on was $40,000.

A lot of people will whine and b**** about this. They all follow the same format, too. They act all shocked and indignant, and then they threaten to go to someone else, saying that they could pay some gang member fifty bucks and he’d take care of it.

But we’re worth it. We leave zero traces. When the hit is complete, there are no clues left behind except the bullet. Not one of our assassinations has ever been solved.

So here’s my story. The tale of a master killer.

Chapter 1 – How it Started

I joined the Army at seventeen, the youngest I could. I did not have a happy childhood, and got myself into a whole lot of trouble. After I got through all my training, I immediately went to Ranger school and passed with flying colors. All my problems always seemed to disappear whenever I was pushing myself to my limit with my buddies. After Ranger school, I was very lucky and made it into the 82^nd Airborne. I was in for three years.

And then it all went wrong.

I was a sergeant at the time, and was chewing out a female corporal who had failed to file some necessary paperwork for the fourth time. After I had finished bellowing at her, not once breaking regulations, she had glared venomously at me.

“You’ll be sorry for this, sergeant,” she spat. I resumed screaming at her, now addressing her disrespect, and then sent her off. I was sick of her and just wanted her out of my sight.

I had forgotten all about her threat until the next day, when my boss, a Lieutenant Colonel, called me into my office and informed me that the corporal in question had filed a sexual harassment complaint against me.

I had never done anything of course, and told him so. But in rabid PC environment so typical of government today, it simply didn’t matter. Three other women, all friends of hers, stepped up and said I had harassed them as well, and that seemed to be enough for the higher-ups.  I received a dishonorable discharge and was thrown out of the Army in disgrace for a crime I didn’t commit.

I had had a lot of anger issues when I was a child, but they seemed like hearts and flowers to me now. I rented a hotel room on my way home and proceeded to tear the place up. All of my work! All the training, all the hazing, all my striving to be the best was nothing, now! And with a dishonorable discharge behind me, I’d be lucky to get a job as a grocery bagger.

I made my way back to my hometown in Florida. I rented out a cheap house in the worst section of Miami and immediately set about getting in trouble. I knew that I was just further screwing up my life, but I just didn’t care. All my inner rage had completely taken control of me, and I did whatever I felt like to satisfy it.

In three months, I was arrested ten times. After a particularly nasty incident where I ended up getting charged with assault and battery on a drug pusher that had rubbed me the wrong way, I was thrown in jail for seven months.

Jail was tough. I knew I was harda**, but I was in with people who made prison their life. There were fights nearly every week, and a few times I ended up fighting for my life against semi-crazed wife beaters and drug mules.

I got out on my twenty-second birthday. After checking in with my parole officer and finding a seedy motel where I could spend a few days, I found myself at one of the nicer bars on this section of town.

I nursed a Budweiser and stared at the big TV on the far wall, familiar rage coursing silently through me. My life was over. Even after my parole finished, I’d still have a criminal record and thus be completely unable to get any sort of good job. I’d probably just resort back to crime again and again until I got unlucky and was killed.

And then my life turned around.

“United States Army Sergeant Tony Smith?”

I looked up. “Who’s asking?” I asked irritably. Two men in casual clothes were standing next to me. One was white and sporting a neatly trimmed red beard and wire-rimmed glasses. He had spoken to me. His companion was a large and intimidating black man with a scar on his forehead and shaven dome.

Red beard smiled and sat down on the stool next to me. “How’s life treating you, Sergeant?”

I was already itching to channel my anger somewhere, and this strange man was already irritating me. “Not a sergeant anymore. The hell you want?”

“Just want a chat,” the man smiled endearingly. I glared at him. A few more minutes and I’d be sufficiently enraged that I would beat him into a pulp before I realized what I was doing. It had happened before. You don’t mess with me.

“My name is Walter,” red beard said, “I understand you’ve been feeling rather . . . underappreciated. Am I right?”

I continued glaring at him, mentally began planning out the fight. I could smash my bottle into the black dude’s face and then beat this scrawny little redhead into the ground. The black guy might get back up but I could get to a pool cue in about two seconds and smash him through the chest with it . . .

Walter continued casually, “What with being drummed out of the Army for something you didn’t do, I imagine life can seem pretty bleak right now, eh?”

I stopped inching my hand towards my beer bottle and clenched my fist. “How do you know about that?” I asked quietly. The black man next to Walter must have sensed that I was feeling very dangerous, and he moved slightly so that he was standing next to his partner. As he moved, his unzipped jacket fell open slightly, revealing a holster on his waistband. Drat. That changed matters a little.  

I was very much on edge now. Whoever these people were, they were illegally packing heat in a bar and didn’t seem to care.

Walter smiled. “I just do. Or we just do, I should say.”

“Who’s we?” I shot back, “You and your pet gorilla?”

The black man smiled genially at this, but made no move towards his weapon. He exuded confidence, not threats. Odd.

Walter chuckled, seeming very much at ease. “Oh, no. Johnson is simply one of the employees in my company.”

“What’s this ‘company’ of yours do?” I asked, turning my stool a little to the left. This allowed me to drop my hand away from my bottle into my coat pocket to take a hold of my knife without them noticing. “I’m just a little curious, you know, because you’re each packing in here.” This last bit was a guess, but I assumed that Walter would be armed as well. I was right.

Walter smiled. His smile was beginning to annoy me, and I was seriously beginning to consider pinning his tongue to the back of his head. “You’ve got a good eye, Mr. Smith. A very good eye. At any rate, I’ll be more than happy to answer your questions. Do you remember back in January, where you worked briefly with a man named Alonzo?”

I froze. How the hell do you know about that, pal? “Maybe.”

“Alonzo, as I’m sure you know, runs drugs.”

“No s***, Sherlock. That’s what I was helping him do.”

“He’s also a hit man.”

“Bulls***,” I shot back, startled, “No way. That guy has balls the size of peas. He’s a sniveling, sneaking coward and a snitch to boot. You expect me to believe he killed people? Just no freakin’ way.”

Walter’s smile did not waver a mite. “Oh, but Mr. Smith, he did. He killed seventeen people. He screwed up the last one and was arrested shortly after you went to prison. He’s currently awaiting trial on that one case.”

“Why not the others?” I asked, not releasing my knife. I shifted my weight on my stool so that if either man drew his gun, I could try to gut them before they shot me. I was beginning to feel the tiny tingling of fear deep inside me, and a little voice was telling me to get the hell out of there.  

“Because,” Walter said, dropping his voice, “They’ll never know he did those. Alonzo, you see, worked for me, and we hire only the best.”

I froze. Hire?

“I’ll answer your question now. My company is called Gilliland, and we are assassins for sale.”

I was seriously scared now. “So someone sent you to kill me,” I ground out between my teeth, slowly opening my knife in my pocket, “Who?”

“Mr. Smith, I’m surprised at you. No, we were not sent to kill you. Quite the opposite, in fact. We want to offer you a job.”

This threw me. “Huh?”

“We have deduced,” Johnson said, speaking for the first time, “That you have a certain . . . disrespect for the law.”

I smirked humorlessly. This was one screwed-up situation. I needed out.

“That, coupled with your military and street experience,” Johnson continued, “Has led us to assume that you would be a good fit for us.”

This was surreal. Assassins? What the hell?

“Just think about it,” Walter said, rising to his feet and handing me an envelope, “See the enclosed for information, and call me with your answer. A pleasure talking to you.”

The two men turned and left. I sat frozen on my stool for several moments, and then jumped off and sprinted after them. I exited the bar in a rush and scanned the street. There they were! The two men were already getting into a Suburban with tinted windows. As Johnson got into the car, he called without turning around, “Be seeing you, Smith!”

I ground to a halt. How the heck did he know I was there? The Suburban revved its motor and pulled off into the traffic. I remained, rooted to the spot, as it drove off. I then slowly peeled open the envelope and began walking towards my hotel. I had some reading to do.

<><><>

I sat on the edge of my bed in an anonymous roach hotel, staring out the window and absentmindedly doodling on the nightstand. The envelope was open next to me, its contents scattered over the bed. It had contained several typewritten pages, random excerpts of which were running through my mind:

Gilliland is not a “murder club,” we simply distribute pure justice. Those who we kill have committed crimes and gotten off scot-free, committed deep personal wrongs against the wrong person, or are simply not helping make the world a better place . . . Confidentiality is imperative in Gilliland, be prepared to not survive long if you have loose lips . . . This is a lucrative and satisfying career . . . With the money you will easily earn, you will be able to provide yourself the lifestyle of your choice . . .

I scratched a preoccupied heart on the windowsill with my knife. It’s not like I could get into much trouble with the law with this; I was already on their s*** list. Killing would also give me a positive outlet, because, after all, the people who died would be deserving of it.

I ended up lounging around my room for the rest of the night, and by morning I had made my decision. I would go to Gilliland and check it out, and if I liked it, I would stick with it. I smiled viciously to myself as I thought of killing the world’s parasites and scum. This was definitely the career for me.

I took my lighter and burned the envelope and all its contents, inadvertently lighting the bedspread on fire as well. I memorized the telephone number on the last page and then destroyed it as well. I then headed to a seedy payphone a mile from my hotel and dialed the number. There was a long silence, and then a series of odd clicks on the line. Then a voice:

“Gilliland, this is Walter.”

“Hey. It’s Smith, we met at the-”

“I remember. How are you, Smith? Given any thought to our offer?”

I paused. “Yes. I’m in.”

After a brief conversation, I hung up and rapidly departed the phone booth. I didn’t want to risk any possibility of the call being traced. As I walked towards the city impound lot to reclaim my month’s old vehicle, I reviewed everything I’d learned. Walter had told me to be at a certain address in New York in a week, and to bring whatever I wanted, which wasn’t much. All I had to my name was another suit of clothes, a beat-up car, my knife, a Taurus .22 revolver, and $275. The gun was illegal, as my parole didn’t allow me to have weapons, but frankly, I didn’t give a damn.

After an hour of hassle, I managed to reclaim my car, and I then drove to the bank and took out all my money. Feeling exposed with all that cash on me, I drove back to my old house and, very carefully, managed to crawl under it into the crawlspace and extract my gun and a box of loose rounds without anyone noticing. I tossed these in the glove box and shoved the loaded gun into my pocket.

Fully armed, I drove to the gas station, purchased a full tank of gas, and drove off. A new chapter in my life was starting, and I was one hundred percent ready for it.

[Molson]

I like it. I'm already following Retaliation, I'm gonna make sure to keep a close eye on this one as well. Good work. 

[Raptor]

Likin' it already, can't wait to see more!

Don't worry about comparisons to Ten Millimeter; if you had been inspired by it, I'd have been honored.

Actually, that reminds me, I should probably get back to work on both 10mm and MHI:N....

[moose42]

Hmm, good start.  Nice jab at PC bull crap.

I don't like Tony yet but maybe we aren't supposed to like him?  Maybe we need to despise him for a while?

So what happens next?   

[Grant]

  In a way that's good...

A unlikable character....I'm pretty sure he'll grow on you though 

  I have another fic that I'm working on but...Not gonna post or nothing until it's either done, or can start on MHI again as well....

[CameronS]

Lots of responses . . . Love it. 

I like it. I'm already following Retaliation, I'm gonna make sure to keep a close eye on this one as well. Good work. 

Likin' it already, can't wait to see more!

Thanks!

Hmm, good start.  Nice jab at PC bull crap.

I don't like Tony yet but maybe we aren't supposed to like him?  Maybe we need to despise him for a while?

Thanks. And I don't know if you're supposed to like him . . . he's definitely slightly twisted and extremely angry at a lot of things, so time will tell.

  In a way that's good...

A unlikable character....I'm pretty sure he'll grow on you though

Probably . . .

[CameronS]

Chapter 2 – The Empire State

It took me six days to horse my car up to New York City. As I saw the skyscrapers steadily inching their way towards me, I found myself getting excited. Before my jail time, a large drug deal had gone well, and I had spent a small fortune getting expensive speakers put into my piece-of-crap vehicle. I entertained myself with these by playing “Empire State of Mind” at full volume as I cruised into NYC. Now there’s an original idea.

The address Walter had given me was in the absolute worst section of downtown. I found a hotel entitled “North Star Inn” three blocks from the address that made the ones in Miami seem like Ritz-Carltons. At least there weren’t rats in the Miami hotel rooms when you opened the door. I tossed my one duffel bag of clothes onto the bed and extracted a cheap pair of binoculars from it that I had bought at a Wal-Mart on the way up.

Exiting the hotel, I hooked a right into a seedy apartment complex. I entered and poked around until I found a stairwell which went up to a locked door. I was sure the roof was on the other side, so I kicked it down and went out onto the gravel roof.

I went to the edge of the roof and crouched down behind the ledge. I then pulled out my binoculars and began scanning the building that I needed to be at tomorrow. It was a nondescript, albeit very run-down, liquor store. Liquor store? I thought to myself, Huh. Odd.

Panning from left to right, I discovered nothing out of the ordinary. Bars on the windows, naturally. A clerk who was printing very clearly from under his shirt, to be expected. Gangbanger-looking people entering and exiting briskly, of course. Nothing I found made me too suspicious.

After a few hours on the roof, when it got too cold to stay up any longer, I exited down the stairwell and headed back to my hotel. As I entered, a large rat on my bag raised his head and stared at me with beady black eyes. I swore loudly. Almost everything I owned was in there.

“If you got into my bag, you little sumb****-” I didn’t finish my threat as another rat climbed out of a hole in my bag. S***. I pulled my little revolver out of my pocket and shot the second rat twice, and then emptied my remaining seven rounds at the first as it sprinted for the wall. Even as I shot, a little voice in my head was screeching at me, What are you doing, you idiot? Someone will hear! You can’t just shoot things will-nilly!

Wrong, the other side of my brain responded, Yes I can.

Moving quickly now, because someone was bound to have heard the noise, I crossed the room at a bound, ripped my bag open, and swore again. The rats had chewed holes in all my clothes. Cursing unrestrainedly, I extracted the box of .22 rounds and a US Army Hoodie with only a small hole in the cuff, and took the bag with me as I sprinted out of the room. I jumped into my car and peeled out of the parking lot, running a red light as I went.

After driving carefully for several blocks, I found a dumpster and dumped my ruined bag into it, along with the spent cartridges. I reloaded my weapon and shoved it back into my pocket. I then considered my situation, which was rather bleak. I had only about $60 left on me, two more .22 speedloaders, my knife, and the clothes on my back. I needed a place to sleep, but there was no way I was going back to a hotel. Besides, someone at the hotel could have caught a glimpse of my car, and maybe even my tags. That’d make it risky to check into another. I could sleep in the car somewhere else, but anywhere I parked, someone would see . . . and then they’d call the police to report a suspicious vehicle, and the police would come, and they would want to see my ID, and then I’d be screwed. Dammit.

After thinking for a few minutes, I decided there was only one course of action, unappealing as it was. I drove around until I found a parking garage, and then reluctantly paid $50 to park my car there overnight. First thing I did was to swap tags with the car next to me, and then I found a spot directly facing the exit ramp, reclined the driver’s seat, and tried to ignore my irritation at myself. You should’ve just controlled your emotions, I told myself angrily, Now you’re out a place to stay. What actually worried me about this situation, though, was that I had felt nothing about killing. Sure, they were only rats, but still . . . I had seen something I didn’t like and killed the perpetrators without a second thought. This unsettled me at first, but I told myself that that was why I would be successful in my career with Gilliland. By midnight, I had fallen asleep trying to tell myself that things could surely only get better from here.

I was woken up by the sun streaming in through my windshield. I grimaced and looked at my watch. It was only ten o’clock, and I didn’t need to meet Walter until three. I drove out of the parking garage and went to a nearby McDonalds, where I spent half my remaining $10 on breakfast. I saved the rest for lunch.

After a morning’s worth of loafing, I drove to an Arby’s and bought myself an underwhelming meal. After I ate, I drove to the liquor store.

I parked my car in the back and then went around front, surreptitiously checking my weapon as I went. As I entered the store, the clerk glanced up at me, but then went back to his newspaper. I looked around, and then decided What the hell and walked straight up to the counter.

“Hey.”

“Whatcha need?” the clerk asked, barely looking up.

“I’m looking for Gilliland.”

The man froze, and then looked up at me. “Name?” he asked, serious now.

“Tony Smith,” I replied, pleased at the reaction I had received, “Walter talked to me in Florida.”

“Right. Right. Okay, go into the supply room at the back and type 1-4-0-0-5 into the thermometer. I’ll enter my code from up here and then you can go in.” He gestured to the cash register as he said this.

I obeyed and went to the back room. I scouted around until I found a thermometer in the corner, into which I typed the code the man had given me. Nothing happened for a moment, but then there was a slight hum and the wall retracted a bit and then slid back.

Cool, I thought, Just like in the movies. Behind the wall were some stairs, and I descended them quickly. As soon as I had cleared the door, the wall hissed back into place and overhead lights came on. I went down four flights of stairs until I reached a steel door. I opened it, and Walter was on the other side.

“Smith! I’m glad you came.” He shook my hand formally. “Right through here, please. Oh, and please don’t move.”

“Huh?” I asked, puzzled, but my question was answered as he slid his hand into my pocket and extracted my revolver.

“Metal detectors in the doorways,” he said cheerfully, emptying the cartridges onto the floor. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to have weapons in here.” We proceeded down a narrow hallway.

“How big is this place?” I asked, looking around.

