The Job - part 1
The Job - part 1
I got a plane to catch in the morning. 8:15 AM out of Austin, destination Orange County, CA. Never cared much for California and I don’t think anything about this trip is going to change that feeling. Ain’t nothing but a bunch of seaweed eating, tea partying queers out there if you ask me. But hell I got a job to do; otherwise I’d stay here and water the dandelions growing in my backyard. Bought the place on the GI Bill and been living here 20 years, most of them by myself. Never cared much for “other” people. That’s the whole damn problem with the world- other ****ing people. Any Goddamn way I got a job to do in California. I get a phone call from a guy called Phoodie and he says “Rick we gotta problem with someone out in Cali.” Tells me there’s a plane ticket waiting and some money in a locker at the YMCA. He just needs this person to go away. I’m cool with that. It’s not like it’s personal or anything it’s just a job. I did lot’s of jobs in Nam when I worked for the Spooks. That *****was all legal and legit. This *****ain’t quite the same but it smells the same.
I feed the cat and put a little extra feed in the bowl cause I might be gone a couple of days. Old Rollo can hang. He’s a survivor. If he runs out of food he can find a fat mouse chilling out somewhere. I left him by mistake one time for a week and I swear when I got home he had gained weight and was eyeballing me on top of that. Like he was stalking me. I put and end to that *****right quick.
I like to work clean. Some folks like to get close in and use a knife and get all-personal. I don’t like people enough to take that path. I like a clean shot, preferably just one but if I have to use two I do and beat myself up about it later. Don’t get me wrong I have worked close in and have done so on many occasions but those were government jobs and I never liked getting wet. Getting the blood out of the suit was never easy. Time to prep.
I have a 9MM Mouser that I found after the wall fell in East Germany. It was nothing but a shell of it’s former self; no stock just a barrel, cylinder, and chamber. I took it to a friend in Istanbul that trafficked in old WWII weaponry and he put it together for me. He made some modifications so I could easily break it down and get it inside a coat, added a scope and a very quiet silencer. It is a killing machine. It is the perfect weapon. I could drop an elephant at 3000 meters with one well-placed shot. No serial number and no way to trace it. She’s mine and I am hers and we trusted each other. I do my job and she does hers. Together we are a fine tuned machine.
I pulled her out of the case and began the process that I go through every time we have a job to do. She knew the dance and I loved to watch her move as I took her apart and put her back together again. It was a sacred dance, a dance of death. As I took her through the drill I poured myself a single malt scotch and slowly sipped it and worked both her and the drink methodically until we had both become a well oiled pair. After a while I couldn’t distinquish between the weapon and myself. We would commit the same crime and both walk away without feeling a thing because we were doing what God had designed us to do.
After I finished the preparation I took a bath and cleaned myself from head to toe. I then lay down on the fresh linen I had put on the bed after I got the call. I needed to rest and think. Killing someone is not as easy as you think. You have got to get your head right. Sometimes that means taking a couple of tranquilizers to steady the nerves. You don’t want to get excited. It just makes you make mistakes. And one mistake turns you into the victim.