A Hitman's Demise

Every hour, every minute, every second, I get closer to a day I thought would never come. 

My lawyers always said, "Keep the faith." Those money-hungry bastards would say anything to keep the checks coming in.

How can I keep the faith after 15 years locked up with 40 more to go? Can I be blamed for losing what the saints call hope? They keep calling it a miscarriage of justice and then start rambling all sorts of jibberish. They're probably admitting to each other "we're fucked" in Latin.

To be honest, I didn't give a fuck, never did. I'm a soldier. I followed orders. It's for a greater cause, I was told. It was bigger than one person they said. That was my mindset. That was my thought process. It eased my "guilt'' and killed the possibility of remorse.

Once the higher-ups gave me a name, he ceased to be whoever he was. He was no more a father, no more a son. At that moment he was an obstacle, a roadblock, something I had to get out of the way and put six feet under.

The savages called it natural selection and the presumptuous civilized men claimed it was just business.

My mercurial mind settled on either interpretation during different periods in my career but finally settled on the truth. It's self-preservation. Whoever not for us is against us.

So I killed him. Headshot. Goodnight.

Then I threw my gun into the river and thought just another day, business as usual. I mean, self-preservation as usual.

It's crazy how betrayal works.

Sammy, my getaway driver, had been around me for a while now. He was basically my apprentice, my number two, the Robin to my Batman. In my mind, I saw myself as a father figure to him not because he needed a father but because I needed a son. My children could never be brought into this life. I had to keep them hidden and I had to keep them protected. Selfishly, I used Sammy to fill the void they left. I taught him everything and if he listened and let my words sink in deep, then he would be a thousand times greater than I ever was. 

Imagine my shock and disgust when he turned informant and ratted me out. Just like that, he went from someone who I knew would go to war with me, to someone I'm itching to load up and go to war with.

All this hatred would be enough to kill me but Martha, el que es dueño de mi corazón, keeps me alive. She gives me hope. Her visits are my light in an over-encompassing well of darkness. I know she's the reason the kids still look at me with a spark in their eyes. Even after all the birthdays, football games, and graduations I've missed, they still look at me like I've done no wrong. Like I could do no wrong.

I wonder why she does it. One day I decided to ask but the fucking correctional officer ripped me off my seat and put me in cuffs before I could get a response. But it's fine. My Martha will be back. She'll be here next week. She always is.

I never really thought that our story would end this way. I always imagined myself dying first in a nasty bathroom brawl over something probably stupid but elevated by being in a concrete box the whole day. 

I can't wrap my mind around it. "It's terminal, she doesn't have much left, maybe three years tops." Those words keep ringing in my head as these bastards keep talking about miscarriages, evidence, tampering, whatever. Let them do whatever all long as I get to be with my sweet Martha.

Finally, after a year of going to court, 

Evidence tampering Case dismissed! 

The bastards did it they got me out!

It's harder than I thought to see the person you love the most wither away. If I could give my life for hers I would but I’m powerless. I looked into her eyes and she wasn’t the brave daredevil I married all I saw was a dark abyss. A dark abyss masked with the pale skin and trembling bony figure of my wife.

A grim description but a true one. Her energy was long gone. She couldn't do the things she loved anymore so she hated them and didn’t want reminders around. I had a hunch she didn't want me there either. I think she preferred me not seeing her that way. To be honest, maybe she thought I would love her less. 24 years of marriage how could I ever love her less?

She would occasionally be the Martha I knew but moments like that were few and far between, especially as she got worse. I had so much anger built up inside with only one person to let it all out on. Fucking Sammy. He took so much time from me. Time I could have spent with my beloved Martha. Time I could have spent getting to know my children,my beautiful brave boys.

I look at them now and all they see is a hero with his cape off. I feel them anxiously waiting for me to put my cape back on. I wish they knew there was no cape.

I can't save my wife. I can't be who my kids think I am. They love their father but never knew him. I know what must be done. I know who must die.

Only problem is Sammy is long gone in WITSEC probably somewhere in New Mexico or Nebraska.

If I can't kill him, I’ll kill someone close to him.

