Story #77 - Mail Out

Mail Out

My head rang and I bashed it against the cement wall of my apartment.

“Baker,” I said, hoping the weariness didn't come through.

“Phone still giving you trouble, Tom?” That was my boss, Larry. Larry wasn't his real name, of course, just like Tom wasn't mine, but in my line of work that kind of everyday deception was necessary. There had been a few girls and guys who'd tried to play it straight, but they ended up messed up dead. This was a dangerous game to play and if you didn't like lying then it wasn't a pot you should consider putting your chips into.

“Nah, it's fine,” I said. Another lie. The thing hurt like a bitch whenever it rang, and God help me if a fax number mistakenly called my own. Think about jamming that screeching noise into your brain-stem while pouring lemon juice into your eyes and sucking down hot sauce and you'll have an idea of a what it felt like.

“Good, good. Listen, I've got something I need you to do.” Larry's voice carried no emotion, which I'd come to learn could mean anything. He'd sent me to kill little old ladies and twisted psychos with the same calm detachment, so I really could predict what I was in for. “No pressure, of course, and the same rates as always.”

I smiled to myself; at least this thing they'd stuck in my head didn't have video. “No pressure” my ass. If I refused to take the job, I'd become the job, and they'd go up a class to take me out. I'm good – make no mistake – but there are better guys than me out there.

“Fine.” There was no point in asking questions; I'd get all of the detail I needed in the next few minutes , another benefit of the “optional” procedure I'd undergone.

“Great. Feel better, Tom.” He almost sounded sincere.

“Thanks.” I almost sounded like I cared.

I headed for my bedroom, making a quick list of things I'd need to buy before I got started. I always kept an extra kit around, but I'd had two jobs in a row in the last week and both of my bags were getting low. My secondary had just about everything I needed, but I'd have to make a stop before I got the job done.

A chime sounded, bouncing around inside my skull like soccer ball in a glass factory, knocking over things that were vital to my continued operation. “Open!” I shouted.

Information began streaming into my brain – names and photos, dates and addresses that I would need to get the job done – and all arranged into a neat package that my psyche could process. E-mail had never been so personal, and I learned to be very careful about who had my address. Spam was more of a concern than ever when it came directly to my frontal lobe.

I spent a few minutes twitching in the doorway to the bedroom as the downloaded finished and then took a few more to compose myself. Northern US, near New York and I only had a day and a half to get the job done, according to the details. Any more and the target would move back into a safe zone and be out of my reach. In turn, I'd be in reach of the secondary who'd be sent along to make sure I didn't screw up.

Checking the details, I let out a small sigh of relief. Thirty-five year old male, single, no kids. I made no bones about what I did, at least in my own mind, and that meant that yeah, I was a pretty terrible person. I'd killed four old ladies in my time, two great fathers and one single mother. I'm not sure what they did to earn the ire of the Facility, but I wasn't in a position to ask. Still, that didn't mean I liked doing it – and I was glad to see this would be one I could just get done without an abundance of emotional scarring.

Another email came in but I ignored it. Electronic silence was mandatory once the details had been received, and I had a lot of work to do.

***

The best time to get him was after dinner. I'd made it up here in a night, just in time to see him come of out of a mid-grade conference facility and take a quick loop around the block. It was five minutes, tops, that he was alone, and there was really only a single great spot for an ambush. I'd set up camp in a large oak and been waiting ever since, idly twirling the only piece of equipment I carried from job to job.

Every guy had a “thing”, a signature way they made their move or cut their guy down and for me it was a short-handled dagger. Silver and simple, I used it on every kill, dropping down behind the target and cutting their hamstring, then following up with a killing blow. Routine was as important in this job as surprise, and this was one I never varied.

I perked up as he moved beneath me and leapt just as he started to clear the shade. My blade slipped across and he fell, arms shooting out to catch his body before he hit the pavement. He flipped over immediately – they all did – giving me a perfect view of his face before throwing up his hands. I knew what I was doing, but confirmation was always nice.

“Say goodnight.” I'd been experimenting with clever lines, but hadn't found one yet that suited my style. From the cringe I felt as I said it, this wasn't it.

“Tom?” The voice of the man on the ground was familiar.

“Larry?” I paused, coming up short in the act of leaping in for the kill.

“What the hell? How did you find me? You don't have access!”

“Fine you? How do you think? Your email! And what kind of sick bastard orders his own killing?”

“I didn't! Shit! Don't you see, Tom? They must have found your address and been listening in. They knew as soon as you spoke to me you'd answer an email and ignore the rest. It's a trick!”

I cursed under my breath. He was probably right – but that meant they'd done the same to my follow-up, and upper-class guys weren't exactly known for their ability to think outside the box.

I lowered the dagger and soon as I saw his hands come down, I jumped forward, slamming the blade home.

Time for a getaway, I thought, as Larry bled out in front of me, maybe the Mediterranean or the South Pacific.

Wiping my blade on the grass, I whipped up an “out of office” email. Let them come, if they could find me. My phone was always on.

- D