The gentleman stood before the bathroom mirror, inspecting the nick oozing blood down his cheekbone. Well, that would be noticeable. He reached a gloved hand into the jacket of his impeccable dark blue suit and withdrew a handkerchief. He leaned forward and blotted away the blood with tender ministrations. He bloody hated getting into throwdowns with blokes wearing championship rings.
He winced when the cut stung. Once the bleeding stopped, he tucked the handkerchief away and inspected his appearance. His suit was still crisp, undershirt stain-free and gel still miraculously holding his hairstyle in place. Overall he still looked flawless. He grinned at his reflection, slipped on his favorite pair of aviator sunglasses, and picked up his briefcase. He exited the bathroom.
He stepped into the subway train, searching the packed vehicle for a seat. The only one was next to a little girl that looked no older than 11. He heaved an inward sigh and negotiated his way through the aisle and took his seat. As expected the little girl, a diminutive creature with wide intelligent eyes and elfin features, immediately glued her silent attention to him. He glanced down and sent her a polite smile.
She did not smile but merely stared at him like he was a fascinating puzzle.
He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. Turning slightly aside he sent a sideglance to the mother, who was embroiled in an animated conversation on her cellphone. He frowned but only faintly. If the heifer would pay attention, he wouldn’t have to deal with her spawn eyeballing him like a bloody creeper.
He decided to ignore the child letting the train’s steady cadence melt the strain from his mind. He scanned his fellow riders, assessing them out of sheer habit. Despite himself, he did like riding The Tube. The familiarity being surrounded by a cocktail of people meshed in a single transit train gave him a sense of normality.
He slouched into the seat and closed his eyes, tightening his grip on his briefcase, before tilting his head back. Any attempts at relaxation however, were thwarted by her steady gaze on him like a physical weight. She was bleeding relentless. His skin prickled and he was a tick away from giving her his infamous 1000-yard glare when she poked him. He pretended to be asleep.
She poked his leg. Where did she get off touching a total stranger? Repeatedly.
He sighed loudly and turned his attention to her. “What?” The little girl began to gesture in what he instantly recognized as ASL. Finally, his time had come.
“What do you do Mister?” She asked curious gaze still sharp.
He glanced at her mother, who was still knee-deep in her conversation. He pulled off his sunglasses and passed her another smile. “I make bad people disappear.” He replied. His eyes narrowed a fraction when she began fidgeting.
She dropped her head and hunched her shoulders, small fingers fidgeting with the hem of her graphic t-shirt. He recognized the signs of an abused child because he’d looked the same a long time ago. His heart softened and he reached in his jacket pocket, withdrawing a business card. He glanced up at the preoccupied mother before proffering it to the girl.
She took it with a tentative hand, eyes darting back to her mother. “What’s this?”
“My card. You ever need my services, follow the directions on the back and I’ll come.”
“Thank you.” She said with a crooked smile
The name of his stop sounded over the intercom just as the train screeched to a halt. “See you.” Before he could leave she signed again.
“What’s your name?”
He stood and slipped on his sunglasses, but made sure to smile. “I’ll tell you if I see you again.” He exited the transit train.
As he strode towards the entrance to the subway station his thoughts drifted to the fear in the little girl’s eyes. No child should fear their parents. He crushed the spire of concern that roiled through his system. He didn’t have time to worry about children he’d never see again.
He paused the current episode of Norseman, which he’d been binge-watching since 8:00 that morning and rose. Slipping on his bunny slippers, he walked, in a tank top and boxers, to the door. His dead dropbox had given off its signature jingle, meaning his services were—finally— needed. He lifted the slot and reached in, withdrawing a fattened brown envelope and drawstring pouch of loose change. Seriously?
He considered tossing the insult out but decided otherwise. It didn’t hurt to try curing his boredom. He flopped down on his couch and opened the envelope, withdrawing a neatly folded written plain white notebook paper. He unfolded the paper, finding only a few sentences scrawled onto it.
Dear Mister Bad Wolf,
My name is Jaime. I am nine years old. Please help.
Following the body of the letter were the address and a thorough list of her 11 targets. He raised an eyebrow at the list. This child evidently had a vendetta. He turned his attention to the bag pouring the change, mostly silver currency, onto the coffee table. He counted the change, it’s total summing up to $23.59. This kid wanted him to ice 11 people for chump change? He laughed boisterously. What a world.
“Yeah right.” He resumed the episode of Vikings, but he couldn’t watch it in peace. His attention kept drifting to the unfolded letter and tiny columns of loose change on the coffee table. Nope. He was not going to do it, but it had been a while since he’d had work. People just didn’t need killing like in the past. He also wouldn’t mind seeing what made a kid hire a contract killer.
He nodded in agreement. Why not humor the kid? He shut the streaming channel off and rose.
Later, he sat parked across the street from the target address, night had already fallen. He’d deduced early on from the scantily clad women sitting on the stoops of the brothels or milling about on the streets that this was the Red Light District. His heart always went out to the night women, because it brought back memories of his childhood.
