Pinot and Paints

BRUNO squirmed in the driver’s seat of his bulletproof BMW as he squeezed the wrinkled tubes in his basket of supplies, warming the paints before class, as he did every Tuesday night. He was known as an artist with violence, a savant with assassinations, but he considered himself an absolute oaf with oils. However, Pinot and Paints didn’t promise to train world-class killers. Instead, Mona promised her students a “colorful and boozy respite from the spiritual assault of the day-to-day—whether you’re in HR or the mob.” 

Bruno’s pager went off.

He glowered at the little black brick. Tonight was his night, his respite. He tossed the buzzing device into his open glove compartment and took the ring box he’d kept there for the past month, next to his Biretta and silencer. Clients be damned, tonight he’d pull the last trigger he ever wanted to pull in his life. 

Bruno pocketed the ring box, closed the glove compartment, and made towards the studio across the street. He stepped onto the curb and stood before the brightly lit store-front and an unusually long line of people. He caught a blur of motion out of the corner of his right eye.

Shifting his weight to the ball of his left foot, he pivoted—like a bullfighter dodging an early retirement.

A man wearing a worn tie-dye poncho and a castaway beard nearly ran into him. Instead, his Birkenstock caught the lip of the curb and he went sprawling, paints and brushes scattering on the pavement. Passersby gasped or giggled, though no one moved to help.

“Not cool,” the poncho groaned. “Et tu, sidewalk?”

Bruno reached down and offered a hand. “You alright?”

The poncho took his hand and hoisted himself up, seemingly unharmed but definitely reeking of reefer. “Thanks, brother!

Yeah, we’re good. That’s what I get for rushing.”

Bruno flashed a glance down at his Rolex. “We’ve still got ten minutes, plenty of time to find a seat. Is this your first class?”

“Negative-o. I usually attend Wednesday nights, but I wasn’t gonna miss Mona’s last class. No way. I mean, can you believe it? Tucson!”

Bruno cocked his head. “Tucson?”

“That’s where she’s heading,” Paco said, squatting to collect his supplies. “At least, that’s what she said in her post. Something about ‘following the threads of fate out west.’ I say good for her! Time’s too short to live someone else’s life.”

Fate…

“Yes. Good for her,” Bruno said, no longer hearing Paco.

An hour later, Bruno got into his car, slammed his door shut, and slumped in his seat. She hadn’t even looked at him, not once. An hour of brutal indifference. It was the most agonizing sixty minutes of his life. Worse than when he hung from his ankles across a very inquisitive Spetsnaz officer wielding a car battery. At least Nikola was forthright with his intent. Bruno had no idea what was going through Mona’s mind. Picking up and moving to Tucson without telling him? What about their plans? Why wouldn’t she talk to him? Not that it matters, he thought. What was I thinking? As if I could ever have something decent, something—

His dashboard buzzed. Compassion drained from his face. He took the vibrating pager from the glove compartment. Sixteen missed messages, all by the same number.

"Interesting," he said. An Open Season? "Someone must have pissed off the wrong Saudi Prince."

Bruno pulled an untraceable phone from inside the storage compartment under his armrest and dialed the number.

After three rings, a gruff voice answered. “Passphrase?”

“The Ninth Gauntlet Falls,” Bruno replied.

“Accepted. What took you so long, Hand? It’s been crazy here. Did you hear the news—”

“No. It’s my night off,” The Hand of Fate interrupted. “Who’s the mark?”

“Looks like a civi, but I doubt it considering its Open Season. Mona Luciano—art teacher. Need the address?”

Bruno hung up. He pulled the ring box from his pocket, squeezed it tight, and gently returned it to the glove compartment; then he removed his Beretta.

“No,” he muttered to himself as he screwed on the silencer. “What I need is to talk to my girlfriend.”

###

SHARON shifted her weight from foot to foot in Joan’s aggressively pastel office, wrapping her H.R. company-branded snuggie tighter around herself. She suppressed the shivers onset by the arctic winds blasting through the vents—though her teeth chattered unless she clenched her jaw.