“Not very,” Walter replied, “Just my office, a conference room, and a small armory. It’s small because most of our employees prefer to purchase their own weapons.” He stopped in front of another steel door and ushered me in.

There were already people in the room. Five sat in the audience and one was sitting at the front, as if he was a speaker. I took a seat towards the back, but didn’t have to wait long. Walter walked up to a podium at the front.

“Good afternoon,” he began, smiling, “Welcome to Gilliland.”

[Grant]

 Dang rats anyway....I got a chuckle outta that part.

 

[CameronS]

Here's another chapter for ya. I had fun writing this. 


Chapter 3 – The Speech

Walter spoke for an hour, and then let us go. He had spoken mostly on how training would proceed. We would be given money to buy ourselves necessities in the city, and then we would each go to meet with an “experienced employee” who would show us the ropes. After that, Walter had said, he would come watch us perform a complex assignation scenario, and then decide whether or not we could join the company. I noticed he had said nothing on what would happen if he decided we weren’t qualified, but I privately assumed he would have us killed. I was fine with that. After he had decided if we could join, Walter told us, we’d be issued several new identities, a small house under still another identity in a state he chose, and our first assignment. Following that, we would be required to take on at least three assignments a year, but could put ourselves on an “Active” list anytime we wanted if we wanted or needed more. 

We were each given $2,000 to spend on supplies and plane tickets to our destination. I spent mine on some good clothes, car repairs, and a few other things. I held off on buying another weapon, as that would just prove to be hassle on an airplane. Two days later, I jetted off to Alabama to train for a month with a man Walter called Rick.

Training was unique. Rick taught me the basics of forming a new identity, how to make explosives, and how to camouflage yourself in all sorts of settings (this was everything from ghillie suits to dressing as a drunk homeless person). We covered knife attacks, how to modify a variety of weapons to accept brass bags, makeup for disguise, driving, how to survey a location, and practiced field stripping weapons. We covered computer hacking, hand-to-hand combat, reloading your own brass, and shooting. Lots and lots of shooting in lots and lots of different scenarios. We also did several obstacle courses. One day, though, three and a half weeks into the training, we did something special.

“Alright,” Rick said to me. We were standing in the parking lot of a retail store in the heart of a nearby city’s downtown. “I assume you’re wondering why we’re here.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” I replied casually. Rick was a very easygoing guy, and I was comfortable around him.

“Well, you’ve done well on the obstacle courses. But one thing I’ve found is that there’s no substitute for the real thing.”

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve called the police and informed them of a robbery taking place here. I also provided them a remarkable suspect description which matches you perfectly.”

“What the hell?” I asked him, extremely startled, “When?!”

“Just as we got here. They’ll probably be here in about one minute.”

“You just going to turn me in, are you?” I spat, angered at this new turn of events, “I didn’t make the cut, huh?”

“No, no, of course not,” Rick said, looking rather surprised, “I’m not turning you in. You’re going to run from them. If you can escape and make it back to the house, you’ll have passed this final test.”

“All I have to do is run?” I asked nervously. This sounded dangerously fun, and if it really was the last test, then after it all I had to do was impress Walter. But . . . “What if they catch me?”

“I’ve given you a wallet with a fake ID in it, and a fake computer past to boot,” Rick replied, looking completely unruffled as sirens approached, “Your name is James Young. If they do catch you, you’ll just be charged with running from an officer or something.” He climbed into his nearby car and idled into a parking space, reclining his seat to hide himself. “Ah, here they are.”

I tried not to sprint off in terror as two police cars sped into the parking lot, lights and sirens on.

“Wait for it,” Rick said from the car, “Wait for it . . . alright, Tony, see you soon. Go!”

I took off in a rush as the cars skidded to a stop and three officers jumped out of them and began screaming at me. I hooked a left and sprinted towards an alleyway. This was good. I could do this.

I tore into the alley and sprinted down it, vaulting over a trash can. I could hear at least one officer behind me and also his radio transmissions between quick breaths.

“One King Four-three . . . foot pursuit, alley parallel to Grand . . . suspect white male, medium build, tall, black shirt, blue jacket, blue pants . . .”

I picked up speed as the transmissions got closer. Damn, this guy was fast. I turned a quick left, tore through another valley, jumped a small fence, and sprinted through a yard behind an apartment. I burst out of this yard and across a small road to a parking lot behind a nondescript building. Glancing around quickly, I dashed across the concrete, turned right on another road and darted across a bigger one, dodging several cars.

The outraged horns faded surprisingly quickly behind me as I spun left onto another road. Try and run through that, pig, I thought, smiling fiercely. I continued running for another minute or two, cutting through alleys at random, as I knew the officer would make it across; it would only slow him down for a minute.

My cocky attitude choked as another police car appeared out of nowhere and jumped the sidewalk not ten feet in front of me, completely blocking my path.

My brain moved at lightning speed: Gotta slow down or I’ll hit that, Gotta slow down or I’ll hit that, wait, no, they want me to slow down, officer behind me will get me if I do that, I’m trapped, this sucks, hey, wait.

These thoughts all occurred in under a second. One option did occur to me, though, as I tore towards the cruiser. As the passenger door began to open towards me, I jumped into the air and vaulted over the hood. There.

Unfortunately, this had put me right in front of the driver. I was running as fast as I could by now, and this guy was right behind me. Darn. I needed to do something, and fast. Alleyway, I need an alleyway.

Almost as if someone upstairs had heard me, I saw an alleyway approaching me on the right. I turned quickly and tore down it.

“Stop!” the officer behind me bellowed. Yeah, fat chance.

I put on a burst of speed and heard the officer dropping behind. Suddenly, I saw something at the end of the alley that made my heart stop. A fence. A tall, chain link fence. Oh, dear.

I sprinted towards the fence with grim determination. If I couldn’t make it over this, I was done for. As I approached the fence, I jumped as hard as I could and ended up dangling from it by my armpits. I kicked my legs frantically, searching for any sort of hold. My toe caught on something and I managed to hurl myself over, landing in a heap on the other side. As I scrambled to my feet, I caught sight of the officer chasing me.

He was a young guy. Academy kind of young. I almost felt sorry for him, because I knew I could get away now.

“Sorry, kid,” I panted through the fence, and took off again. A rattling told me he was climbing the fence as well, but I was running downhill towards a crowded mall, and there was no way he’d get me now.

A wailing behind me indicated the approach of another police car. You didn’t expect that, my disinterested conscience informed me, Mistakes like this will get you caught. Just like you’re going to be now.

Not if I can help it, I thought grimly, putting on a burst of speed.

The car roared past me and skidded to a halt about twenty feet in front of me. This worried me. By the time I got close enough to vault their car, they’d be out of it.

Forced to think on my feet yet again, I hooked a left and tore towards what was basically an alley in the mall building, full of backdoor entrances to the stores and employee-only areas. The officers were close behind me now. This is going to be close, the detached side of my brain informed me, you’ll have one chance to get this right. I ignored the thoughts, smacking door handles as I went. They were all locked, and eventually I was going to run myself into a dead end.

Suddenly, a new thought occurred to me as quickly as a new sight. A ladder! I could climb a ladder. I jumped towards one that was rapidly approaching. I was over six feet, but the bottom of the ladder was easily every inch of that off the ground. I caught the second rung and dragged myself up with sheer strength. My arms shrieked in protest until my feet caught purchase on the lowest rung and began climbing, strictly of their own accord.

I was exhausted now, and knew I didn’t have much left in me. Just get to the roof, I decided, I’ll just get to the roof.

I got to the roof just fine, but after I’d run fifty feet across the pebbled surfaces, dodging skylights and air condition vents, I knew I was doomed. There was nothing up here. I was trapped.

“Stop!” one officer yelled as he reached the roof. I obeyed. There was nothing else I could do. I raised my hands over my head and turned around. The officers were still shouting as they approached with weapons drawn, but I couldn’t hear them. I stared at my reflection in the skylight in front of me, oblivious to their commands.

I looked crummy. I was sweaty, dirty, and bleeding from a cut I had received on my forehead somewhere along the way.

“Come around the skylight to me!” an officer bellowed, “Do it now!”

Something clicked. Skylight?

“NOW!” the other officer screamed, his gun leveled at my chest, “Do it now or I will shoot you!”

“All right, fine, I’m coming,” I wheezed, “I’m coming.” I walked slowly towards the officers, my hands still over my head. However, instead of detouring around the skylight, I walked right towards it.

“Don’t you dare!” one of the officers screamed, as if sensing my plan, but I was already doing it. I gave a tiny little jump instead of another step and, as if in slow motion, began coming down towards the skylight. Before I hit, I drew my legs up and a stomped as hard as I could.

The glass gave way below me with a beautiful shattering noise under my weight. As I fell down the hole I had made, I reflected that I had no idea what was below me. Oh, well, it sure beat the hell out of the alternative.

I landed with a crash on a large display table of shirts. It hurt. A lot. The table collapsed under my weight and I rolled off its remains onto the floor with a moan. Several shoppers around me were staring at me, frozen in shock. I nodded painfully at them, “Pleased to meet you,” I gasped.

I then took off at a shambling run. I didn’t have time for any more James Bond lines.

I soon found a large men’s restroom and ducked inside. I took off my jacket and shoved it in the trash, and then flipped my shirt inside out to hide the logo. After washing my face in the sink, I exited through another door, feeling like a new man while at the same time scanning for any police or security. I was lucky and didn’t come too close to any, although I did see several security guards walking around and scanning faces. I smirked.

Mall cops, I thought, Flunked out of police academy and ended up here. Heh.

I made it out of the mall without incident, and then went a payphone to call a cab. I had it deliver me to a house near Rick’s, and then I walked the extra mile down the road to get to his house. He greeted me cheerfully.

“You made it. Good work.”

“Thanks,” I said, rubbing my back, “I think I broke some ribs, though.”

“Get some Tylenol, then. You can relax for the rest of the day; I’ll let you know what the evening news says.”

I complied and headed downstairs. I lived in the mother in law suit in Rick’s basement. After my shower, I chugged several blessed painkillers, and then collapsed in my bedroom. It had been an exhausting day, but I had completed the next-to-last step in achieving my new career, so that made it a good one. I was asleep in minutes, and was unaware that Rick was making a call upstairs.

“Hey, Walter. Yes, I’m doing well. How ‘bout yourself? Good. Glad to hear it. Well, I’ve got an update on Tony. Yes, it’s good. I think he’s ready. Uh-huh, I honestly do . . . Okay, we’ll expect you tomorrow, take care.”

[Stratcat79]

Cool story man.  Only one small complaint, just cause im army.  No enlisted ever goes straight to ranger school. In fact, iirc, the only people that can send a soldier below the rank of E4 is ranger regiment.  They could go to Ranger indoc after basic and airborne school,  but if they passed that they would be headed to one of the ranger batts.  Its your story and if that doesnt bother you, so be it.  Still a cool read.

[Grant]

  I'm beginning to like this.

  Just enough action, a bit "overthetop" (Like jumping through a skylight), but quite concievable "Better than the alternative".

[CameronS]

Cool story man.  Only one small complaint, just cause im army.  No enlisted ever goes straight to ranger school. In fact, iirc, the only people that can send a soldier below the rank of E4 is ranger regiment.  They could go to Ranger indoc after basic and airborne school,  but if they passed that they would be headed to one of the ranger batts.  Its your story and if that doesnt bother you, so be it.  Still a cool read.

That's interesting, thanks . . . I've never been in the Army, so I just guessed. 

So what is the youngest possible age you could become a Ranger?

  I'm beginning to like this.

  Just enough action, a bit "overthetop" (Like jumping through a skylight), but quite concievable "Better than the alternative".

I thought it was a little corny as well, but, like Tony thinks, it sure beats being arrested (again).

[Stratcat79]

youngest age? 18 i guess.  Going to Ranger school just gets you a ranger tab.  you arent really considered a ranger unless you are in a ranger batt and wear the ranger scroll.  The way to do that is to get a ranger contract which will put you thru basic, airborne school, then ranger indoctrination program (RIP).  Actually if you can get to airborne school the ranger recruiters usually come down and if you are in an mos the regiment uses, they will take you on the spot.  that was my experience anyway.  Sometimes in basic, airborne slots get awarded to stand out soldiers, and i have one buddy who wound up in ranger regiment this way. Won the airborne slot in basic, and signed up for rip when the ranger recruiters came.  If you pass rip youre headed to a ranger batt.  Once you have put some time in at your batt, they will send you to ranger school.

[CameronS]

youngest age? 18 i guess
. . .

I see. Thanks!

[moose42]

Good chase scene.  Frantic and fast paced.

[CameronS]

Chapter 4 – Pass-Fail

I dragged myself upstairs next morning around ten after sleeping in and eating breakfast. When I got up there, I was surprised to be greeted by Mr. Walter. He was sitting on the couch in the living room, flipping through some files.

“Hey, Walter, what you doing here?”

“Smith! Good to see you, good to see you. How are you? Rick tells me you did well yesterday.”

“I’m doing good. And yeah, I just tried my best. Showed those d____, though.” I grinned slightly at this, still rather puffed up about my grand escape.

“Excellent,” Walter replied absently, going back to his papers, “Well, let me give you a rundown of what’s going on today.”

“Shoot,” I said, collapsing into the armchair across from him, “Where’s Rick though?”

“Setting up. Now, what we’re going to do today is a complete contract scenario.”

“Start to finish?”

“Yes, start to finish. It will require a little bit of acting on my part, but it should be amusing, and more importantly, it should show me if you are really ready.”

“And if I’m not?” I asked flatly, “What happens then?” I was fully prepared to shoot my way out if I failed the training. Walter simply turned a page and ignored me.

I shifted position in the chair. “When do we start?” I finally asked. Walter looked up.

“As soon as you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” I replied immediately.

“Excellent,” Walter said, smiling. This time, I noticed, there was a slightly cold look in his eyes, and in that moment, I knew that he would not hesitate to kill me if I jeopardized his operation. Instead of fear, though, I just felt a strong resolve. Go ahead and try, you son of a b____.

Walter pulled a laptop out of the bag at his feet and began pecking away on it. “All right, Smith, let’s officially begin. This way the contracts work, as you know, will begin with me contacting you and informing you of the details of this particular case. You will then decide on your own whether or not to accept it.”

“Right,” I responded casually. I knew this already from training.

“So, for this test’s purposes,” Walter continued, “Let us say I have contacted you and sent you this encrypted email. Please read it carefully.” He handed the laptop to me.

An email was already open on the screen, and I began scanning it. “Ryan J. Dart,” I read aloud, “Reason for removal, pulled some shady business deals, shafted some folks out of their jobs, and ended up two million dollars richer out of it. Hmm, nice guy. Lives in a big house next county over, rarely leaves except to go on dates with fast women.” I looked up. “That’s all you can give me? Kinda thin, isn’t it?”

“In real situations, you will sometimes be given even less information,” Walter replied calmly.

I considered the email again. “How much is this job?”

“A fairly large amount, $250,000. On the condition of expertise, of course.”

I smirked. That was no problem. “And you take 15% of that, right?”

“Of course, Smith,” Walter responded, “I have to make a living too, you know.”

I smirked again. “Yeah, sure. So, I go kill this guy?”

“Yes. A mannequin, in this case.”

“But I don’t have any weapons.”

“Not a problem. Rick’s gun safe is upstairs to the left, help yourself.”

I did. After going downstairs to grab some my bag, gloves and a jacket, I headed up to the safe. Or perhaps vault was a better term, as it was absolutely huge. I selected the stainless CZ75B that I had used during training a few times, and, after loading it tucked it into an IWB holster and stuck it under my shirt. I wasn’t going to do the assassination straight off, but it wouldn’t do to be unarmed while surveying the location.

“You coming?” I asked Walter as I headed out to the garage.

“Certainly.” He accompanied me to my car and took a seat in the passenger seat. After consulting an atlas for a few minutes, I had worked out a route to the house and three routes away.

It took us twenty minutes to get to the neighborhood where the target’s house was. Instead of turning right in, I drove right by it.

“Very good,” Walter spoke for the first time, “Now, tell me why you did that.”

“To check if the neighborhood is gated, guarded, or so exclusive my vehicle will seem out of place,” I reeled off, “In this case it is, so I am going to find an unremarkable place to park my vehicle during the first survey.”

“All right.” Walter was good at not betraying any emotions.

I pulled the car into a shopping center a mile down the road. After locking it, I jogged across the road and began following it back to the neighborhood. To my surprise, the much older Walter had no trouble keeping up with me.

When we got to the neighborhood, I crawled up the berm-like structure that surrounded it and began counting houses through a spotting scope from my bag.

One, two, three . . . seven, eight, nine, ten . . . twelve. 217. That’s it. I laughed.

“Something the matter?” Walter inquired.

“You guys picked the demonstration house,” I grinned, “Smooth.”

It was a very nice house. Red brick, nice lawns, and a pool in the back. I increased the magnification and looked over the back of the house. Big windows . . . that’d be helpful. One of them appeared to look right into a sitting room of some sort, but to be straight in front of it, I’d need to move further down the berm.

I slid back down the hill and moved further down. Walter followed, making almost no noise. I had judged right, and when I climbed back up the hill, I was directly in front of the large window. This is it, I thought, I can get a rifle up here no sweat and pop him right through the window. I retreated down the hill and began to walk back towards the car. Walter followed.

“Get what you needed?”

“Uh-huh. Everything.”

“Excellent. While we’re walking back, why don’t you tell me what you found and what you’re planning to do next.”

“Well, I found a good place to shoot from. I’ll use a mid range rifle to shoot across the backyard while he’s in that back room.”

“What makes you think he’ll come to that back room?”

“There were magazines stacked up on the table next to the couch. Also, there were two beer bottles on the floor next to the TV. He probably hangs out there every evening.”

“All right. What are you going to do next?”

“I’ll survey the location throughout the day to get a feel for the target, get the range to the window, and look for anything I missed. I’ll shoot when it’s comfortable.”

“Fine.”

We jogged the rest of the way back to the car in silence. When we got home, Rick was in the kitchen digging through the fridge.

“Even beer bottles on the TV? That’s harsh, dude,” I greeted him as I walked by. Rick grinned and tossed a block of cheese onto the counter.

“I had to make it realistic. What you going to do?”

“Shoot through the window. Easiest way.”

“Easiest isn’t always best. You have a backup plan?”

“Always.”

After grabbing a few tools that I would need, I drove back out to the target location. I climbed the berm again and, draping a camouflage blanket over myself, settled in to wait. About an hour later, Rick appeared in the room, carrying a store mannequin under his arm. It appeared to have something written on the chest, and I increased my scope’s magnification. I had brought a Crusader Templar AR15 with a Leupold scope and fancy suppressor, and with the crystal clear magnification, I could easily make out what was written on the dummy’s torso.

Shoot me, beotch.

I laughed quietly. “Anytime, pal,” I whispered, “Anytime.”

Rick dropped the dummy onto the couch and turned on the TV. After selecting a channel he wanted, he disappeared from the room. At noon he returned to the room and took the dummy with him. Probably going to shower, I thought, and then chided myself. It’s just a dummy, it can’t do anything.

I watched until three, at which point Walter appeared. “How’s it going?” he asked, climbing up the hill behind me.

I grunted in reply.

Walter sat down next to me and surveyed the location with a small pair of binoculars. “When are you planning to shoot?”

“When I’m sure it’s safe,” I responded, rather irritated. Did the old bugger think I couldn’t have killed this guy a dozen times over by now?

“But what are you waiting for?”

“Anything,” I responded, “I’m waiting to see if this guy has requested that the police swing by his house every now and then. I’m waiting to see if he has a visitor that stayed overnight and could be a witness. Mostly though, I’m waiting to see if that Crown Vic across the street is going anywhere.”

“Hm,” Walter responded, “What makes you suspect the Vic?”

“It’s Saturday,” I said, shifting my position, “In a neighborhood this swanky, people are bound to be out and about on a day this nice. That car’s just been sitting there since I set up, though, and I think I saw movement once.”

“Excellent observation,” came the response, “Have you seen the other car?”

“There is no other car,” I said flatly. Just no way.

“You’re correct. Very good, Smith.”

Time dragged by. I plugged my iPod into one ear and allowed Kiss and The Scorpions to lure me into a relaxed state as I surveyed the windows of the target location. I was hoping for night to fall before I shot the mannequin, but I was also getting tired of lying there in the mulch with bushes on three sides. Finally, at exactly six o’clock, I saw what I was waiting for. The unmarked Crown Victoria across the street suddenly started its engine and backed out of the driveway. It turned left and drove out of the neighborhood.

“Security’s off duty,” I said out loud, lifting my rifle up on its bipod. Now all I needed was for the target to show up. He obviously spent his evenings out here, so where in heck was he?

As if in answer to my question, Rick appeared in the doorway to the den with the dummy over his shoulder. He had dressed it in a tux, and as he set it down, he pulled a roll of duct tape out of his pocket and taped a beer bottle to its hand. After maneuvering it next to the window, he ducked down out of site. Now.

I centered my rifle on the dummy’s head, clicked off the safety, and squeezed the trigger twice.

Pop! Pop!

There was a puff of white powder as the two bullets tore into the mannequin’s head. It swayed slightly and toppled over. The suppressor on the rifle deadened the distinctive crack of a bullet, but it didn’t completely kill the sound. I zoomed in and checked the window. Perfect kill.

“You missed,” Walter said suddenly, startling me.

I jerked my head off the scope and stared at him. “I did not.”

“Yes you did,” Walter shot back flatly, “You hit him once in the side of the neck. Your scope must be off.”

“I don’t miss,” I insisted, realizing what he was trying to do. Walter ignored me, and unexpectedly reached out and twisted a knob on my scope.

“Oh dear,” he said, still not showing any emotion, “You set up your scope wrong. Looks like you’ll have to go in and get him.”

I glared at him and threw my blanket off. After pulling the bipod off my rifle, I slid down the far side of the berm and sprinted towards the back of the house. Stupid, I thought, I don’t miss, and especially not a shot like that. Damn it all.

I reached the back door, and without slowing down, jumped up and kicked it hard right at the doorknob. The door remained closed, and I slammed into it. I swore. I’d probably broken my ankle. Backing off the door, I leveled my rifle at the doorknob, and then stopped cold.

I couldn’t see. The scope was still on, and it blocked my view. Growling irritably at not having time to remove it, I estimated where to point the rifle, turning the safety selector to burst as I did so. Rick had modified the weapon on a whim one weekend.

“Get to clear a house with a freaking sniper rifle,” I muttered, “Damn it.”

I sprayed the doorknob with three bursts, the series of loud pops echoing into the distance. I needed to move fast now, the noises were going to rouse suspicion.

The mutilated door opened now, and I rushed through, the brass bag attached to the side of my rifle now jingling loudly. I trained my rifle at the wall on the end of the hallway and proceeded delicately, my breathing sounding very loud in my ears. As I reached the end, I sliced the pie delicately and slid through a doorway. Through the door at the far end of the room, I could see the distinctive flat screen TV in the den, and-

There it was. The mannequin was sliding slowly across the doorway, a rope around its neck. There was a puddle of red liquid on its chest that was dripping onto the floor as it went. Despite the stress of the moment, I grinned slightly. Very theatrical.

I moved quickly across the room. The dummy accelerated, but it was still moving painfully slowly. I planted my foot on its back and, leveling my rifle, shot it once in the back of the head. Almost before the echo of the suppressed shot had faded, Rick appeared around the corner, a coil of rope in his hand.

“Nice work, Smith.” He pulled a radio out of his pocket and clicked it twice. It clicked back. “Walter will pick up the rest of your stuff. Let’s go back to the house.” He picked up the noosed dummy and started for the door.

“‘Kay.” I knew what I needed to do next, but I didn’t like it one bit. I had seen several glaring errors in my performance, the worst being sprinting straight across the backyard without once checking for any sort of alarm and failing to ever check for security devices monitoring the back door. And while Walter had never said what would happen if we failed our training, I had no doubt he would have us killed. We knew too much to just let us go. And to save my own skin in this situation . . .

I dropped my rifle and, in a blur of motion, yanked up my shirt and pulled my stainless CZ from its holster. “Rick!”

He turned around and dropped the dummy in surprise as he saw the pistol aimed directly at his head. “Smith, what the f-”

“So, Rick,” I said casually, my finger resting on the trigger guard, “Did I pass?”

[moose42]

interesting.  The whole "shoot this guy as a test" has been WAY overdone.  I like the mannequin idea.

One question, wouldn't listening to music remove some situational awareness?  Well I guess he only used one ear-bud. 

[Raptor]

Very good, as usual. Can't wait to see more.

also, thanks for reminding me that I need to get back to work on 10mm and MHI:N (stupid college homework...)

Moose, I actually thought the music thing was a nice touch. I sort of do the same thing when I'm doing homework; playing music at low volume helps me to concentrate. Don't know why, but if it works for me, no reason it can't work for our friend Smith.

[CameronS]

interesting.  The whole "shoot this guy as a test" has been WAY overdone.  I like the mannequin idea.

One question, wouldn't listening to music remove some situational awareness?  Well I guess he only used one ear-bud. 

It's not a test; he feels it's necessary to save his own skin. Here's a snippet from the (very) rough draft of the next chapter to explain things. It's in a spoiler to save space.

Time slowed down to a crawl as Rick and I stared at each other.

"What are you doing?" He finally asked, not moving.

I considered my answer. "Saving my skin," I responded, "I messed up, Rick. I screwed up in several different places during the test, and Walter's bound to have noticed."

"How will killing me help that?" Rick asked coolly, not budging.

"If you're out of the picture," I said, "Then there's a job opening, and Walter will need a new guy to fill it. He might just kill me anyway, but then he's out two employees, so this improves my chances. I'm sorry, Rick, but I've worked too hard for it to end like this."

Rick nodded and slowly sat down on the floor. "I knew you'd be successful at this," he said, resting his hands on the wood, "You have that ability to switch off emotion and just do what's necessary. Good quality for . . . a man in our line of work."