Thoughts of his mother flashed through his mind. He remembered her smudged makeup, that horrid pink wig, and the cheap cologne of her Johns clinging to her clothes. An especially clear memory of his first kill entered his mind. He’d been 15, armed and fed up with Luke smacking his mother around. He shook his head to clear away the memory. He needed to focus.
Reaching down, he picked up the cup of his blueberry milkshake and set up for surveillance. A sleek black car pulled up to the stoop. The door to the duplex opened and a skimpily dressed teenager was escorted out by a burly man with a head tattoo. A sinking sensation hit the pit of his stomach like a boulder. No, this could not be the type of brothel he suspected. But as the night wore on, his suspicions became confirmations.
Each time a car pulled up a young girl was escorted out. So far, the oldest was a child in their late teens and the youngest a preadolescent. This was a child brothel for the deviants that couldn’t find arousal in an adult woman like normal people. Disgusting scumbags. If he hadn’t been already on the brink, their faces pushed him over. Naked terror claimed many of their faces but the worst were the ones of hollow resignation. They looked like living dolls instead of humans. A sneer crawled across his upper lip.
He finished off his blueberry milkshake and leaned over, opening his glove compartment. Inside of it was his spare gun, a well kept Sig Sauer and two clips, both full. He loaded then holstered the gun in the empty right holster. He patted his Desert Eagle, Lulu, in the left holster, finding confidence in its welcome weight. He withdrew his bladed weapons- two tactical knives and a karambit- concealing them from the untrained eye. He fished one of his contracts from the armrest, stuffing it in his inner jacket pocket. He pulled on his black gloves, psyched himself up, then exited his car. With his hands in his pockets, he swaggered across the street, mind revisiting the list of targets on Jaime’s letter.
He ascended the stairs and knocked on the door. A moment later, the slot opened, showing a beady black eye. “What you want,” he barked in broken English.
He put on a smile, standing a bit taller to play the businessman. “Yes, uh, yes I was told that you have an exceptional selection of girls.” Frigging balls, the whole sentence felt like sewage in his mouth.
“Who tell you about us?”
He shook his head, giving a grimace. “I’m afraid he told me not to mention his name, something about his career being ruined. Worried about his position and all that.” He gave another charming smile, hoping his twinkling blue eyes sold the act.
The man continued his unwavering scrutiny.
“Look, money is no object, but I’d rather not someone see me standing out here. Don’t want the bloody missus to find out you know.” He played the closet deviant, hoping his act worked because he really didn’t want to try breaking down the door. It looked pretty durable.
This seemed to convince the man. He shut the slot. A predatory smirk twisted Garrett’s mouth. He heard voices yelling, one of them a woman’s voice before the door opened. “Come i—”
He brutally severed the man's carotid artery and spinal chord with smooth precision. The man, a rather brawny fellow fell to the floor like a sack of bricks.
Garrett concealed his knife before withdrawing his gun. He’d hardly taken two steps into the hallway before a woman clad in a dress that looked painted on, stepped from what he assumed was the sitting room. “Yuri, what is taking you so long?”
Catya, his mind supplied. Thankfully she was the only woman on the list.
He put two bullets in her chest.
He sighed. Well, that alerted everyone to his presence. This would be fun. “Tally-ho then.”
He moved through the establishment like death in a designer suit, mentally ticking off numbers as he killed his way through the brothel. Like he suspected those two shots alerted the occupants to his presence and successfully killing each of them had not been easy. Fun nonetheless. Though, he'd make sure to send an edible arrangement to Suki in deep gratitude for his tailored tactical armor.
So far, he’d killed nine and that left two. He turned the corner and was waylaid and rammed into the wall. His gun tumbled from his hand. Before he could regain his equilibrium his assaulter, a muscular man that outweighed him by at least 30 pounds was on him. His nails scrabbled at the forearm compressing his throat, cursing his own sloppiness. He tried pushing against him, but his opponent was stronger and applied more pressure.
Dang, if he could just get his knee up. He contorted his lithe form and managed to get his knee up. He drove his knee into the man’s privates mercilessly, shoving the hurting man away. He took a second to regroup, drinking down air and pushing past the dots in his vision. With a scowl on his face, he dodged the man’s knife assault, feeling the wind whiz past his face. Bloody prat. He danced backward, drawing his knife with a snap of his wrist, a challenge on his face.
Their fight was brutal. Their skills were near even and his opponent larger and stronger. But he was quicker. They traded blows, him going for the man’s veins and arteries with expert strokes. By the time they broke apart blood trickled from his nose and coated his tongue. His opponent, though, stood carved like country ham. He smirked at the panting man.
“Well, this has been fun chap but I’m under contract.” He mounted his finishing attack, ducking low to avoid the man’s arching swipe. He shoved his knife into the man’s chest following that up with two slices through the main arteries in his neck. The man crumpled to the floor. He drew his gun and out of respect put a round in his head.
He turned his attention to the man fleeing towards the door, eyes narrowing. He shot him in the calf causing him to tumble to the floor with a cry on his lips. He swaggered across the room, the man’s whimpering in his ears. He bent down and lifted his other gun, placing it in its holster. He crossed the gaudily decorated room with a deliberate stride, watching the lowlife try wriggling his way to safety.
