You are one of the best contract killers in the world, but one day, at your dead drop, you find $31.25 in small change, and a letter written by an eleven year old boy.
You stare at the letter for a while. The cursive is a little clumsy, but you understand the whole point.
You have clients all over the world. You have people who could give you millions if you accepted the job. You did it, sometimes. The hate some clients carried towards some people made them blind to everything else.
When you got the job done, the ecstasy they felt was so high that they didn't bat an eye to the price you required.
You live a comfortable life. You can pick the jobs you want to do, guaranteed it would be concluded quickly and clean.
So that letter scratched something in you. You see, you are not easily found. Hitmans on your level (you're unique, truly) have your contacts distributed in the inner circles of the highest powers controlling the world. They're not accessible to just anyone.
So how this child found you is intriguing. As intriguing as the request they made.
The child gave you the price they are willing to pay beforehand. They gave you the address they need to get the job done, they even gave you their name.
$31,25 doesn't even pay your groceries, but your next assignment is 4 weeks from now, so you indulge yourself in this small task to help the kid.
You live in a big city, downtown. Is easier to hide among lots of people, like it's easy to hide a book in a library. The address is not far from where you live, surprisingly. A few minutes in you motorcycle will do.
The location is in a calm neighborhood, with big houses, big backyards, big everything, quite impressive. The house you're looking for is in a corner, apparently bigger than the others.
As you approach, you listen only two voices, seems to be a couple arguing. You hated it, it's noisy and you prefer to not know personal business from targets. When you reach the window of what looks like the living room, you see the scene more clearly.
There's a white man, probably in his late 40's, and a white woman in her late 30's. Their body language shows that the tension is in the limit.
She says something quietly. He snaps.
He grabs a vase near him and throws at her. She covers her head just in time, the glass shatter in her arms, and doesn't take much for her to bleed. She then starts crying and run upstairs, leaving some droplets of blood in the way.
The man stares at her, release his breath and walk to the mini bar to grab something to drink. You quietly open the window and get in.
He doesn't notice you. You walk leisurely, admiring the interior, until you reach where the man is with his back turned to you. There is a chair by his side, and you decide to sit.
"is a lovely evening isn't it?", you couldn't be more relaxed.
The man turns at you direction, startled, and you see the color fades from his face, his cup dropping to the ground, he stumbling in his feet to walk away from you, until he falls on the sofa.
You sigh, get up from your chair and walk till where he is, crossing your arms, looking down at him.
"i suppose you know who I am."
The man nods while pointing to his lips, making a motion to cut.
"yes, the scar makes everything easier, so I'm going straight to the point. A little bird told me you've being a jerk over here and it was so bad that it reached me, so here's the thing. You will walk thru that door right there and will vanish. If it reach my ears that you got in touch with the people in this house again, I will hunt you down to the depths of the hell, and even Satan himself won't have the gut to stay in my way. Am I clear?"
If that man could get any more pale than this, then his body doesn't have a single drop of blood anymore.
He nods, and you point at the door.
"Out. Now".
You never saw someone run so fast in your life.
After you listen the car leave the garage and the sounds of the engine fades in the distance, you go upstairs.
The corridor have a few doors, but two at the end emits light. You approach the first one and listen a cry. Must be the master suite then.
The other door have a dim baby blue light coming from inside. You get in that room and see a kid tucked in the sheets, back facing you. As you approach you listen a low cry, and realize that the kid is slightly shaking. You sit in the bed and the kid startles.
"Hey little bird."
When they listen your voice, they turn around, showing you puffy and big eyes, surprised to see you. You look at them, then look around. On the nightstand there's a black piece of paper. Your contact card. At one side a phone number only visible if seen from a certain angle, at the other a mouth holding a knife, with a scar crossing it.
You take the card with you, and in its place you put the kid's cash.
"I don't actually need this, so take it back. That guy won't bother you anymore, so no need to worry."
"I didn't thought it would work", the kid had such a small voice, and you can't help but fluff their hair.
"it did, this time. You shouldn't contact me anyway, so consider yourself lucky. The money I'll give you back but your letter I'm keeping. Is not often that I received a handwritten one. There's just one thing wrong in it."
"what it is?"
Is not 'Mister Killer'.
It's 'Miss'.
