SOFT OR HARD

SOFT OR HARD?

The longest stake out I ever did lasted 72 hours but it was partly Donna’s fault. She doesn’t make many errors but she screwed up on the arrival date of my target and had me there a day sooner than necessary. Still, three whole days in one spot, sucks! In fact, this entire way of living sucks. I want out but I’ve been saying that for a while.

I’m able to drift off in my mind while remaining on full alert, something I’ve mastered over the years. Sometimes, I’ll imagine I’m a pro fighter scrapping my way through different opponents to get to the top or, especially at this time of year, I make a long list of New Year resolutions, quitting being first, second and third on my wish list.

Alternatively, I just like to plug in the earphones and listen to stuff; facts especially, like this particular night. I was listening to how this guy, Joey Chestnut (great name) had broken all these eating records. You name it, he’d eaten it, in record time. 76 hotdogs in ten minutes, for example. How was that even possible? I imagined myself in his position and started chomping my way through fictitious frankfurters. I made it to 6. It’s the rolls, that dry bread, clogging the mouth, that make that so difficult. Hey, did Joey Chestnut eat the rolls, too? I’d need to check that one out.

But there was no denying that this guy was an eating phenom. He once ate 141 hard-boiled eggs in eight minutes. Reminded me of that classic Paul Newman movie where he attempts to eat 50 hard- boiled eggs. What the hell was that called?

Movement! Target on the go. Instantly, my mind reverted to full alert. A check of my watch: 11pm, bang on schedule. I was hunkered down, my windows tinted; no way he could see me. Removing my earphones, I slipped on my surgical gloves; black, of course. Just then, the answer to that question flashed through my mind: Cool Hand Luke, the name of the Newman movie. I was annoyed at this mental intrusion but, also, pleased at my sense of recall. The target passed by, slowly, allowing his dog this opportunity to cock its leg; the highlight of its day.

I waited until there was a reasonable distance, then I eased out of the hire vehicle and began to follow, the cold night air, a slap in the face, keeping in the shadows, constantly vigilant. I knew, from surveillance, that he would walk to the park at the end of the road, let the dog off the leash and sit on a bench and watch. After ten minutes or so, he would whistle, the dog would return obediently and their nightly ritual would be over. The ten minutes on that bench was my window.

There are only two types of kill: hard and soft. Hard is when the mark knows you’re coming, has either been tipped off or has managed to escape your first attempt and is on the run. That’s only happened to me once and it’s not fun. Soft is how I like it, taking out a target that has no idea they’re about to die.

I’m normally a placid person but, now, after this kill, I’m angry and my ire is aimed at my victim. He allowed that dog to shit without picking up the result and it wasn’t until I was back in the hire vehicle that I realised I had stepped in the nauseating mess. Dog owners have responsibilities for Christ’s sake!

Jobs come through Donna. I’ve never seen her though, in my head, I picture a middle-aged woman who, for her own sanity, allows herself to believe that she is merely an office based coordinator, nothing more, never allowing herself to dwell on what it is she is coordinating. After completion of each “task” I destroy my cell, purchase a new one and text her the number. She will notify me of any new assignment on that new cell which I will not use for any other reason. The information she sends is brief: a facial photograph (recent), an address and a time when the mark is expected. That’s all I ever need. From there, I do my surveillance... thoroughly.

Donna works for an agency with tentacles worldwide but I have no knowledge of this organisation. Donna is a conduit who, when a job comes in, assesses the actual skills needed to perform the task professionally and contacts the person most suited.

The very lucrative fee is transferred to an offshore bank within twenty four hours of completion. As I have a vast range of skills deemed to be a requisite for this type of profession, Donna, naturally, calls upon me often.

I do not work for anybody else. I do not need to. I used to do freelance work, mainly for the types of (dis)organisations known, collectively, as the mob, which is how I came to the attention of Donna’s employers in the first place. Mob work is hugely overrated. They tend to think they can re-negotiate the agreed fee after completion. Wrong! Also, there is no longer honour among these people and they would snitch on their own mothers to stay out of prison. Avoid at all costs.

I maintain a healthy, balanced diet and follow a strict routine each morning, focusing on cardio and strength training and, every evening, attending a combat class of some description. Semi-regularly, I meet with ex-forces colleagues at a city range and we sharpen our skills with a variety of firearms and, in this way, I keep abreast of any new developments in the armaments world. These acquaintances are not in my line of business and have no idea what it is that I do. They just love guns. God bless ‘em.