He stopped a few paces away, a blatant physical sign. He was his end.
The scum rolled over and sat up, his features twisted in terror. “P-p-please don’t.” He held up a trembling bloodied hand. “Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it.”
He stared down at the man with little emotion. He pulled back the hammer of the gun.
“Triple it!”
He pointed the gun at his face like stone. There was no mercy for this swine. For all his atrocious crimes he deserved none. This would be the one kill he thought would benefit the world.
“I-I have a wife and three kids. Please don’t do this! Please!” He snuffled faltering when he tried to gain purchase on his legs.
His disgust increased when the scum devolved into a blubbering mess. Piece of festering anus pimped out, no doubt beat, and drugged up young girls and now he begged for his life like a ninny? “Have some dignity about yourself.” He tapped the trigger, sending a bullet into his head for instant death. Eleven.
He ran a gloved hand through his stylish hair and took a brief moment to savor the acrid aroma of gunpowder niggling his nose. He exited the room turned tomb and roamed the house looking for the quarters where they kept the workers. Finally, he found the room, a sub-basement. He opened the door, the saddening sight that met him moving even his hardened heart.
Young girls, 20 in all, stood huddled together in a dank room that smelled of blood and piss. He holstered his gun and held his hands up a non-threatening gesture. “Which one of you is Jaime?” Out of the crowd of unkempt terrified young girls, a girl with bounteous but matted brown curls and freckled cheeks stepped forth. Dang, the kid looked like a sweet little angel. He wasn’t knocking her actions though, in her situation he completely understood. It was just-- he felt bad for the bloke that wronged her in the future.
She strode to him, filthy nightgown clinging to her. “A-are you Bad Wolf?”
He nodded and reached into his inner pocket, withdrawing his contract with a flourish. “Young Miss. I need you to sign your name at the bottom for fulfillment of contract.” He handed her a pen. He glanced up bemused by an older girl staring at him with large eyes. An odd sense of familiarity struck him. Who was she?
She took the pen and signed the paper in her scrawling print. “Contract fulfilled. Thank you Mister Bad Wolf.”
He sent her an easy smile. “You are welcome and it was nice doing business with you.” He folded the paper she gave him and put both it and the pen in his inner jacket pocket. He glanced up to the girl that continued staring at him with eerily familiar eyes. “Do I know you?” He spoke to the teen.
Jaime gave him a sad smile. “That’s Sarah. She’s the one that gave me the card but she’s deaf so she can’t hear you.”
Realization did not strike him as much as it tossed a boulder at his head. Could it be? Then she was signing to him. “I’m the little girl on the metro.”
He couldn’t help the genuine smile that lit his lips. What had it been? Two years? He'd deny it if asked but he had thought of her often, hoping that maybe some kind soul freed her from her mother's abuse. He hadn't known it got worse. “You’re safe now.”
She gave a nod, an expression of immense relief claiming her features. “What’s your name?”
He smiled remembering their conversation. “Garrett.” He answered, allowing his expression to soften.
She beamed at him, a gesture that brought back the youth to her worn features. “Thank you.”
Aware of the several gazes laying on him he ended the conversation. “You’re welcome.” He shifted uncomfortably, gave a terse nod, and left without a word. Once outside in the hallway, he preened, straightening his suit and tie. Without a single look back, he made his way to the front stoop, stopping only to glance about to see if anyone had called the cops. Movement caught his attention. He turned to find that it was Sarah.
“Can I come with you?” She asked, expression rife with timidity.
Nope. His job was done and he liked his life the way it was thank you. He allowed his expression to soften. “My contract has been met and my type of life is not for little girls.”
Tears welled into her limpid eyes at his rejection. “Please.” She silently begged, tears starting to fall.
He gently laid a hand on her shoulder, stooping slightly so his mouth was in view when she dropped her head. “You are safe and free now. Live the life you choose little one. Okay?” She wiped at her tears, but made no further pleas.
He nodded, ignoring the crummy feeling in his belly. He bid farewell before hurrying across the street to his car, the sound of sirens in his ears. So someone had called the cops after all. He climbed into his car, cranking it and driving away. The last thing he saw of that deplorable duplex was of Sarah standing on the lit porch posture slumped. He sighed, berating himself for being soft. He’d make a few calls when he got home.
He hung a left at the corner, watching as three police cruisers sped down the opposite street. His stomach gave a ravenous growl. Killing always made him hungry. What was he in the mood for? Something shrimpy sounded appealing. He leaned an elbow on the armrest in contemplation. Shrimp curry with a glass of wine. He thought for a moment. Nah he wanted something greasy. Shrimp tacos with chips and a side of ale. Yeah, that was what he wanted. It was about time he used that recipe on his foodie board anyway.
He reached down for his blueberry milkshake but remembered he’d consumed it all. First, he’d get another milkshake, then he’d shower, and then cook. He nodded in satisfaction then turned on the radio.
END
ns18.188.60.146da2
and then Add to home screen.