The Last Hit

She slid over the slick, worn cobblestones of Kotor’s Old Town, trying to keep her balance, and headed toward the outdoor cafe behind the ancient clock tower. She stopped at a shady empty table in the back on the sidewalk outside the employees’ entrance and dropped her rucksack on it, rummaging in the side pocket for something…her keys or sunglasses. Seated a couple of tables away were four dark-haired bearded young men. None looked up from their table; they were all transfixed, smoking their Serbian hand-rolled cigarettes and staring into their cell phones over the tops of their Aviator sunglass frames. They were on break, dressed as waiters in their crisp white shirts with light perspiration stains under the arms and wearing skinny black ties. 

Thirty years ago, they would have all looked up and noticed her, and how! She was always very pretty: blonde, blue-eyed, and petite. Men snapped to attention immediately when she walked by, calling out to her or whistling. At 61, not only did she not attract much male attention anymore, at times she felt utterly invisible. She barely registered with them, just another senior citizen tourist, fumbling through her bag. Which, she had to admit, did make her job so much easier. 

She pulled the Glock 19 pistol with a suppressor out of her rucksack and popped two of the young men in their foreheads in quick succession. Their heads jerked back, then hit the cafe table almost simultaneously. Blood spread quickly over the crisp white tablecloth. Head wounds always bled out fast. Screams and shouts echoed through the main square but she was already gone. Years of experience had taught her not only the importance of quick action and precise aim but also of a fast exit. Don’t hang around, get out of Dodge. She didn’t need to check their pulse; she’d been doing this job for 40 years and knew a successful hit when she saw one. Just another day at the office.

It always amazed her that her targets had the nerve to look surprised after they were hit, especially the under-30s. I mean, what did they expect? You attempt to extort funds from a lieutenant of the Capo of one of the most powerful drug cartels in the world, you pay the price. Young people today, so entitled and myopic. 

When she arrived at the safe house, Karl was already there. “So! How did the job go?” he asked. 

“Like shooting fish in a barrel. They didn’t even notice when I was within point-blank shooting range. Quick and painless. Well, not for them.” She pulled her wig, glasses, and hat off and put them into the disposal bag. He started a slow smirk at her arrogance but thought better of it. 

She walked over to the french window and stared pensively out at the 12th-century Montenegran fortress above the house, its ancient grey stones snaking up the side of the mountain, almost but not completely blending into the rugged landscape. She always marveled at ancient ingenuity. Imagine lugging those stones up the mountain without machinery and building the towering fortress walls in such a way as to make them almost completely invisible when viewed from sea level. Impenetrable strength, hiding in plain sight.     

 “I slipped a bit on the cobblestones but made it to the city gate alright.” Damn those old, uneven stones. Over the centuries, a million feet marching across them had polished them, making them as slick as glass. “Other than that, all went as planned.”  

He looked at her quizzically. Something was off. She usually arrived breathless, flushed, buzzing with the high of an accomplished hit. Lately, she had seemed apathetic and tired. Even a little bored. 

“Want some coffee? I just got a new machine. Amazing Italian brand…cost 5000 bucks.” 

“Jesus! You could have had three years of daily macchiatos for that price! What time is it anyway?” she asked. 

“10 am-ish.”

“Any more assignments today?”

He checked his phone. “None.”

“I’ll have a Maker’s Mark, one ice cube.”

She plopped down heavily on the lumpy antique sofa while he reached for the bottle. “Isn’t it a bit early for happy hour? Everything okay?” he asked. She sighed and stared straight ahead for a long time. “Yeah, probably just jetlag. I’ll be fine for tomorrow’s hit.” 

Karl’s hand froze in mid-pour. He’d been her handler for 10 years, after her last handler had been reported missing, presumed dead, his body never  recovered. He knew her well and respected her, knew how finely honed her skills were, how meticulous she was, and how highly regarded she was at the agency. But lately, she’d been making little mistakes. Leaving evidence behind, missing deadlines, forgetting details. And it had been noticed. 

The average lifespan of an assassin was 35 years. There were no metaphors in this field. If you committed career suicide, it was literal. No one was fired with severance pay nor applied for unemployment benefits. And no one retired. Every assassin is a liability to whichever organization he or she works for. If one were lucky enough to survive past 35, any number of things could still happen for the agent to be perceived as a threat to security. Carelessness, skills deterioration, dementia, emotional breakdown, PTSD, or substance abuse could result in permanent removal from the payroll. No agency could afford to take a chance on an unreliable agent. 

He recommenced pouring her drink. “So…what are your plans?” he said, trying to sound conversational. “Are you thinking of retiring? Buying a property?” 

She laughed out loud. 

 “Oh yeah, sure! Maybe a little place in the south of France? Probably better to rent since I’d be hunted night and day.”

He knew that she was being sarcastic, but he also knew that retiring was not out of the realm of possibility for her. She had resources. Over the years, she had secreted her compensation in secured accounts in private banks all over the world, as well as amassing large amounts of cash in US dollars, Swiss Francs, Euros, and Chinese Yuan and stashing them in various storage facilities and warehouses. She could disguise herself easily, even changing her walk, mannerisms, and tone of voice. She was also fluent in six languages and she held certificates in computer science, finance, and translation. She could find legitimate work anywhere. Small wonder that the agency considered her a Level One threat. 