I have passports and credit cards in a plethora of names, all connected to bank accounts that each contain several thousand dollars in case of emergency. I do not own a vehicle nor a property. I live in a high end, loft apartment and have a lease for two years, under an alias, rent paid, in cash, in advance, naturally.

I am often required to travel overseas and it is taken as read that all of my incidental travel expenses will be paid in full along with my completion fee. For almost five years, this arrangement has worked perfectly and I have no complaints. I am, to all intents and purposes, a killing machine; a very wealthy killing machine.

However, I am not an automaton. I am a man with normal emotions, a thirst for knowledge and a love of the finer things that money can buy.

But, I’m the first to accept that, somehow, I am wired differently to the average citizen for I can never allow feelings to invade my thoughts and the less I know about a mark, the better. Does that make me emotionally secure... or insecure? I enjoy feminine company but have never felt any desire to prolong a relationship but, maybe, I just hadn’t, up until that point in my life, met the right woman.

And, then, like a bolt out of the blue, I did!

It was her tanned, perfectly shaped calves that captured my attention as she walked slowly around the gallery, lingering over certain pictures, ignoring others. Without being obvious, entranced, I followed and realised that those works she most liked were the exact same ones that had long been my favourites. Intrigued, I followed her out onto the street and seized my opportunity as the beret she was wearing blew off in the wintry breeze.

She flashed her charming, pearly whites and I caught a giddying hint of her expensive scent as I returned the wayward bonnet. Half expecting to be rebuffed, I asked if she’d care to go somewhere warm and talk art and the rest, as they say, is history. We met, usually, for lunch, every day for the following two weeks, during which we discussed everything under the sun, discovering a shared interest in most subjects. Not once did I even attempt to kiss her. Nor did I try to find out about her personal circumstances; there just seemed no need, so content were we in each other’s company. It was as much a meeting of minds as anything else and, every afternoon, when we’d part, I’d feel an emptiness, that I couldn’t quite explain. I found myself thinking of her in her absence, undressing her in my head, taking my time, savouring every moment. Her name was Margot and, I wondered, was Margot the one?

After three weeks, as we lay, naked and entwined after our first intimate coupling, I felt sated as never before. Margot spoke openly about her passion for me but years of repression prevented me from reciprocating. Yet, our daily meetings now took on an added intensity. Often, we would spend the entire afternoon in bed and later, alone once more, my sense of longing was as a dull ache.

In this way, our relationship continued, committed but not inquisitive. Strange as it may seem, never once did she ask me what I did for a living and, never did I ask her where it was she disappeared to once she left my apartment. Everything just meshed.

But, then, I received my first contact from Donna since that regrettable night of the dog shit. The name was unknown to me, the address I recognised but the photo of Margot’s beautiful face made the blood freeze in my veins.

I messaged Donna back: “more info”. This was not an unusual ask, I might add. But it was unusual for me. Never had I required additional data on any mark-and Donna picked up on this immediately. She responded with one word: “why?”

What could I say? That you are asking me to murder the first woman I have ever loved? Once more, I re-sent my message. There was a lengthy pause and I could imagine the consternation taking place in Donna’s mind but I was her numero uno and, eventually, a copy of the file came pinging through on my cell. Of course, though I had never refused a task, I could have passed on this particular one but, I reasoned, if I did pass, it would only mean that somebody else would be sent to eliminate Sarah. That’s right, Sarah, not Margot! Sarah Jorgenson to be precise, the name of the woman in the photograph; wife to Oscar Jorgenson, multi-millionaire philanthropist, Swedish, but owner of homes around the world, including a penthouse apartment in the exclusive Aztec building downtown. Sarah, my information said, would be arriving there in two days time, for a brief, weekend stay; my window of opportunity.

I googled Jorgenson, him, that is. My vanity was assuaged somewhat when I saw images of this corpulent, older man. In some of the photographs, there she was, the dutiful wife, accompanying him to various high profile events. So many unknowns. Why couldn’t she, at the very least, have told me her real name? Had she meant all the things she’d said about her feelings for me? I reasoned that she had never, actually, lied about being married; the subject had never arisen and, maybe, I was at fault for not asking more questions. It made no sense, I belatedly realised, for two people to be so intimate every afternoon then just go their separate ways as we had. Maybe, this was a sign for me to keep my New Year resolution and quit this life; start over, finally; the two of us.

That afternoon, I was grouchy and she sensed something was amiss. She wanted to know what was wrong but how could I explain that I had been asked to murder her; that somebody wanted her dead?