“I know this is super last minute,” Sharon said. “But, please reconsider.”

“We’ve been over this,” Joan said, wrapping her own snuggie tighter. “We don’t have the personnel to spare, not since old man Venatori choked on an orange slice.” She groaned. “I really don’t need this. A succession war at the top of the quarter? Shoot me now.”

“I could always trade—”

“Besides,” Joan interrupted. “This is just an off-boarding case. File the paperwork, take the statements, tie up loose ends. That’s it. You know protocol inside out, Sharon. I know you can handle this.”

Sharon suppressed a groan. “Yes, thank you, Joan. But—it’s that last part that concerns me. I don’t have the experience to tie up The Hand’s loose ends. His last target was a cartel, Joan. An entire cartel. I barely passed my firearm practical. What about Trish? She’s worked VIP before. What if we tra—”

“Trish is tracking down The Hippie,” Joan said. “And, as I recall, The Hand didn’t use a gun to bring down the Martel Cartel. He used a phone.”

“A phone linked to a private defense satellite capable of firing a plasma beam as wide as a freaking Volvo.” She covered her mouth with both hands. “Sorry—”

“The point is, you don't need firepower to off-set collateral damage,” Joan said with a smirk, her smile lines scrunching. "You need bureaucracy."

Sharon deflated. “I... suppose.”

“The whole point of our company," Joan said, "is to avoid bloodshed. That’s why you can’t just whack a Don anymore, not without the proper paperwork at least. Gone are the days of the so-called ‘old fashio—” An alert went off on Joan’s laptop. “Oh shoot. Is there anything else you wanted to talk about? We’ve got a minute left.”

“No… that’s all.”

“Good,” she said, shuffling papers on her standing desk. “Oh, and Sharon. Don’t just think of these as one-on-ones. You can talk to me about anything. We’re like a family here.”

“Of course.” She flashed a fake smile. “Thank you.”

Sharon trudged from Joan’s corner palace toward her tiny office, remembering how much she hated her actual family. She passed the receptionist, a cheery twenty-two-year-old that spent most of her time greeting visitors while scrolling through SnipSnap. Behind her, a gaudy logo, composed of giant letters and gears, adorned the exposed brick wall. 

Hitter Relations served as a non-governmental organization for assassins, hitmen, dusters, and mercenaries to safely and efficiently enter and leave the life of a hired gun. Despite her lack of combat experience, Sharon completed her assassination training and—with the proper gear—could perform the required field duties of an H.R. agent. 

But not for the freaking Hand of Fate! He was a legend, a myth, and—once she reached her wide-open door, she realized—he was sitting in her office.

Sharon gasped. “Oh, my goodness! Hi, hi, hello.” 

She stuffed her snuggie in a bin, pulled his file from a small cabinet, and placed it beside a framed photo on her desk. Settled, she shot the brooding assassin a well-practiced smile. 

He wore a plain black suit, shirt unbuttoned at the top, and salt crept up his pepper temples. 

What a dark hunk of meat, she thought. 

“Good afternoon,” he said in a rich tenor.

“Meat—I mean, it’s nice to meet you! My name is Sharon,” she said. “I hope you didn’t wait long. Did you need water, coffee, boba tea?”

“No, thank you, Sharon,” he glanced down at his gold watch. “I didn’t wait long. I was a bit early, actually. Reception said it was okay to wait in your office, though I’m not sure if she was talking to me or the person behind me.”

“Sounds like our Kira!” she said, faking another smile. 

Okay, if Joan won’t listen to me, she thought, then she’ll listen to the freaking Hand of Fate. Sharon took a deep breath. “Mr. Hand—”

“Please, Bruno.”

“Yes, well… Bruno, I reviewed your case and I’ll be frank with you.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Frank.”

Sharon’s mouth fell open. “You’re joking.”

“Yes.”

Any tension she felt broke like a warm glacier. “The freaking Hand of Fate making dad jokes—incredible!” She wiped a genuine tear from her eye, then quickly collected herself. “Bruno, I believe your case requires a collaborative effort between our most senior agents. An Open Season contract is very serious, and unless the originator retracts the bounty, professionals have every right to come for her.”