The agency had, of course, done some digging of its own. Its trackers discovered that she had been covertly visiting properties and real estate agents in Spain and Portugal and withdrawing large amounts from her various accounts. It was apparent to all that she was contemplating the impossible and formulating a plan to retire. The agency had made its decision about her future for her and had ordered Karl to “neutralize” her.    

He handed her the bourbon and took a step back. Despite his best efforts to remain aloof, he had developed a real fondness for her. Maybe he could talk some sense into her. It was worth one last try. 

“I wouldn’t joke about retiring. You never know who’s listening.”, he said to her. “Look, we’ve known each other for a long time. I’m just going to be frank.” 

“That’s your best quality.” She smiled wryly at him as she sipped her drink. 

“I think your dismissal of the idea is a smoke screen. I think that you’re seriously considering retiring.” She rolled her eyes. 

“Just hear me out. You know as well as anyone that the agency will never allow that. They can’t have someone out in the world with the amount of insider knowledge that you have. It’s hugely dangerous. We’re all expendable. You knew that coming in.” She sighed and took another long sip. She and he had been friends and confidantes for a long time and had literally been each other’s lifesaver several times.   

“Ok, ok. Yeah, I may have been mulling this over for some time. I knew in my heart that I was done, but I couldn't work out whether it was a good idea to retire. I kept trying to convince myself to stay on, but, let’s be honest, sooner rather than later, my hand will be forced. I am in my 60s now after all. That’s an extraordinarily long career for an assassin. I have to act soon or the agency will. I know how to disappear.”

He tried not to cringe. So it was true. Although he was 30 years her junior, he could see her point. He would be facing the same decision at some point in the distant future, but for now, he was still on the career fast track, in line for a senior management field office position. He couldn’t afford to slip up or disobey a direct order. He certainly couldn’t be seen as someone who aided her escape.  

“Please think this through. Please reconsider.” 

“Karl, my hand has been forced. I’m not growing younger. I’ve made my decision.” She placed her empty glass on the side table. 

“When will you leave?” he asked her. 

“I’m not sure yet. I still have a few loose ends to tie up. I’ll give you plenty of warning, I promise. Look, we can talk about this later? I need to prepare for tomorrow.” Karl looked at the carpet. Little did she know that she had just completed her last assignment. There would be no tomorrow. 

She went into the bedroom to change into her robe, bringing out her clothes and shoes from today’s assignment. Just a few splatters of blood, but her clothes were never more than single-use. She added them to the disposal bag and returned to the bedroom to prepare her disguise for the hit on the Saudi Arabian’s daughter. 

This one would be easy, a simple poisoning. She wouldn’t even be around when the girl succumbed. All she had to do was show up for her new job as a hotel housekeeper and add the poison to the daughter’s water bottle. This was a side hustle, not paid for by the agency. Just a little extra cash and a way to slip out of town undetected. 

Karl had not suspected anything unusual. She had sent the assignment in the agency’s name from an anonymous, untraceable IP address, a common practice, so he thought nothing about it. What he didn’t know was the assignment was in an hour, not tomorrow. 

She knew she had to move fast in preparing her disguise. Karl had no doubt received his kill orders and was ready to move quickly. He was desperate for a field office promotion. This would show his bosses that he was action-oriented and a team player.  

Despite his ambition, he was always nervous when executing his own hits but he had probably gained confidence after she’d had that drink. He was not a drinker, so it had escaped his attention that she’d replaced the alcohol with water and bourbon essence. 

In the other room, Karl picked up the disposal bag but left it open. He would need to add his own clothes to it before packing it up. He could hear her in the other room, no doubt reading the assignment prep notes and preparing her disguise. He breathed deeply and pulled out his knife. Best to surprise her in the bathroom from behind and cut deeply through her femoral artery, it would be a much easier job for the cleaner when he arrived. Easy, just like shooting fish in a barrel. He smiled to himself. 

He stopped, breathed shallowly, and listened. It sounded like she had gone into the bathroom and closed the door. He walked as silently as he could into the bedroom and stood before the closed bathroom door. He could feel his heart rate increase and sensed the sweat starting to form on his palms. Time to move. He turned the door handle slowly with his left hand, the knife firmly in his right hand in cutting position. He opened the door and stepped back in surprise. Was she wearing a hooded plastic hazmat suit? He hesitated just long enough for her to lunge toward him, her own knife in hand, cutting his throat in one smooth motion. 

Shocked, he grasped at his wound, trying in vain to stop the spurting blood. He fell to his knees, still uncomprehending what had just happened. She stepped over his body into the bedroom and removed the protective suit covering her maid’s outfit, dropping it in a pile on the floor. She picked up her duffel bag and started toward the door.

She turned and took a last look back at him, wheezing on the floor. It always amazed her that her targets looked surprised. Young people today, so entitled and myopic.