At the back of my mind, was the niggling sensation that, maybe, just maybe, it was I that was being set up. Each time the idea entered my thinking, I dismissed it out of hand but, after almost fifteen years in this profession, there were plenty of people out there, I knew, only too willing to seek vengeance for one of my misdeeds. Was it even possible that she was part of such a plan? I needed answers but, short of confessing what it was I did for a living, I wasn’t sure how best to get them.

Later, as she was leaving, I apologised for my dark mood. Where, I asked, did she go, each evening, after leaving me?

“Back to hell”, she’d answered.

Did she ever envisage a time when she and I might be together?

“We are together”.

I mean permanently.

“There is not a moment during my waking hours when I am not with you”.

You see what I was up against? She had the perfect, enigmatic answer to my probing and I was unable to delve deeper without revealing that dark part of myself .

I could sense her hurt as we kissed goodbye but I had a lot of thinking to do. I messaged Donna for even more information. This was verboten but I was in turmoil. “ client?”

I had to wait a long time for her reply. Finally: “not like u. I think u should pass”. Instantly, feeling as though my face had been slapped, I repeated my question: “client...PLEASE?”

Again, a long pause before: “dangerous for both of us. What’s going on?”

I swallowed my pride: “U know me, Donna. Client?”

I must have appealed to her better judgement. As I felt I knew her, she, too, must have held a favourable concept of who I was. My behaviour was unprofessional and I was placing her in a potentially life threatening situation. Donna should have cut all further communication and gone straight to her employer. Instead: “hubby!”

So, the husband wanted his wife killed. Why? Had he discovered her infidelity...with me? Was I, too, in his sights? If I took care of the husband would that be an end to this? She and I could disappear, go anywhere in the world we wanted. I had more than enough money to last us a lifetime but would we be hunted? I would, for sure. For breaking the rules and disposing of a client instead of the intended target, I could not be allowed to get away with it and I would be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. How, I asked myself, had I, the consummate professional, got myself into this situation?

Ultimately, it all came down to this: ask yourself, schmuck, do you truly, genuinely love her? And are you prepared to spend the rest of your life on the run because of the decision you are about to make?

The answer to both was... yes!

I staked out the Aztec, established my bearings. The building opposite was in the throes of refurbishment. Come Saturday, lunchtime, all workers had departed and I had scoped a way to access from the rear. Elevators out of commission, I trudged the stairs and, after wavering between the 39th and the 40th, set up shop on the lower floor, giving me a perfect sightline into the penthouse apartment opposite.

Jorgenson arrived on schedule, followed, shortly afterwards, by his wife. Where, I wondered, had she been staying before now? I set up my AXSR, for my money, the best long range sniper rifle, bar none. By swapping bolts and barrels, I could convert, when necessary, to the kind of heavy hitting cartridges needed for a soft kill like this. I had used the AXSR at distances of just over two thousand yards but I estimated the distance today to be just fourteen hundred yards. Effortless.

I plugged in my ear phones and tuned in to the Guinness Book of Records. Hey, what do you know? Joey Chestnut was at it again: 255 mini-donuts in eight minutes. Way to go, Joey!

Mesmerised, I watched as Jorgenson wandered from room to room, my rifle sight never leaving his fat head, as he spoke to the maid, talked on the phone, standing, sitting, moving constantly while his wife had retreated to a bedroom and disappeared.

From practice, I could disassemble the rifle, pack it into its innocuous, custom made shoulder bag and gather the spent cartridge in just under forty five seconds. Allow an additional sixty seconds to exit this building. Not a lot of time. The last thing I needed was a maid who might keep a cool head in a crisis, raising the alarm swiftly. I needed her gone; had to be patient.

When the maid finally departed, the winter light was worsening and I had no time to spare. Jorgenson settled himself into an armchair, his back to me but his head perfectly aligned. Suddenly, Sarah made an entrance, dressed in a light bathrobe and sat opposite her husband. Calm, control, no feelings, I told myself. I re-sighted my rifle, once again, directly on Jorgenson’s oversized skull. Then, adjusting my aim, I squeezed, sending the .338 bullet hurtling through time and space and embedding itself in the head of... Sarah Jorgenson.

“Transfer complete. Glad u back to normal. U had me worried.”

Normal? I crushed the new cell underfoot after reading Donna’s message. She’d never be able to contact me again. Using my other phone, I checked the Seychelles account to confirm the payment had arrived. Then, I activated the various transfers that I had set up, long ago, anticipating this day. I was finished with this life; quitting. Professional reputation intact but emotionally damaged and needing to heal, somewhere, a million miles away, alone; my soul crushed by that one shot, a soft kill that had, in the end, been so, so very hard.