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Danya
There are days I wish would’ve never happened, and then there are days I wished I could repeat over and over again indefinitely. Yesterday was the latter, but I don’t get to repeat it. It’s gone too soon, and now it’s time for business.
Bobby, a short man with a wide mouth, steps into my office, sporting a bright red sweater with the logo of some American sports team on it. He looks like he just came back from his son’s football practice.
But Bobby isn’t a dad, and he probably doesn’t know jack shit about sports. He’s a professional assassin, and he’s in charge of making James’ death look like an accident.
“It’s cold as fuck out there,” he says, hugging himself as he sits down in the seat in front of my desk. “You could make shanks out of the icicles.” He laughs to himself.
I adjust the pen on my desk and purse my lips. “We have real winters in Russia.”
“I don’t envy you, but you know who I don’t envy even more? James Lafford.” He laughs again, popping his knuckles.
“Yes, it’s quite a shame about the accident, but I never liked him, anyway,” I reply with a grin. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Yeah, not since the Johnson twins.”
The Johnsons were a couple of wisecrack reporters that rowed their little boat too close to one of my submarines. I believe they were looking for a story on Navy submarines and found mine instead. Thankfully, Bobby was able to intercept them before they could report a Russian submarine in international waters.
He prevented a huge scandal and probably saved my ass from being thrown in Guantanamo Bay.
“So, who is this James guy, anyway? I mean, what’s he like? How do I warm him up?” Bobby asks, propping himself up on the desk with his elbows. “I like to know them before I pop them.”
“He likes cigars and uranium mines, apparently,” I reply, leaning back in my chair. “That, and being an insufferable little weasel. I doubt he’ll be hard to get at. I was able to convince him that I had a mine for him without ever showing him the official deed.”
“Another clueless billionaire,” Bobby says, shaking his head with a wide smile.
I can tell he’s excited about the prospect of killing James. It’s a little grotesque, but Bobby needs to kill people to be happy. He’s the type of person who would be hacking up homeless people on the street for the thrill of it if he hadn’t realized he could be getting paid for the job instead.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, letting him lead the meeting since he’s obviously excited about it.
He gives himself a self-congratulatory smirk before beginning. He’s already thought long and hard about this, probably having obsessed over it since the day I told him I had a job for him. “I’m assuming he has a pool,” he says, rubbing his round chin.
“Not sure.”
“They all have pools. Do you know any billionaires who don’t have pools? How else are they going to be bringing over bimbos to fuck after a little skinny-dipping session? I don’t know a single rich man who isn’t a pervert, no offense.”
I have to laugh because it’s true. “None taken.”
“Well, assuming he has a pool, which he does, of course, then I know what I’m going to do. Those things are dangerous, especially when you’re alone. It’d be easy to hit your head diving and lose consciousness under the water. Plenty of people drown in their pools. It’s a common way to die,” Bobby explains.
“I’m sure he has security cameras outside. You’d have to check those first,” I say, thinking of the plethora of ways this could go wrong, even though I know Bobby has never once been caught. He must’ve killed at least a hundred people, but he’s clean and unassuming, which means he can get away with even the most horrendous murders if he plans them out right.
“Outdoor cameras are usually for show, but I’ll check anyway. I’ll be over there a few times to scope out the place, but because he let you in, I’m assuming he’s not some paranoid twat.”
“He’s not.”
James doesn’t seem to think he has enemies, but anyone with that amount of power has more than he can count. It comes with the territory.
Bobby looks at the cigar box on my desk, and I open it for him, handing him a stubby Cuban with an ornate green band. I take one for myself, and we cloud up the office before returning to our conversation. You can think clearer in a smokey room.
“I will warn you that I recently discovered that James has a few associates who are going to be left out to dry after all this is over,” I finally say, pouring a glass of whiskey for myself. I know Bobby doesn’t drink.
“I can pick off as many as you need,” he replies, sinking deep into his chair as the full effects of the tobacco hit him.
“Not these ones.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Someone important?”
