“Jesus Christ!” I took my yellow safety glasses off and tossed them on the counter next to the Glock and the box of ammo. I pinched the bridge of my nose, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Yeah, he’s cool,” I said at last. “Colin’s harmless.”
“Colin?”
“Badass name, right?”
“Sure,” Joey said, “if you’re the lead in a romantic comedy.”
We both laughed. Then Joey turned serious and said, “Everything okay? You seem a little on edge.”
“I’m fine,” I said, putting the safety glasses back on. “Just getting real, you know? I have to present my people in a few days, and then . . .” I fired a single shot that missed the target completely.
“We don’t have to do this tonight.”
I fired again, hitting the top-right corner. Perfect, if my goal was to kill the white space next to the guy’s head. “I need the practice,” I said.
Joey stared at me a minute, debating whether to push the issue. In the end, he settled for one of his patented shrugs. “Okay bud, whatever you want.” He slapped me on my shoulder and walked back to his stall. From the other side of the wall between us he said, “So did you tap it?”
“Tap what?”
“That blonde ass from this morning. Or can you only get it up when you pay for it?”
“You know what,” I said, “my target’s swinging just a little bit. Would you mind going down there to hold it steady?”
He laughed. “Shit, I’ll stand in front of it. With your aim, that’s the safest place to be.”
The Glock sat on the cushion, taunting me. Daring me to pick it up. I stared at my phone, the glow from its screen the only light in my dark living room, and thought about tasting the bitter, oily barrel again. Maybe this time would end differently. I hadn’t attempted that particular escape route since I first moved to Europe. Maybe this time I’d have the guts to finish the job.
My last two candidates had responded. The Persian yesterday, and now Ghost. They were both interested in Trish’s job. One day to spare before her deadline, too.
Ghost was my other ace. Unlike The Persian, I actually had made him what he was. Carefully crafted his career as one of the world’s most notorious—and expensive—contract killers. He’s what Ian was close to becoming, and a much more apt comparison for what Erica wanted me to do for her.
Rick Carter, creator of monsters.
I’d spent the last two days putting together a list of backup candidates that was now rendered moot. Trish would take my top three without a second thought. Ghost and The Persian were slam dunks, and Ian had cred coming off the double hit for Leon that had impressed her mysterious Board of Directors so much. As I suspected, it would be the easiest million I’d ever made.
Ironic that my lowest moments often came during the high points of my career.
I eyed the Glock again, knowing I wouldn’t pick it up. It wasn’t a way out, at least not one I was willing to take. Same as turning myself in. Prison would not be kind to me, and I knew it. If I lacked the courage to end things permanently, I sure as hell lacked the fortitude to survive a lengthy stretch behind bars. And with my rap sheet, “lengthy” is the only kind of stretch I’d do.
Sure, I could rat out my clients. Shave some years off my sentence, maybe even earn a new life in a witness protection program. I’d be John the Insurance Salesman. Quiet guy who keeps to himself in the tiny rancher at the end of the street in some backwater town. For a while. Until just one of those clients figured out where I was. Then we were back to the same problem I had with the Glock sitting next to me. Much as I hated my life, I was more terrified by the prospect of not living at all. Great way to spend your days.
So just stop, you might say. If you hate your job so much, get a new one. Plenty of ways to earn a living that don’t end up with anyone dead in the morning.
True enough, in theory. Problem was that once I stopped providing my particular service, I no longer held any value to my clients. Instead, I became a liability. And liabilities have a very short shelf life in this business.
Candidates are ready, I texted in the chat room Trish had set up. Before she could respond, I turned off the phone and buried my face in my hands. After a minute, I pulled them away and examined the stitches on the tip of my pinkie. Then my eyes shifted to the next finger over.
It was invisible, but still there. A ring of skin around the base of the fourth finger on my left hand. For eight years, that skin had been covered by a wedding band. Until I broke my knuckle, and it didn’t fit anymore.
I was the only one home on a Friday afternoon. Denise was at work. Maggie was in kindergarten. She had recently gotten into watching the NBA with me on TV, so we decided to surprise her with an adjustable basketball hoop as a birthday present. I’d taken the day off to complete the project before Denise, very pregnant with Ethan, picked her up from the school’s aftercare program.
It was windy that day, and no sooner had I stood it up than a strong gust sent the entire thing on a collision course with my car’s windshield. I caught it before it even touched the hood, but my left hand took the brunt of the fall, cracking the knuckle on my ring finger.
If Denise had been home, she would have immediately run outside to see why I was filling our quiet little corner of the neighborhood with words that would make Quentin Tarantino blush. Then she would have taken one look at my swollen finger and demanded I go to the emergency room, or at least the urgent care center. After I refused, she would have nagged me into the passenger seat of her SUV and driven me herself.
Fortunately, I was alone, so it was easier to be stupid.
I reset the hoop and stacked bags of sand on the base before it could topple over again. The pain in my finger went away as soon as I saw my daughter’s face through the window of Denise’s Ford Escape as it pulled into the driveway.
“Daddy, I love it!” She squealed, running into my arms. “Is that for me?”
“You bet it is, Peanut,” I said, scooping her up. Didn’t feel any pain then, either. “You like it?”
“Yes I do, thank you! Can we play?”
“Well, you might need a ball for that,” Denise said. She held a gift bag that had been hidden in my trunk for the past week. It was purple and had a gaggle of Disney princesses on the front. The basketball inside was legit, though. No pink and flowery ball for my little superstar. No way. Her wide eyes only grew bigger as she tossed the tissue paper to the side and pulled it out.
“It’s a real one, just like the men use on the TV!” she exclaimed.
“And the women,” Denise said.
“Happy birthday, sweetie,” I said.
“Thank you, Daddy! Thank you, Mommy!” She gave us both the same hug, tight around the neck. The special kind only five-year-olds know how to give.
The ball looked gigantic in her tiny hands. Even with the rim lowered to its minimum height of six-and-a-half feet, it would’ve been a miracle if she made one shot out of ten. Denise had argued that we should get her a smaller ball, but Mags wanted a real one like the Sixers played with, so that’s what she got. The hoop I had growing up didn’t lower at all. I had to practice free throws every day in my driveway for an entire summer before I’d built up the arm strength to do more than just brick it off the bottom of the ten-foot rim. But my dad was right there with me every day, which was really all that mattered. Making a shot was a bonus.