"Thanks," I responded, steeling myself to make the next move, "Any last words?"

"That's kinda theatrical, isn't it?" Rick chuckled, but then turned serious. "Yes. I actually do."

"Then make them quick," I said, "The police will be coming to check up on the noise I made."

Rick was silent. "Get out."

"You threatening me?"

"No. Just get out of the business. Take what I've taught you and leave."

"Why should I do that?" I needed to leave before the police showed up, but I wanted to hear what Rick had to say. "Why should I leave?"

"You just should. Killing . . . killing is unnatural. When you've been in for as long as me, you'll know what I mean. They haunt you, night and day, until your very soul condemns you for what you've done. You feel . . . ripped apart."

"Very poetic," I shot back quickly. And then, "Goodbye, Rick."

I shot him twice in the chest, and he collapsed back with a gasp. As I turned away to pick up my brass and go out the back door, I heard him say something.

"Smith. Come . . . here."

"What, Rick?" I asked impatiently, pointing my weapon at him again in case of tricks, "What is it?"

"It's so big . . ."

"Huh?"

"Bigger . . ."

"What in God's name are you talking about, man?"

"Walter . . . bigger . . ." He was dying, and quickly. I'd seen it before, back when I was in the army, when a man had been pinned to a wall in a car accident and had commenced to babbling garbage on his proverbial deathbed. I dismissed Rick's talk as the same thing. "Bigger . . . than . . ."

"Quiet, Rick," I said coldly, and shot him a final time.

Very good, as usual. Can't wait to see more.

Thanks, glad you like it.

[CameronS]

Chapter 5 –  Hired

Time slowed down to a crawl as Rick and I stared at each other.

“What are you doing?” He finally asked, not moving.

I considered my answer. “Saving my skin,” I responded after a moment, “I messed up, Rick. I screwed up in several different places during the test, and Walter’s bound to have noticed.”

“How will killing me help that?” Rick asked coolly, not budging. I had to admire his composure under pressure.

“If you’re out of the picture,” I answered, “Then there’s a job opening, and Walter will need a new guy to fill it. He might just kill me anyway, but then he’s out two good employees, so this improves my chances. I’m sorry, Rick, but I’ve worked too hard for it to end like this.”

Rick nodded and slowly sat down on the floor. “I knew you’d be successful at this,” he said, resting his hands on the wood, “You have that ability to switch off emotion and just do what’s necessary. Good quality for . . . a man in our line of work.”

“Thanks,” I responded, preparing myself to make the next move, “Any last words?”

“That’s kinda theatrical, isn’t it?” Rick chuckled, but then turned serious. “Yes. I actually do.”

“Then make them quick,” I said, “The police will be coming to check up on the noise I made.”

Rick was silent. “Get out.”

“You threatening me?”

“No. Just get out of the business. Take what I’ve taught you and leave.”

“Why should I do that?” I needed to leave before the police showed up, but I wanted to hear what Rick had to say. “Why should I leave?”

“You just should. Killing . . . killing is unnatural. When you’ve been in for as long as me, you’ll know what I mean. They haunt you, night and day, until your very soul condemns you for what you’ve done. You feel . . . ripped apart.”

“Very poetic,” I answered quickly. And then, “Goodbye, Rick.”

I shot him twice in the chest, the noise of the unsuppressed shots ringing loudly in my ears, and he collapsed back with a gasp. As I turned away to pick up my brass and go out the back door, I heard Rick wheeze something.

“Smith. Come . . . here.”

“What, Rick?” I asked impatiently, pointing my weapon at him again in case of tricks, “What do you want?”

“It’s so big . . .”

“Huh?”

“Bigger . . .”

“What in God’s name are you talking about, man?”

“Walter . . . bigger . . .” He was dying, and quickly. I’d seen it once before, back when I was in the army. A man had been pinned to a wall in a car accident and had commenced to babbling garbage on his proverbial deathbed, and I dismissed Rick’s talk as the same thing. “Bigger . . . than . . .”

“Quiet, Rick,” I said coldly, and shot him a final time.

After collecting my pistol casings and my rifle, I exited the house through the back door. It was nearly dark now, and I welcomed the cover as I scrambled over the berm and jogged back towards the car. True to Rick’s word, all my gear was gone, so I had to carry the rifle over my shoulder. This obviously stood out a bit, so I was forced to wind my way through the woods parallel to the road instead of following it directly. When I arrived at the shopping center, I stopped and field stripped the weapon. I put the smaller parts into various coat pockets and carried the bigger ones under my arm. Hopefully they would resemble anything but an illegal rifle. After waiting for a break in the traffic, I made it to my car without incident.

Once at Rick’s house, I parked in the driveway and headed inside. “Hey, Walter.”

“Evening. Where’s Rick?”

“He . . . fell down a flight of stairs,” I responded flatly, heading towards the kitchen.

“Ah,” came Walter’s response. And then, “Why did you do it?”

“Ever heard the expression, ‘Nice guys finish last?’” I answered, sitting down at the table and beginning to reassemble the rifle, “How about ‘Looking out for number one?’”

“I have indeed heard those expressions,” Walter called from the living room. The news that one of his employees had just killed another in cold blood did not seem to faze him in the slightest. “But why did you feel it was necessary?”

“Insurance,” I responded, “Life insurance.” I pulled back the charging handle to make sure the weapon still functioned, and then set it aside and pulled my CZ out of its holster. I stripped it down as well, removing the barrel and putting it in the rifle’s brass bag. I’d destroy it later.

There was a long period of silence from the other room, and then Walter entered the kitchen. “You do have this knack of figuring things out, Smith,” he said, seating himself at the bar, “What makes you think I won’t just have you killed now?”

“Because I’m good at what I do,” I shot back, “And then you’re out at least two employees, unless other guys failed their tests, too, and then you’ve got more holes in your nationwide coverage.”

Walter appeared deep in thought, so I continued, “And if you’re going to kill me, then for God’s sake just do it. Quit sitting there like the freaking Thinker.”

Walter finally raised his head, “All right, Smith. You have a heartless streak that will be particularly useful in this line of work. I’ll admit, we’ve never had an employee kill their instructor before. This merciless streak, coupled with your normal expertise and the compelling arguments you made-” He seemed to smirk as he said this “-have made me decide not to kill you. You can have the job.”

“Thanks, Walter,” I said casually. I got up and shook his hand. “Where do you want me?”

“Northern Georgia,” he responded, all business again. “Gilliland will purchase you a house there, and we’ll send you the normal packet of false identification, along with your $5,000 starting bonus.”

“Cool. What are you going to do with Rick’s stuff?”

“We’ll search the house to make sure nothing incriminating is here,  and then probably plant some evidence that he was connected to gangs. That will explain the suspicious circumstances of his death. Then we’ll burn the whole house down; probably make it look like an electrical problem or a fault in the gas line.”

“Okay, go for it. Can I have his weapons and gear?”

Walter considered this. “Yes, if you want them. Be careful, though, they’ve all been used in contracts around the country. If any of those weapons fall into the hands of the authorities, the ballistics will screw us all.”

“Thanks. I’ll be careful.”

I gutted Rick’s house of everything useful to me and loaded it into his large black Suburban. Once I had changed the plates, I set out for Georgia.

The journey was monotonous long and monotonous, but when I arrived the next morning, I was raring to go. I drove into a small town that Walter had indicated to me, and parked in a pharmacy parking lot and waited. I had been told that a Gilliland representative would meet me there and brief me on what to do.

While I waited, though, I pulled a small pair of binoculars from the glove box and scanned surrounding rooftops for snipers. Walter had said he wouldn’t kill me, but there was still no sense in taking chances.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the window. I rolled it down to see a small, casually dressed, Asian man standing next to my car. “Can I help you?” I asked, affecting a southern-style politeness that did not suit me.

“Yes. You’re Smith?”

“Who are you?”

“Call me Win, please. I’m with Gilliland.”

“Good to meet you.” We shook hands briefly through the window. “You here to help me move in?”

“Yes, take a left out of here.” Win climbed in the passenger seat and proceeded to direct me to a medium-sized house a few miles out of town.

“The deed is in the name of Tom Johnson,” Win explained, handing me a key ring, “All the necessary paperwork has been filed, and you have a twenty year mortgage. We took the liberty of furnishing the house for you; hope you don’t mind. Ident papers are in a fireproof safe under a false bottom. We’ve given you ten different identities, which each contain-”

“Right,” I cut in, “Driver’s license, birth certificate, passports, credit cards, etc. I know.”

Win nodded. “That’s correct. Anyway, your name is Tom Johnson, and you are currently unemployed, but you support yourself by the stock market. And before I forget, Walter wanted me to inform you that we have staged your death in Miami.”

This surprised me. “How’d you do that?”