He sighed. “It seems even your most senior staff agree. In fact, I can confirm they share your exact sentiments.”

“Confirm?”

“Yes. They all declined my case, as well.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize—”

“Joan promised she would do her best to put someone capable on my case, as a personal favor. But capacity doesn’t seem to be the blocker here.”

He stood and stuck out his hand. His expression sagged, the air of mystery sunk into resignation, and at that moment he seemed incredibly… human. “Thank you for your time, Sharon. Whether H.R. can help me, they are still coming for her. It seems I must do this the old-fashioned way.” 

She glanced at the photo on her desk of her, Gerry, and their orange tabby—all wearing matching sweaters against a laser background. Tubbins was clawing at her husband, but they kept the photo. Old-fashioned way… She imagined Gerry having to pile up bodies to ensure they could live in peace. Would she let him go through with it—or, if given the choice, would she take that burden upon herself?

Avoid bloodshed…

“Wait,” Sharon said. “Please. Sit. At least, tell me about her.”

Bruno smiled and sat back down. “She loves the second Terminator.”

###

Later that evening, Sharon screwed on the silencer to her Biretta outside the Venatori family estate. Moonlight drew long shadows over the massive garden. Sharon slipped past security and entered a towering hedge maze, hunting for assassins, hitters, dusters, and mercenaries. Though, from their perspective, all they’d see is The Hand of Fate.

Johnny Gun-Sword leaped out from the shadows first and flinched upon realizing who he ambushed. Sharon thrust the heel of her palm right into his nose, snapping his head back with a sickening crunch. She never did like him.

Sharon activated her personal camouflage and pressed her back against the hedge as The Viper Twins slithered past her. Using her FORCE-suit enhanced strength, she chopped both of them in the back of the neck, in quick succession, knocking them both unconscious.

Karack! 

A wooden baseball bat shattered against the back of Sharon’s head. She rolled forward with the impact and sprang to her feet, facing her ambusher. Her kinetic diffusion field absorbed most of the shock, though she still saw faint fireworks in the corner of her eyes.

“Oh, thought you were hot shit, huh, kiddo?” Boondock Bonnie said, in her Boston brogue. She pulled another bat from a quiver strapped to her back and wound up another swing.

Sharon reached into her pockets and slipped on her Impulse-Knucklers. 

Boondock Bonnie leaped in the air, moonlight beaming behind her, a Louisville Slugger over her head. 

Sharon sidestepped Bonnie’s savage overhead swing, then tore forward and landed a savage body shot, with both fists, launching the mad batter through several hedges. 

Sharon discarded her still-smoking Knucklers, now spent, and huffed her way through the rest of the hedge maze.

Moments later, she crept around a corner and arrived at the center. She pulled back into the shadows of a hedge for cover, her camouflage generator expended. Mona sat on a stone bench smoking a joint, two turtlenecked goons posted to either side of her with Uzis.

Sharon checked her service pistol, shock rounds loaded and ready. She made the sign of the cross with her left hand and padded out into the moonlit clearing.

“Hey!” a goon shouted. “Stop right—”

Sharon put a shock round into each of their foreheads. The energy projectiles exploded into a brilliant blue light, dropping them to groaning heaps.

“Come with me if you want to live,” Sharon said to Mona, just like Bruno coached her, the voice modulator projecting her voice as his.

“Bruno? What have you—” Mona asked, eyes wide. She jumped to her feet, her flowing floral skirt ruffling in the evening breeze, and cocked her head. “No, you’re not Bruno. Who are you? Are you here to kill me too?”

Darn, Sharon thought. These second-skin masks were supposed to be perfect. “Trust me. Come on, let's get out of here.” She reached out to take her hand.

Mona pulled back and took a deep breath. “INTRUDER!”

Sharon’s heart dropped through her stomach. “Are you insane?”

Click.

“Hey brother,” a sleepy voice said from behind.

