Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Early Retirement - Week 8 of 52round2

Did you ever have one of those days where everything went straight to Hell, and years later, you laughed about the absurdity of it all?  Yeah.  Me neither.  Today is most likely my worst day ever, and I have serious doubts about the years-later thing coming to pass for this one too.

Yesterday morning had begun as had all the others in recent months.  I slept in until 10-ish, got up and showered and shaved, and went out to Bertha’s Café for brunch, and the best cup of coffee this side of the universe.  I haven’t had a job in almost six months, but I am a stickler for routine.  One never knows when the call to action might come.

I should explain something at this point.  I am what is known as a hitman – a hired gun.  I kill for money.  There’s nothing personal about any of my assignments; in fact, I’ve actually come to like some of my targets as I stalk them before I strike.  But, a job is a job and a commitment is a commitment.  In my profession, your word had better be rock solid or you’ll find yourself on the wrong end of a PSG1’s scope.  For your edification, that’s a top quality German-made rifle.  It’s sleek, accurate, and ammo is easy to acquire, and that’s generally my weapon of choice.  The gap between gigs isn’t an issue for me since financially, I’m in good shape.  I get a million a hit, and I have a profitable investment portfolio.  I live comfortably, but I’m not a big spender.  I plan to retire to some island when I hit 50, or at least, until today, that had been my plan.

I was finishing up my eighth cup of coffee when my cell rang.  It was a friend in the business.  I’m not listed in the Yellows under Man comma Hit, you see, so I depend on colleagues’ word of mouth.  If they’re booked up, they refer.  We all do it, and everybody wins.  He gave me the contact info of a woman who wanted her husband permanently removed from the family photos and money was no object.  As soon as he was six feet under, I would be paid in full.  There would be no delay waiting for an insurance payout; the funds were readily available to her.  Seems there was a fear factor involved though, and being told he had moved on to the nether wasn’t good enough for her.  She wanted a funeral, the cheapest possible, and to watch his coffin covered in dirt before she would feel safe enough to pay whoever erased him out of her life and then join her boy toy in Rio.  Worked for me.

I contacted my new client and got all the intel on her husband that I would need.  It had to be done that night, she insisted, since she found evidence he was planning to trade her in for a newer, and younger, model in the very near future.  Simple enough, this one would be.  No research or around-the-clock surveillance needed.  Their routine was she had supper every Thursday evening with her mother at some retirement joint at the other end of town.  Hubby made his own dinner, watched the early movie, and conked out on the couch by 10.  She’d leave a key and the alarm code under the mat.  Just walk out after, she told me, so it looks like he let his killer in.  Worked for me.

It was an easy-peasy deal.  Since this one would be up close and personal, I decided to use my SIG Sauer P238.  It’s light, easily concealed, and very accurate at close range, and my range this evening would be at its closest.  I parked several blocks away and stuck to the shadows all the way to the front door.  The house was dark and all the outside lights were off.  I unlocked the door and disarmed the security system.  I closed the door behind me without a sound.  I was a shooter for the military in my younger days, so stealth is my middle name.  The missus had provided me with a diagram of the house and her better half was supposedly sound asleep in the den, which was off to my left.  I made my way quickly, but quietly, to the doorway and saw him bundled in a comforter on the couch that was against the wall on the right side of the room.  I took out my .380 and a few steps later, I had it aimed at his head.  Imagine my surprise when I nudged the comforter back and found nothing but a pillow underneath.  Picture my jaw dropping even further when I felt two cold barrels of a shotgun pressed against the back of my neck and a deep voice say “drop it – NOW”.

Fast forward to this morning and here I sit, padlocked in an airtight trailer with the wife of a not-dead-at-all husband.  Apparently, the dizzy dame had gone over the deets of her spouse’s planned demise with me on their house telephone.  If you had guessed that he had set up recording devices on all their lines since he didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her, you would have hit the jackpot.  Before he locked us down tight, I ran the ‘years from now you’ll both probably have a good laugh about all this’ thing by him, but it seems he with without a sense of humor.  If all of that wasn’t bad enough, the lady keeps pacing back and forth while complaining about how this went wrong and blaming me for the situation we now find ourselves in.

The soon to be widower took my cell, but he did let me hang on to my fully loaded .380.  Hope springs eternal in this heart of mine, so I’m going to take as short and shallow breaths as I can.  Who’s to say someone won’t come driving by this field and notice the trailer sitting in the middle of it and get suddenly struck by a pang of curiosity?  Then again, maybe the esteemed man of the house put me in here with his whiny nag of an old lady with the hope that I would take her down for him.  If he comes back to check and I’ve permanently silenced her yapper, you think I perhaps could still come out of all this a winner?  It’s worth a shot – excuse the pun.

Friend, even if I’ve got all this wrong, I’m still going to tag her anyway.  With all her moaning, groaning and gasping, she’s using up half my air.

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