If I remember correctly his younger brother owns a diner uptown.

I scoped it out and there he was right out back taking out the trash. He looks just like him but just a couple of pounds lighter. I wonder if they know I'm out? 

I could take him out with my bare hands right here right now but that's not what I came to do. 

As I was pulling out of the parking lot we made eye contact. It was brief. He smiled and waved. He probably mistook me for one of his patrons. I nodded back.

I drove back home and reached out to an old connect to get an untraceable gun and a silencer. I looked in the mirror and there I was just like I was 15 years ago, clothed in an all-black leather jacket, black gloves, and a black ski mask with a pistol in my hand. The only difference is the wrinkled face, the Grey hair, and the early arthritis.

This is who I was. This is who I am.

I parked my blacked-out Chevrolet in the parking lot close to where they take out the trash and waited. Through the window, I watched as he walked from table one, to table two, to table 3, back to table one, to the kitchen, and then back out again. It felt like he was everywhere at once. All I wanted, all I needed from him was to step outside. 

He had his kids taking orders and his wife as the Chef. You could tell they were family from how they related to each other and the pride with which they did their jobs. I always loved when families worked together as one unit. There is always something beautiful about it. That is something I could never have and but why couldn't I have it? Was it my fault? No, it never is. It’s Sammy’s. 

Finally, he went out back to take out the trash. I had a clear shot. I rolled down the glass and aimed. It would be a headshot. An instant kill. Then I’d drive away and throw the gun in a river somewhere and burn my clothes. Simple. I did this a million times when I was younger. There was nothing new about it. 

All I had to do was squeeze the trigger. 

But I couldn't do it. I couldn't pull the trigger. Maybe I was scared I’d get caught. I hated being incarcerated and maybe I was terrified I’d be locked up again. I could have killed this guy five times over but here I am stuck transfixed on him but unable to execute. 

A younger me would have killed this guy and killed every family member in the diner and maybe even shoot up a couple of the customers just to prove a point. Just to let Sammy know he messed with the wrong person. I lowered my gun and drove off. Maybe I’ve lost the killer in me.

Slowly but surely I'm coming to that realization alongside some other ones. Maybe Sammy didn't take as much from me as I taught he did? Maybe I’m using Sammy to deflect from my mistakes? Even though I’m in practically the same outfit, I’m not the killer I was. I looked at Sammy’s brother today and all I thought was that could be me and Martha and the kids if I went down the straight and narrow.

I wish I could redo everything all over again.

I walked into my living room and it was a bit too quiet. 

I called out for Junior, my first-born son, and got no response. I called out for Elias, my second-born son, no response. I called out for my beloved, Martha, no fucking response. I took out my gun and made my way up the stairs.

I kicked open the first door on my right, Junior’s bedroom. There's nothing. There is no one. I saw the door to my bedroom a bit ajar. I ignored the other bedrooms and walked towards it. I pushed it open and saw what I could never unsee. 

My wife, my beloved Martha, lying in a pool of her blood. Then I saw Junior, his head busted and blood splattered all over the wall.

Before I could even think about Elias, I felt a gun pressed against the back of my head.

At this point, I wasn't scared to die. I was afraid of living. I was terrified of living without Martha and our children by my side. I could see the reflection of the gunman through the window opposite us. He looked just like I did some minutes ago. 

He walked me up to the foot of my bed where my son lay and I knew he was about to shoot. Because that's what I would've done back in my prime. Before he could pull the trigger I asked why?

His response was, "self-preservation." It was right then I knew.

The ultimate goal of people in my profession is to be able to cross a name off their list only by speaking a word and grabbing a pen. The Greatest killers are the ones that bury you six feet under without even getting their hands dirty.

I was never a great killer but I created one. The backstabbing bastard is probably somewhere in New Mexico or Nebraska smoking a cigar.

My only thought in the milliseconds before the trigger is pulled is for Elias, my last remaining son. I pray he does not seek out revenge, nor harbor bitterness in his heart, but goes down a different path. 

I hope he doesn't become a younger version of me.

Gunshot. 

I stumble and hit the floor on the other side of the bed. I see my son Elias lying next to me. Dead.