Let the Gun Do the Talking

Let the Gun Do the Talking

The fluorescent lights of the train station caused me to shield my eyes as I stepped slowly on to the platform. A frozen breeze blew in, sending a shiver down my body. Droplets of water fell in slow motion as I moved quickly out of the station toward the car park. My hand was tightly wrapped around the black case I had picked up from locker number 22. The biting chill of the wind kept my ungloved hand stuck to the handle of the case as my eyes flicked back and forth while I maintained my steady pace.

A black sedan was sitting lonely in the darkness of the empty parking lot. I stooped and grabbed the keys magnetically attached to the tire well. Sliding the briefcase into passenger seat, I put the keys in the ignition and the car roared to life. Pulling slowly out of the parking lot as snow accumulated on the ground, I punched the address of the hotel into the GPS.

Fifteen minutes later I arrived at the Warrington Hotel. It was the single bright spot in the entire city and stood out like a sore thumb, scraping the sky to the tune of forty stories. A valet took the black sedan off my hands and drove it to the parking garage on the other side of the road. Striding into the hotel, I found the lobby to be empty for this time of night. Apart from the few uniformed attendants walking around hurriedly, I was the only other person there. Case still in my death-grip, I approached the front desk. Behind it sat a cheerful-looking blonde with brilliant white teeth that she showed me almost proudly.

“Welcome to the Warrington Hotel, sir. How may I assist you?” She had emerald green eyes and light freckles dotted her nose and cheeks.

“I have a reservation. The name is John Jackson.”

Ten minutes later I was in my suite sipping on a small bottle of scotch from the mini bar.

Opening the case I’d laid out on the bed, I found the Heckler & Koch Mk23 pistol nestled in the form-fitting foam. Next to it was the magazine, suppressor and a small box of bullets. I always thought that three was the maximum amount of bullets needed for a one-person job. Naturally, however, I carried a full clip, just in case. I picked up the gun and balanced it in my hand. It weighed around two pounds empty, three pounds loaded and five pounds when I had the suppressor screwed on. The .45 rounds would be more than adequate, especially at the distance I wanted. The job called for a mess and I was going to make sure it would happen. Underneath the foam the gun sat in was a leather shoulder holster that came with me wherever I went and a manila folder.

The folder contained a black and white photo of a man named David Gebbins and a word-processed sheet listing his nightly activities. I scanned the sheet and the picture quickly, memorizing every aspect, before taking my lighter to each. I opened the window and let the cold air suck out the burning pieces.

I never asked questions when it came to a job. Gebbins was no different. Two things I needed before starting: A photo and half up front. I would take any job, any place, any time, any way, as long as the money is plentiful. I don’t care what the person did, who they slighted or what side they were on. I was on my own side and that’s all that mattered to me.

I took off my jacket and slid on the holster. Standing, I walked to the bathroom mirror and put the pistol in the holster and threw jacket back on. With the top button open the gun was visible but with the button closed the jacket looked bulky. I decided to close the button. It would take someone looking awfully close to notice the bulk. I nodded in approval of my appearance, finished off the scotch and made for the elevator.

I was heading down to the bar for a test run. The job wasn’t going to be hard but it never hurt to have practice, even if the target has the exact same routine every night. Bar for two hours, back to room with or without a female. Two armed guards floating around the room, usually within earshot, eyes like hawks. The target sheet had told me that the target enjoyed some nose candy in the bathroom. The guards follow him in like loyal dogs, but that’s just another reason for a full clip.

The bar scene at the Warrington was a mixture of people drinking off a hard day’s work and people getting a hard night’s work on. I slid calmly onto a stool between a dressed-for-business woman and a man in a crisp silver suit with matching, close-cropped hair. His gun-grey eyes met mine as I motioned to the bartender. Scotch on the rocks, paid for by my employer. Rule number one of being an assassin: Blend in, but not so well that you get lost. Drinking on the job is something that I do regularly. I sipped on the scotch on the rocks, smooth down the throat from years of practice, and looked at the crowd through the mirror behind the bar.

Pockets of people either standing or huddled into booths, clock three minutes to nine. When it struck nine Gebbins strolled through the door, clean shaven and smiling, suit probably costing three times more than mine. He was shorter than I had expected, less than the five feet eight inches from the sheet and a little rotund. Flanking him on both sides were his personal Dobermans, eyes in slits, chests puffed out, looking the part. He moved fluidly through the mass of people to the booth with a reserved tab on the table.

