AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I hear her sigh of relief. “Oh, good. This is a big problem, and as I mentioned, I need it taken care of right away. Are you up for the job?”
She’s good. Not good enough, but she knows how to follow the rules and talk in code so she won’t get caught easily. You never know who could be listening.
“Possibly. I’ll need to come see the plumbing in person first, so I can gauge the extent of the problem and what I’ll need to do to fix it.”
“Sure thing. When is your earliest availability?”
I check my calendar and tell her tomorrow morning. She gives me her location, and I hang up with the promise to be by first thing. Of course, she won’t see me, but I’ll be there. Like any good criminal, I prefer to case the joint first, make sure it’s not a setup before I dive in. And, also like any good criminal, I like to develop a plan of action. That’s just good business. It keeps things flowing smoothly, and so far, it’s kept me out of prison.
It’s important to be cautious. The first time you step out of line, deviate from the plan, is when you get caught, and I have no intention of getting caught.
Logging off my account, I head down to the in-house gym afforded by my HOA fees, and I hit the treadmill and turn it all the way up. Working out the body is as important as working out the mind. I want to be fit and healthy for a number of reasons, only one of which includes running after a mark if the need arises. It’s happened before, and the subsequent hour of chugging air was what made me kick my pack-a-day habit. But habits are habit for a reason, and I still succumb to vices like most people who are trying to quiet the voices that creep up on them in the middle of the night.
Chocolate. No, it’s not just for PMSing women. It’s a known stimulator of endorphins in the brain, giving that feel-good rush that I need after a hard day. The treadmill counteracts the effects of that habit, as well as acting as a mood stabilizer.
Like I said, there are many reasons I do this, and none of them are for the right one.
I’m well aware that this job is slowly killing me. Whether it’ll be my mind or my body in the end, I can’t predict. That’s why I’m going to get out. After a close call with a police investigator a few years ago, I told myself I’d only do one more. But like an addict, I’ve fulfilled several contracts since. I can’t seem to stay away. But I promised myself this next job will be my last.
I came across a picture in a magazine last week of a coastal village in Guatemala that looks like a slice of heaven, and I’ve decided that’s where I’ll go when I retire. It’s a good motivator to finally follow through on my promise.
Checking that I’ve reached my target heart rate, I slow to a walk and finally stop the machine. I don’t have the luxury of time today. With a job waiting, my mind is racing over a list of all the things I need to do before I can even consider making this thing happen.
“Hey, Dec, done already?”
“Busy day,” I respond briskly as I breeze past John. He’s a nice guy, but he’s white-collar, and he talks too much. I’m not antisocial, per se, but people aren’t really my thing. In my chosen profession, I have to be careful. Say too much, you get caught. I’ve learned to keep my circle small. Some may consider me a dick because I’m always short and to the point, but that’s their problem, not mine. I choose who enters my circle, and right now, that’s no one.
I like my privacy.
A shower is calling my name. Unfortunately, there’s no time to go home, so I hit the public one and keep my eyes down. There are just some things a person doesn’t need to subject themselves to.
As soon as I’m out of the gym, I jump into my XC90 and hit the highway. Yeah, I know I should be driving a beater around to keep a low profile, but with people’s materialistic attitudes being out of control today, I can be both eco-conscious and enjoy a touch of luxury and style while still being inconspicuous. It’s all about balance.
Spotting my exit, I hit the off-ramp and cruise down the main streets until it breaks into residential. A few turns and streetlights later, I arrive at my destination.
My client lives in a nice neighborhood, and by nice, I mean it’s clean, tidy. A place you could raise a family. Nothing fancy. Which is good, because when a spouse suddenly up and kicks the bucket, you don’t want a huge insurance policy waiting in the wings—tends to make people ask questions. The old Toyota and Kia in the driveway tell me these two probably don’t have the money for anything extravagant. Good. Makes my job easier.
I settle in and wait, keeping an eye on the property and any comings and goings. It’s quiet so far. An hour in, and I start regretting not stopping for coffee. I’ve been on jobs like this before, and they get boring fast.
Across the street from my client, an old man opens his front door to check the mailbox. His eyes stray to my vehicle. They don’t linger for long, but it’s a reminder that I can’t sit here forever. A strange man taking up space—even if it’s a public space—tends to warrant notice in a game that requires remaining entirely in the shadows.
Thankfully, my windows are tinted to the maximum legal limit, but that doesn’t mean he can’t identify my car later should the need arise. I start the engine and pull away from the curb, coasting down the street at a natural pace to avoid any more suspicion. I’d hate to have to put an old man down before his time. He didn’t live this long just to be offed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
See? I’m a nice guy.
An hour of driving around the neighborhood allows me the perfect opportunity to case the area and create a plan, in case I decide to take on this job. My mind isn’t made up yet. At least, that’s what I tell myself. In reality, I’ve decided to make the hit, but I can’t get sloppy. The itch that needs to be scratched requires careful planning.
I’ve never been good in refined spaces, let alone taken orders well. That’s why I decided not to make the service into a lifelong career. It’s another reason I declined the offer of joining the mafia when the family asked. Authority and I don’t mix. But I still got my honorable discharge, and I maintain close ties to the family, so I know how to color in the lines. I just don’t like it.
I grab dinner at a drive-thru and pay cash for the greasy burger and fries that will tide me over until I can make it home for real food. That’s the worst part of recon: the food. You are what you eat, and I am not a formerly frozen quarter-pound patty and fried taters. Grilled salmon and asparagus with a nice honey glaze is much more suitable to my palate. But I’m not a snob. Just someone who likes to feed his mind and body well.
It’s after dark when I decide to head back. The neighborhood is full of shadows—my preference. I park a couple of houses down, tucking the SUV between a truck and an old station wagon—I didn’t realize any of those had survived past the nineties—and lean the seat back.
Lights are on inside the two-story four-square. They’re probably eating dinner. I wonder what she made. Is the husband enjoying it? Does he appreciate her effort? Probably not. Usually, when a wife wants her husband dead, it’s either because they have a shit-ton of money she wants to get her greedy little hands on, or he’s a piece of shit who treats her like chewing gum on the bottom of his shoe. I already know which one I’m voting for.
It’s barely 9:00 PM when the Toyota backs out of the driveway. I hadn’t seen anyone leave, which clues me in to there being another frequently used entrance that I’ll need to make note of for later.
The car turns my way, and its head lamps beam me right in the eyes, putting dark spots in my vision. But I can still make out that the driver is male when he passes me. No passenger, which means the wife is still in the house.