“Car accident. You died immediately on impact, and your body was burned past recognition. We felt this would simplify things a bit; as there’s a warrant for your arrest there.”

“Fine by me.” I ignored the nagging thought that to everyone I knew, I was officially dead. While this at first seemed saddening, it was also very liberating. “Anything else?”

“Not unless you need help moving in,” Win replied, “Oh yes, there is one more thing. You’ll go on the active list in exactly one week; that should give you time to settle in.”

“Okay, cool. Thanks for your help, Win. Need a lift?”

“I’ll just call a cab.” The Asian assassin departed swiftly, and I set to work unloading my luggage from the Suburban.

Once I had finished moving everything into the house, I examined my new identity papers, noting that they had even included a new license plate for Rick’s old car. I fixed it on and spent the rest of the evening unpacking clothes and moving all of my guns into the two massive gun safes tucked into the master closet.

[moose42]

Interesting chapter.  I think Walter took the killing of Rick a little easy.  Obviously he thinks of his workers as tools but still, expensive tools.

So is he going to bump into some interesting neighbors?

[Grant]

  Interesting.....

Cold blooded killer...purely. 

Interesting angle...I look forward to whatever comes up 

[CameronS]

Hey, guys.

Nope, no update. Sorry. The Fervidus River is coming along steadily but slowly, so you'll have to be patient.

At any rate, I've decided to set up a blog to post my stories (and some opinions ) so I'm not taking up space on WTA. My blog is right here. I've already put up MHI: Retaliation (which I'm sorry to say has officially come to an end, see the note at the end of the last chapter) and am posting another as we speak.

Speaking of this other story, I should probably say that it was inspired by Moose42's Alone. Same universe, same event, but different place. I got permission from Moose to post it, so feel free to check it out. It's been one of my favorite stories to write; I hope you enjoy it. It's already at sixteen chapters and 20K words, so I'll post a new chapter every day or so while I'm working on it. Comments on it at the blog are welcome!

[CameronS]

I've decided to keep The Fervidus River off the blog; I'll just keep it here.

New stuff: First off, there's a continuation of Chapter 5 (half of which has become Chapter 6; sorry if that's confusing).


Chapter 6, Cont'd.

Once I had finished moving everything into the house, I examined my new identity papers, noting that they had even included a new license plate for Rick’s old car. I fixed it on and spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking my clothes and moving all of my guns into the three massive gun safes tucked into the master closet and built into the attic.

I was moving a tricked out Mossberg 930PSX into the primary safe (the other two were hidden in the attic) when there was a knock on the door. I jumped at this, and became wary. I wasn’t expecting anyone . . . what was going on? I dug through the shotgun’s bag and stuffed shells rapidly into the loading port and, moving towards the door, quietly chambered a round.

I proceeded carefully down the stairs and around the corner into the hallway. The shotgun at low ready, I approached the door and looked through the peephole. Oh, hell.

I suddenly felt quite stupid. A very old woman with a cane in one hand and a tray in the other was standing on my porch, smiling expectantly at the door. Dropping the shotgun into a corner behind a plant, I fixed a fake smile on my face and opened the door.

“How are you?”

“I’m good! How are you? My name is Janet, but everyone around here calls me Granny.”

“Well, it’s good to meet you, Miss Janet,” I sparkled, “Would you like to come in?”

“Oh, no, no, I’d hate to be a bother. I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood and bring you some crumb cake. I hope you enjoy it.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Janet, I’ll eat it tonight.”

We chatted for a few more minutes before my elderly neighbor departed. Despite the front I had put up, I had honestly enjoyed the old woman. She had reminded me of my own grandmother. As I removed the shotgun from behind the synthetic bush, I told myself that before I moved from this house, I would call her Granny at least once.

Chapter 7 - First Assignment

I concentrated on settling in over the next few days. I found some nice restaurants, met a few more pleasant neighbors, and cleaned my weapons repeatedly. I also placed massive ammo orders, all under different names, and bought reloading gear to set up in my large backyard shed.

My idyllic lifestyle soon came to an end, though. About a week after I moved in, my cell phone rang. Gilliland had issued me this phone, and Walter had been very hush-hush about the types of encryption on it. From what he had said, though, I gathered he had recruited a crooked former NSA agent. 

I answered it. “Smith.”

“Check your email,” a voice said, and the line went dead. I got up from the living room and went into the office to download my emails. Sure enough, one was there. It was listed as from my phone company, but when it prompted me to enter a password to open it, I knew it was from Gilliland.

I opened the email and read the contents. It was indeed the offer of a job. Jason Braxton, a Florida . . . pimp? Huh? I abandoned the email and called Walter on my cell phone. There was a series of clicks as the lines secured, and then Walter answered.

“Hello, Smith. Isn’t caller ID wonderful?”

“Yeah, Walter, peachy. I just got your email.”

“I thought you’d be curious about that. This job actually came from a radical preacher in Tallahassee. He’s so against the evils of prostitution that he wants us to kill his city’s biggest instigator of it. Apparently he’s forgotten the peace and love section of religion.” There was a brief pause. “Think Fred Phelps, Smith.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“There is a catch, though.” I heard the creak of Walter’s chair as he shifted his position. “It would be beneficial if you could kill the payer in this deal as well.”

“Why? Killing people who pay you is generally a bad idea.”

“He’s a rather . . . unbalanced personality. I’m not sure how he found out about us, but he’s precisely the type of person who, next week, could be publically denouncing us as the workers of the Devil.”

“Do I get a bonus?”

“Certainly. Will ten work?”

“Cheap, Walter. But I’ll do it.”

“I appreciate it, Smith. Call me as soon as you’re done with the first job and I’ll tell you what to do next.”

“All right, bye, Walter.” I hung up and went back to reading the email. The job itself would make me twenty-five thousand, and with the company bonus, it would be thirty-five. All  in all, it would be a lucrative day.

After packing a duffel bag, I got online again and bought a first-class ticket to Tallahassee and set out for the airport, where I checked the car and boarded my plane.

The ride was boring. Airplanes are all the same, whether you’re sitting in the cargo bay with a parachute or in plush seats.

When we finally touched down in Florida, I caught a cab into the city. During the ride, I mentally reviewed the information Walter had sent me. Braxton was a flashy kind of character who co-owned an enormous nightclub and hung out there most of the time, only leaving to sleep at his apartment a few blocks away or to eat with friends. From there, he operated his rather large “business.”

Nightclub, I thought, Good place. Loud, dark, plenty of flashing lights to disorient people. And half the people in there will be drunk or high, so there won’t be many witnesses. Gotta watch out for security, though . . .

I booked myself a nice hotel room and walked the rest of the way to the ritzy section of town as the sun set. Sure enough, there was the club, imaginatively called “The Eden.” It was just starting to fill up, and I joined the crowd.

Once inside, I was immediately struck by the noise. Loud music thumped from speakers all over as colored lights popped and flashed from the corners. I went up to a balcony area and observed the place. The club had at least three stories, and there were bars, dance floors, and tipsy people everywhere. As I proceeded to the second floor, I noticed exotic dancers in one corner and tables in the other, these served by scantily-clad waitresses. I grabbed one of these by the arm.

“Hey, have you seen Braxton?” I asked, having to shout to make myself heard over the thumping bass, “I’m lookin’ for him.”

The waitress gave me a dazzling smile. “I’m sure he’s up on the third floor,” she beamed, “He’s normally up there with all his . . . lady friends. Can I help you?” She could not have signaled her availability any more clearly if she had joined the dancers in the opposite corner.

“Nah. I’m gay.” I pushed off, leaving the waitress rather nonplussed. I grinned. I enjoyed messing with peoples’ minds.

The third floor was much quieter. After passing through wooden doors at the top of the stairs, I found myself in the lobby of a carpeted dining room with a cocktail bar at the far end. It was well-lit and the diners all had the look of young, wealthy professionals looking for a good time. Despite the fact that it was still staffed by obvious call girls, it had a more wholesome feel.

I approached the maitre d’ near the entrance. “How may I help you?” he inquired.

“I’m looking for a friend of mine. Jay Braxton?”

An expression of slight distaste entered the man’s face, but he quickly masked it and nodded. “Yes, he’s at his usual table to the immediate right of the entrance.”

I thanked the man and entered the dining room, turning left as soon as the maitre d’s back was turned. After surreptitiously taking a seat, I turned to observe my target for the first time.

Jason Howard Braxton was a surprisingly small man, but still easy to pick out; as he was surrounded by women. He was tanned to the consistency of leather and was wearing what was obviously an expensive suit. As I watched, one of the women next to him reached into her pocket and handed him an envelope, and Braxton opened it to reveal a wad of cash. He was very obvious about counting it and pocketing the lion’s share, giving a few bills back to the woman, before smiling and kissing her proffered cheek. Jerk, I thought casually.

