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The ones where the target had more than earned their death. The ones where they, again, deserved every ounce of pain they got. The jobs I took typically required more than death.
Take this guy, for instance. On the outside, he might look like your typical white-collar worker, someone who owned a nice house and newer car, someone who had his shit together, but he had a past. A year ago he put his girlfriend in the hospital; pushed her down the stairs. She survived, but she couldn’t walk anymore. It just so happened that her family had some connections. They came to the Guild, and they’d saved up to have their villain erased from the world.
That’s where I came in.
A creed was a system of beliefs, something you lived by each and every day. They helped to guide your actions, putting you on the path you should take in life. With my name, it was only fitting that I had a creed of my own. It was simple, too—a common one, one most people had heard of at some point in their lives.
Do unto others as you would have done unto you.
My ears heard my target walking up the steps, muttering to himself about something. I waited until he walked into the bedroom before aiming my gun. The fool didn’t even look at me; he didn’t flick the light on as he loosened his tie in the darkness. He went to his dresser, yanking out a drawer and searching through it.
The man couldn’t find what he was looking for, so he muttered an annoyed, “Goddamn it,” and went to the light switch near the door. When the light flickered on, that’s when he finally realized he wasn’t alone.
I’d drawn the blinds over the window behind me, having done the same to each and every window of the house while I waited for him to come home. Just in case someone happened to be outside and was able to see in.
“What the…” He stopped when he noticed the gun I held onto, eyes widening when he realized it was pointed at him. He lifted both hands in a surrendering gesture. “Whatever you want, just take it.”
The idiot thought I was a thief, a robber, here to rid him of some of his worldly possessions. Did I look like a burglar? Did I look like someone who lived in a run-down shack, who spent all day, every day, planning my next heist? Please.
I didn’t blink as I aimed the gun a little lower, shooting twice. The pistol was damn near silent as the bullets popped off, and they hit their destinations quite nicely. One in the left, one in the right, shattering on impact. I shot him in his knees.
“Fuck!” The man fell forward to the floor, his knees now unable to keep him up. He curled into the fetal position, rolling onto his back as he tried to clutch his knees and staunch the bleeding.
It was too late, though. The kneecaps were as good as gone. If he lived to see another day, he wouldn’t be able to walk without crutches and a hell of a lot of surgery. Knee replacements, definitely.
But he wasn’t going to live to see another day.
I walked over to him, unimpressed by his swear words and his glares. He reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, but I stepped on his wrist and made him let the phone go. Once it was on the floor, I kicked it away from him.
“What the fuck, man?” He sounded like he was drowning in pain. Good. “I told you you could take whatever. What the fuck is wrong with you? What—” He stopped blubbering when he saw my expression read unimpressed. Maybe, finally, he was starting to realize I wasn’t a simple robber, here to take whatever he had stored in this house. “Who are you?” He’d started to grow pale, probably from the pain.
The blood coming from his knees didn’t faze me. I held his stare, slow to kneel down beside him. “I have many names,” I told him in a whisper. “Some call me death, but you… you can call me karma. I’ve come to collect a debt you owe… and I’m afraid there’s interest as well.”
Those eyes of his widened even more. “I don’t owe anyone. I don’t—this has to be some kind of mistake. Please, man, just let me go.” His nose had started to get snotty; I think he was holding back tears.
“It’s not a debt of money you owe. It is a debt of pain. Tell you what: if you can stand on your own, I’ll let you go.” I stood up, giving the man my back as I checked my pistol absentmindedly, nothing in particular on it.
“What? I can’t—”
“Stand for me, and I’ll even call the ambulance myself.” Five feet away from him, I stopped and turned to face him once more, cocking my head at him, waiting.
What must’ve been hope, desperate, foolish hope, filled his eyes, and he rolled himself onto his side, endeavoring to stand. His arms were able to prop up his top half, but his legs would not do much—and by putting his knees on the floor, he caused himself a great deal more pain, which he let out by screaming.
“Do you remember Abigail?”
At the mere mention of his ex-girlfriend’s name, he froze, his head slow to angle up to look at me. His mouth had fallen open, but not a single word escaped him. I’d rendered him speechless, apparently.
“You didn’t care about hurting her, did you? You told the cops it was an accident, that you’d never laid hands on Abigail before the day you pushed her down the stairs and paralyzed her, and they believed you because they so often do—but that was a lie, wasn’t it?”
He tried to push himself up, tried to stand, but the farthest he got was a kneeling position, which he then swiftly lost, his body colliding with the floor once more. Face down, he muttered, “Please. Please, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to.”
“You see, I don’t believe you. And, even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. I’m here to collect a debt from you. You took away her legs, so I took yours.” I paused, moving around him, stopping when I stood near his feet. I lifted my gun once again, this time aiming it higher on his body, just a bit.
He tried to plead with me, but I spoke over him, “But, like I said, I’m taking interest.” My finger pulled the trigger, and another bullet hit him, on his lower back, at the base of his spine.
He cried out, coughing, attempting to move, but he could not. The only things he could move were his arms and his head, but that was it. He was, quite honestly, helpless, and that was exactly the end he deserved for ruining someone else’s life.
I meandered to his bed, taking a seat and watching him all the while, as reality dawned on him, as the realization hit that he was dying. He would die here, bleed out, and I’d leave him. How long would it be until someone found his body? Would his work call it in, or would he simply turn into a no-show, no-call and get fired?
