And so I wait, patiently as always.
Time to pass? To an extent, yes, but not tonight.
Tonight I wait for a pay cheque. In the same way the money has always come in, flat on my belly staring down the scope of a high powered rifle, waiting for the right head to appear in the centre of the cross hairs. Whose head it is has long become unimportant just another face with an Incubus résumé sent to me by some wanton employer.
I myself am no angel, but neither am I one of the Fallen. This form of employment that I have found my main source of income is wrong and I have no illusions about it. I might tell myself that what I am doing is for the greater good, but it is no less evil than the men and sometimes women that I execute.
This evening’s employer is new to my services something that I do not do regularly. But as my asking price was doubled upon first contact, exceptions can be made.
Surrounded by bodyguards twenty four seven and bullet proof glass at home, in all his vehicles and places of work, this client has proven to be a tough man to eliminate.
For three months I have followed him trying to find a weakness in his daily routine, but to no avail. His home has, in fact, become the most viable spot for completion of the contract. Yet this will also be difficult. Impenetrable from the front due to ten feet high security fences with razor wire as the peak of these walls. Closed-circuit television monitoring every pre-sighted area of the courtyard and surrounding gardens, except for one very small section at the back North East corner. But this is theoretically covered by a two hundred foot drop straight down into the Ocean and a twenty foot overhang making it almost impossible to scale. Almost!
Oceans can be sailed and cliffs can be ascended, with the right equipment and training.
At the moment no one is home and all the lights are out, apart from the single glowing bulb from the guardhouse window.
Hydraulics whine and metal clanks as the electric gates open and the contract drives into the courtyard, his black Bentley disappearing round the side of the house. Lights begin to come on all over the overly lavish villa and gardens. I am almost caught in the sudden illumination and duck further down into the bushes.
Three figures wander into the living area. All are familiar to me; two males and a female.
The woman, a brunette, dressed in a red dress barely covering her modesty, heads to the mini bar and proceeds to pour herself a Hendrick’s gin and Tonic. She seems just another female for my client. Although, I have seen her face more than once so perhaps she is a favourite?
The two men stand face to face in discussion. One of them is clearly giving out orders and the other is listening intently. The latter nods in agreement. A well-formed man, his posture betraying his Military training, he is the client’s Chief of Security. His black suit and black polo neck jumper ill-fitting to his soldier’s physique.
Dressed in a fine, Milan tailored, dark grey pin striped suit and crimson shirt, my client couldn’t have looked more at ease in his outfit. A legitimate business at a glance, his various company books all appeared to be in order and above board, scratch the surface and you will find a number of charities contributing to the local and global communities. Look at him and you would see an all-round, nice, charitable and hard-working civilian. But appearances can be deceptive.
He was one of hundreds of ex-Soviet comrades who found themselves surplus to requirements after the collapse of Communism. KGB trained in The Lubyanka Building, Moscow, in all the relevant skills to make himself become invisible when he so required it. After 1991, he took himself to warmer climates helping with the sale and distribution of unused Soviet hardware to every small time dictator across the Americas. Murder, kidnapping, extortion and bribery brought him wealth and power in abundance.
The Chief of Security gives a nod, talks into his left suit cuff and walks over to the patio door. He slides it open and steps out into the cool coastal night. The client asks him to leave the door open. My job just got a whole lot easier. The chief begins his rounds of the garden before heading to his usual spot next to his two colleagues in the guardhouse.
The woman has my client all to herself and is wasting no time getting what she wants out of him on one of the sofas. Voyeuristic as my work is, I have never found sexual arousal in watching the carnal acts of the human species. I am a professional killer not a peeping Tom.
I turn my attentions to the grounds and the routine sweep that the two guards are now making. Their paths have long become memorised to the point where I know the exact amount of steps it will take each of them to reach each plant pot, hedge, piece of art, fountain or decorative lamp. Guard One never lingers and is professional to the last. Guard Two however is somewhat younger and lonelier I would imagine as I notice his steps falter at the sight of the woman writhing on the lap of his employer. A fault I had looked into as his attentions regularly drifted towards the sounds of his Employer during coitus, but apart from an affinity to very young looking girls on his web history, Guard Two was solid enough.
Their quarterly sweep completed, the guards go back to their house to fill the next 15 minutes with whatever they did for entertainment.
Even from this distant I can hear the woman’s over exaggerated climax. She must have been watching the same materials that Guard Two enjoyed so much. I return my right eye to the scope and watch her climb off my client, sweating and out of breath. My client has barely a bead of upon his forehead. She gives him a long, deep kiss, which he hardly acknowledges, grabs her dress and makes her leave for, I imagine, the bathroom. My Client in one swift motion rises to his feet and buckles up his trousers and with another quick stride he reaches the bar. This man is quick, very quick indeed. His hand darts into the ice bucket and drops the cubes into a glass then back for a bottle of Appleton Estate dark rum. He pours a healthy measure and swiftly takes a long gulp. In two large bounds he is at the open door. Now is my chance.
I take a breath and hold it.
My client takes another mouthful of rum.
The crosshairs centre at his forehead.
He lowers his glass to his side.
I flick the safety catch off.
He drops his empty glass onto a nearby chair.
I let out my breath.
His eyes meet mine as he stares straight down the scope at me, a broad smile forming across his face.
I pull the trigger, more out of shock than training. My client falls backward onto the glass coffee table just as his favourite returns from refreshing herself. Her scream pierces the night and brings the guardhouse spilling out into the grounds. I squeeze off another round and silence the screams. I readjust my aim and put two more bullets into the Chief of Security. He disappears amongst a bed of roses.
It’s time to leave.
I sling the rifle over my shoulder and grab the rope I have tied to a nearby tree, Without hesitation is the only way. I throw myself backwards off the cliff. At thirty feet from the water I pull on the ropes to slow my descent. Within twenty feet of the surf below the rope gets pulled from above and knocks the wind out of me. With more pace than seems possible, I am being pulled back up. I draw my knife and cut the rope relaxing my body to soften the impending impact.
CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK