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And on the first day of my honeymoon too.
Motherfuckers.
Whoever this guy is, he’s going to pay for making me spend my day chasing his ass instead of my blushing bride’s.
I list all the things I will need and book a midnight flight out of state as my way to get past security and into the boarding area. Guns and knives aren’t going to cut it today, so I have to go with an old favorite that will ensure no one is the wiser to my true intentions. I run upstairs to my room and pile some old clothes into a duffel bag to add to the illusion I’m going for. Once I’ve triple checked that I have everything, I change into ripped jeans and a leather jacket to look the part of a traveling musician going to his next gig. I grab my duffel bag and the precious guitar case that holds my weapon of choice for today and head to JFK.
Unfortunately, when I get there, my target’s flight from Zürich has been delayed three hours, which only decreases the time I have to get the fucker alone before he boards his next flight. I take a seat and wait it out, cracking my tense neck every so often. I’m not usually this antsy when doing a job. In fact, I can usually count on my nerves of steel to keep my heart rate down and my mind levelheaded throughout.
But not today.
Today, I’m not the cold, calculating monster I should be.
Instead, my blood is boiling and I’m pissed at the world that I have to be here instead of where I really want to be—home with my wife.
I wonder if she took my advice to heart and went shopping with Zoey. A tug of a smile curves my lips as I recall how she took the credit card from me like it was going to bite her. I know she isn’t used to people taking care of her, or even showering her with attention, but she’ll get used to it. I vow I’m going to pamper the fuck out of her, and that one day, she’ll wake up and forget she ever lived any other way. I also have to get some more meat on her bones. I love Layla exactly as she is, and I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing, but she isn’t skinny by choice or because of her metabolism. My girl is skin and bones because she’s missed more meals than those poor homeless beggars that used to go into her diner in the hope she’d give them some soup.
The memory of how she would sneak them a bowl or sandwich when no one was looking is one that cuts deep inside me. Layla didn’t bat an eye at stealing when it was to feed someone else, but when it came down to putting food in her own belly, she just couldn’t do it, preferring to go hungry rather than taking something that didn’t belong to her.
That shit is going to change.
My thoughts on Layla are brought to an unexpected halt when the display screen holding the flight information announces the arrival of the Zürich flight. A crack of a smile pulls at the corner of my lips when I realize that just thinking about my new bride made the hours fly by.
Hours that I could have spent with her.
My grin falls instantly off my face at the thought, and all the warm feelings I had disappear. In their place, resentful fury prevails.
I get up from my seat and pretend to aimlessly walk about until I find the man who brought me to this hellhole to begin with. He looks like your ordinary, run-of-the-mill banker, in his expensive suit and the ugliest Italian loafers I’ve ever set eyes on. I keep my distance from him, biding my time until I see my opening.
A little known fact I picked up about people who travel by plane is that not many are willing to use the bathroom forty thousand feet up in the air if they can prevent it. Even if it is a six-hour flight, most will do their best to hold it in like a good little virgin on prom night, while others give up the fight, drop their panties to their ankles, and get fucked. Since the idea of being bare-assed in a tiny cubicle in a flying death trap isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, it’s very common that before passengers reach their gate, they make a quick pit stop at the bathroom to relieve themselves before takeoff. Judging by the way my target is guzzling down his Starbucks venti, I’d say he has about ten minutes before he’s scouring the airport for the nearest can.
Just like clockwork, Mr. Ugly-Ass Loafers gets up from his seat and rushes to the nearest bathroom he can find. Taking this as my cue, I stroll after him, grab the out-of-service door tag from inside my jacket, and hang it on the knob before closing and locking the door behind me.
The sound of him whistling while he takes a piss irks me, yet I play my part and go to one of the urinals, pretending to take a leak. I zip back up and wash my hands just as he flushes the john and walks over to a nearby sink to do the same. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I take a few paper towels to dry my hands before putting on my leather gloves. My heartbeat slows to an even rhythm as I grab my guitar wire from my pocket, waiting for the perfect moment to attack.
When he shuts off the tap and is about to pass me to get some paper towels, I wrap the metal garrote around his neck and pull. His eyes bulge from their sockets, and he tries to gasp for air as I pull him into a nearby stall. I close the toilet seat with my foot and use it for leverage. His loafers skate on the tile as he digs his fingers into his neck to pull the metal collar off him.
“Wife,” he wheezes, spitting saliva every which way. “My wife.”
“I wouldn’t be talking about wives if I were you. I missed the whole day with mine because of your sorry ass,” I growl, adding more pressure to the wire.
“Kids,” he begs, his face turning purple from the lack of oxygen.
“Yeah, I’ve got one of those too, buddy. Sorry. Just isn’t your day.”
“Please,” he wheezes, clawing at the wire.
Jesus H. Christ, I got a fucking talker on my hands.
Having had enough of his pitiful pleas for mercy, I twist the wire, pull it exactly at the precise spot where his spine joins the base of the neck, and break the fucker in one tight go.
Finally, some quiet.
I hold him under his shoulders and place the poor bastard on the toilet, taking a quick pic as proof to send to my employer, declaring another job well done. It’s only as I’m buckling my seatbelt inside my car that his last words give me pause.
Wife. Kids.
A month ago, those words wouldn’t have made a dent in my resolve. Today, however, I’m left here sitting in my car thinking about how his family will soon get the call that Mr. Ugly-Ass Loafers will never be coming home again. I rub at the light pang in my chest, imagining Layla and Zoey getting such a message.