Thirty minutes and three drinks later, Gebbins was joined by two women in skimpy dresses. Both were searched before sliding next to him in the booth. Conversation followed and was swallowed up by the bass bumping heavily through the room. The ice in my scotch had completely melted, thus making the alcohol diluted and easier for me to look occupied with it. There was something about a good scotch before a hit that I always needed. Alcohol flowing through my veins gave me a sense on invincibility. Liquid courage was a good name for it. I’ve had enough scotch over the years that my movements are not affected by small doses of alcohol.

As I motioned to the bartender for another, Gebbins began to move out of the booth, leaving the women there but taking the guards. He snaked his way across the small dance floor that had developed in front of the DJ tables and slipped into the bathroom. Both guards did a small sweep of the room before following him in. I slid off the stool and moved quickly but calmly across the bar to the bathrooms.

Stepping into the bathroom, the lights matching the porcelain floors, I found a cascading waterfall that was used as a urinal on the far wall. To my left were the sinks and to my right were the stalls, five in a row. The middle one was occupied by the target. His guards stood outside blocking the two stalls next to his. I moved slowly past, keeping my eyes ahead as theirs were following me. The rest of the bathroom was empty. I stood at the urinal, pretending to piss, all the while keeping the guards in my peripheral through the mirror hung above my head.

The bathroom was insulated well and kept out most of the sound from the bar. In my mind I went through the steps I would take, knowing that the situation would play itself out again. After I finished my act at the waterfall, I moved to the sink and began to wash my hands. I looked in the mirror at the guards behind me and pictured myself whirling, pulling the pistol and putting one in each man’s skull. Gebbins would hear the muted shots, come out of the stall and I’d finish him with a bullet between the eyes. Then I’d become a ghost. It was a job with risks, obviously. Anyone could come through the door looking to have a piss and that would compromise me. Rule number two for being an assassin: Don’t get caught. In words, it’s simple; in reality, it’s much more difficult. With all the advances in forensics, it’s near impossible to pull off a perfect hit. Hair fibers, shoe prints, fingerprints, shell casings all could help in putting my finger on the trigger. Funny thing is, I know all the techniques, all the methods, everything. I’m always clean shaven, no body hair. My real hair color is never what it is on a hit; I always color it to match my false identity. I have no fingerprints on record, thanks to a paranoid father. My shoes lack markings on the soles, and the bullets were bought with cash in a camera-less store from a man with only one good eye. The gun attached to my armpit has no serial number; it wasn’t bought in a store.

As I finished my imaginary run of what will eventually happen, I noticed the guards at the stalls staring at me extra hard, like they noticed my thoughts floating above my head, comic-book style. Their eyes began to narrow and they were slowly reaching for the bulges in their jackets. I began to tense, my mind spinning, hoping to stop on the reason they were going for guns.

I slowly began to move for my gun when the door burst open. Standing in the doorway was the well-dressed man from the bar. His eyes were nearly closed and he staggered into the room. Both the guards turned quickly to the door and watched the drunken man slowly move towards them. Their shoulders sank as they unraveled their tense muscles.

That’s when the drunken man struck.

With ferocious speed, the man smashed the first guard in the throat, stomped the knee in of the second guard, grabbed him in a headlock and snapped his neck. The first guard was holding his throat, gasping for air. The drunken man grabbed him by the shoulders, kneed him hard in the groin, grabbed the man by the neck and snapped it.

The man spun to me, eyes like darts, bullets of sweat sitting on his forehead. He slowly pulled out a silver USP Tactical with a suppressor screwed onto the end and pointed it in my face.

I raised my hands, palms forward. “I am not your enemy, friend. I’m just a man with unclean hands.”

The silver man smiled. “I know who you are, Ray. Leon Brand sends his regards.”

The stall door creaked open and the target stuck his head out. The silver man with the silver gun turned and used it on the target. One shot to the head and he fell on top of the men who were supposed to be protecting him. I didn’t blink at the spit of the pistol. The silver man stepped toward the door, moving systematically, retracing the steps he had previously taken. He placed his silver death dealer in a hidden shoulder holster, reached behind for the door and backed out through it. A small smile eased across his face as the door closed and he was gone.