I continued watching Braxton for another hour as he collected money off his girls as they entered. They were all fairly attractive, and I idly wondered how much they cost before shaking the thought off. This was business.

Around ten, Braxton stood up, loudly announcing his intentions to go to the “Classic,” which I gathered was a particular dance floor. I left as well, trailing him a discrete distance.

Once Braxton and several of his girls had arrived at the dance floor, they all split up. One girl stuck with him, though, and they headed straight onto the packed floor. “Rag Doll” blasted from the speakers at stun volume as Braxton and his partner gyrated and ground to the beat. I watched for a few minutes until I got tired of women hitting on me, and I left.

I continued my surveillance for the next few nights, and I soon realized that Braxton’s routine rarely varied. The furthest he ever strayed from it was once when he only danced for five minutes before disappearing with his partner.

Easy kill, I thought, Move onto the floor while they’re dancing, get him with a knife or silenced pistol, then move. Everyone will think he’s just passed out.

Thus decided, I packed my bags and flew home to Georgia. I arrived late that night and immediately went to my primary safe. Selecting a weapon for the actual assassination was always one of the most fascinating parts of the process, as every situation called for a different procedure.

After considering how I would move in, the surroundings, and how much aiming capacity I would have, I selected an XD sub-compact handgun. It had an extended barrel that was threaded for a custom three-inch-long suppressor. The short can wouldn’t do too much for the noise, but it would make it sound like anything other than a gunshot, and with all the ambient noise in The Eden, I wasn’t worried. I loaded three magazines with nine .40-caliber 155 grain hollowpoint rounds and selected a holster rig and ammo carrier.

I locked all this in a case and buried that in my suitcase. After packing myself a bag with fresh clothes, I set out again. The clothes were just for show; I would be flying out of Florida mere hours after the assassination.

I paid cash at the counter and bought a ticket under a pseudonym. After suffering through a seemingly endless flight in economy class with my knees hooked around my ears, I stepped off the airplane into the bustling Tallahassee Regional Airport. I caught a taxi and booked myself into a Hampton Inn, where I settled in to wait.

Waiting was hard. I tried to watch TV, but soon I was pacing around the room and glancing at my watch every two minutes. Finally, I went and swam laps in the pool until noon to occupy myself. Once I grew bored of that, I showered and cleaned and oiled my gun.

While I did so, I thought over my plan. The club will be full, I thought, Saturday night and all, so it should be packed. I’ll follow him down from the third floor to the dance floor and once he’s out there, I’ll move quietly in and shoot him a few times in the back. Then once he collapses, I’ll just quietly exit the floor and leave the club through the back door. I had at first debated leaving through the front door, so as to avoid getting caught by a waiter or getting lost in some anonymous corridor, but I had soon thrown this out. A club this size had to have at least some security, and as soon as they realized Braxton was dead, they might lock down the club.

At long last, night fell, and I put on a casual suit to help me blend into the club’s usual patrons. I put my holster rig on and slammed a magazine into my weapon, unconsciously chambering a round. I slid the loaded gun into my holster and cracked my neck a few times. Show time. 

The Eden was more packed than I had ever seen it. Music poured from every corner and the flashing lights seemed even brighter than usual. I made my way to the third floor again, where the noise was at a much more tolerable level. Someone was singing a Billy Joel song on a stage, and all the tables were full of laughing couples.

As usual, Braxton was surrounded by his ladies, and he seemed even more exuberant than usual. He was busy collecting money off them, and I was surprised how many he had. There were at least a dozen with him at any one time, and they rotated in and out, giving him money and then leaving again.

Braxton followed his normal routine, drinking and making money until around ten that night. I nursed a beer and watched him out of the corner of my eye. It had been a very profitable night for him; I counted around thirty women handing him their profits.

When he finally left, I followed him. He proceeded down the stairs and spent several minutes loudly telling his girls where to go, and then he took two of them with him to the first floor, where the main dance floor was located. Loud techno music pulsed from the speakers and spotlights strobed the crowd. I experienced several moments of slight consternation as I lost Braxton and his partners in the loud, gyrating mass of dancers.

When I finally saw him, I developed tunnel vision. The music faded into the background, and the loudest noise was my pulse thumping slowly in my ears. Everything around me slowed down, and my movements seemed to become very exacting and precise. I slid my hand under my unbuttoned coat and slowly worked my hand underneath my shirt, where I grasped my pistol. It came cleanly out of the holster, and I took three more steps, bringing myself directly behind the Target. He wasn’t a person anymore, just a Target. A job.

I held the pistol at my waist and screwed the suppressor into Braxton’s back, right next to his spine. He started to turn around to see who was jabbing him, but his doom was already sealed.

I pulled the trigger, and the gun responded with a loud cough. Braxton jerked in pain as the bullet smashed through his abdomen, and I pulled the trigger again, and then a third time. Braxton fell forwards, clutching at his partner to try and regain his balance. As he went down, I shot him a final time in the back of his head and silently retreated into the oblivious crowd around us.

I pushed and elbowed my way through the dancers. As I exited the dance floor, I heard a loud scream from behind me, barely audible over the music. Time to go.

I jogged through the mass of people in front of one of the bars, and when the bartender’s back was turned, I slipped through the employee’s only door. I ran down the corridor and through the door at the end. Following the red exit signs, I soon was emerging into a trash-filled alley. I moved quickly down the alley to the street and walked the rest of the way to my hotel. Once I arrived, I took the brass bag off my gun and dumped the shells down a storm drain before entering.

Once in my room, I washed my hands, flipped on the news, and called Walter.

“It’s done,” I reported.

“Good. Now, the crazy preacher walks to work from his house every Sunday. White male, elderly, large spare tire, he’ll be wearing a red shirt. He’ll pass by a certain alley at Seventh and Wilmer around 0805. Make it look like a mugging.”

“‘Kay.” I hung up. This next job would be rushed, but fairly easy. I checked out the hotel and caught a cab for the ride across the city. I had the driver drop me at a hotel, and I walked the several remaining miles to the streets Walter had indicated to me. Once there,  I pulled a few items and some makeup out of my bag, and in a few minutes I looked like a street bum. I hid my bag under a pile of trash and took the suppressor and brass bag off my gun and tucked it into my waistband.

After a long and uncomfortable night spend huddled in a corner in the alley, the city’s nightlife began to disappear and the day crowd came out. I remained in my corner until quarter to eight, at which point I moved out to the entrance to the alley and waited.

Sure enough, I saw a slightly overweight old man with a red shirt proceeding briskly down the street. Inwardly thankful that the street was empty, I examined him carefully as he approached. He looked like your average old man, hardly a fire breathing crazy. As he approached, I made my move.

“Hey, man, can you spare a dollar? I really need to get some food, man.”

The preacher smiled but shook his head. “No, son, you’ll just buy drugs or alcohol. If you’ll come with me, though, I can take you to some people who can help.”

“I need money, man!”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” He started to turn away, and then I escalated the encounter.

“Give me some goddamn money!” I said loudly, yanking my gun from under my shirt and dramatically yanking the slide back. To his credit, the preacher reacted very well.

“Take it easy, boy, you can have my wallet.” He reached slowly towards his back pocket. “Just take it easy.”

“Make it quick, man!” I glanced around nervously.

“I am. Be calm, everything will be fine.” The old man was handling the stress of the encounter remarkably well. “Let me unbutton my pock-”

“Now!” I screamed, pretending to be panicked, and pulled the trigger.

The unsuppressed reports echoed loudly down the street and the old man collapsed without a sound. Just in case anyone was watching, I reached into his pocket and yanked out his wallet, and then pulled his watch off as well.

My work done, I spun around and fled down the alley. I shoved my gun into my pants and grabbed my bag without slowing down. I scaled a small fence, turned another few corners, and then skidded to a halt. I yanked some baby wipes out of my bag and scrubbed the makeup and dirt off my face, and then rapidly changed clothes. In a few moments, I was your average anonymous businessman. I dumped my old clothes into a dumpster, and, walking to a street corner a few blocks from the “mugging,” hailed a cab and set out for the airport.

Once I was on the airplane, I relaxed and reflected on my first two jobs. One thing bothered me, though. The old man, I thought, He wasn’t crazy. No way he was crazy. He was just a normal guy. If he was that drastically against prostitution, than he would have read me the riot act for mugging him before I shot him. I had actually been planning on that; it would have made it more realistic to shoot him. I soon shoved these nagging thoughts away, though. I was an assassin, killing people was my job. It was Walter’s job to decide whether or not these people needed to die, not mine.

I fell asleep on the return flight, waking up when the plane touched down.

[Grant]

  Nice.

First hit.   Hmm..makes one wonder why the preacher was knocked off. 

Maybe he PO'ed the pimp and they took out dual hits 

  Anyway: Thanks for pointing me to your blog! I hadn't seen it!