Sharon rolled her eyes, raised her hands, and turned slowly.

A man wearing a tattered tie-dye poncho and an overgrown beard held a double-barreled shotgun, leveled right at her chest. He puffed on a joint held by the corner of his mouth.

Sharon’s jaw tightened. “The Hippie…”

“Sneaking up on someone while they share some quality time with mother cannabis? Not cool, Hand. Not cool.”

“Where’s Trish?” Sharon asked.

“Who?”

“H.R. We sent an agent to bring you in.”

“We? Wait, you’re one of them. HA! He’s really doing it! The Hand of Fate is really retiring—”

“Paco, what’s happening? Who is that?” Mona demanded. 

“Just dealing with a little bureaucracy, madame,” The Hippie said.

“No killing, Paco. I mean it!” Mona shouted.

The Hippie sighed. “Can you believe it? Limited to less-than-lethal. Actually, I guess you could. Your colleague is alive, suit. Bound in a cell at the estate. Look, I dig Joan, haven’t seen a duster like her in decades. But, I can’t let you retire this one. She’s my new ward, ya dig?”

Ward? Dread crept up Sharon’s spine as everything fell into place. “She’s the heir to the Venatori crime family…”

“Unconfirmed,” Mona said, stepping to stand behind The Hippie. “I found out when a courier delivered a letter from a grandfather I didn’t know I had until yesterday morning. Paco was to find me if something happened to my grandfather. I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but please—just leave me alone.”

“I can’t,” Sharon said. She removed her mask and the modulator collar around her neck. The holo-suit faded, revealing her actual figure, as opposed to a projection of Bruno’s body in a suit. “The Ha—Bruno has nothing to do with any of this. This is wholly your problem. His is that he’s a world-class assassin who’s prepared to walk away from that life, for good, because he loves you. He came to us because he wanted to follow through with that desire. I didn’t come here to kill you, Mona. I came to rescue you.”

“Can you?” Mona asked, tone flat. “Can you truly say you can stop them, all of them? Open Season, as you people call it. Can anyone stop it?”

“I dropped a handful of them on my way here,” Sharon said, smiling. “But no… I can’t. It shocked me when even Bruno admitted he couldn’t stop them, considering he’s contracted to take out small armies.“

“So am I,” The Hippie said.

“Good for you,” Sharon snapped.

“I can’t leave here,” Mona said. “This is not my family. But, if I leave, people will die. If I stay here, then at least only I’ll die. At least—” Tears ran down her face. “Why did this have to happen to me?”

“We only thin out threads by trying to change our fate, madame,” The Hippie said. “Sometimes, we just have to follow our own path. Stay or leave, my path is with you.”

Sharon’s eyes went wide. “You’re right.” She lowered her hands. 

“Nuh-uh, keep em up, suit,” The Hippie said.

“Oh quit it,” Sharon said. “I’m H.R. My gun can’t kill anyone. I was right, you know. I told Joan, I said I didn’t have the field experience for this. But she was right, too.”

“You speak the truth, suit,” The Hippie said.

“I don’t understand,” Mona said.

“I can’t stop them from coming for you, Mona Luciano, civilian. But I can stop them from coming for Mona Luciano, Dona of the Venatori Crime Family.”

Mona pulled the letter from her pocket. “But I can’t become a Dona, the letter says—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sharon said. “When it comes to paperwork, no one can stop me.”

###

BRUNO squirmed in his tuxedo as he squeezed the rings in his hand. He was known as an artist with oils, a savant with pastels, but he considered himself an absolute oaf with wedding vows. However, the Dona of the Venatori Crime Family only required one vow: loyalty. The violins sang and guests rose for the bride, those select few invited to the Venatori estate.

“You ready, brother,” The Hippie said, standing beside Bruno.

“No,” Bruno replied.

“Brave new world ahead of you. Mob-husband. Are you ready to not be in the mix? Life from the sidelines, outside closed doors, living like a civilian? ”

"Only one way to find out," Bruno said. "Time to pull the trigger."