Well, at least not for me. Look, all of us have to earn our living somehow. And it just so happens that for me, it involves killing people.
Namely, men.
My employer made this very clear to the three of us on Day One: we weren’t just assassins. We were targeting a very specific group of people. The kind that don’t take “no” for an answer and threaten with closed fists. And, well, our mission was to make the world safer.
But back to now. It’s 2:04 in the morning, with no moon in the sky, and someone’s going to die tonight.
Aisha’s in front of us, bending down in front of the lock. Each click of the pins sends shivers down my spine as she rakes the lock with precision. Barely ten seconds pass before the door slowly swings forward, and she’s got a crooked grin on her face.
Tamara and I creep inside, toes first. Aisha walks in after us, keeping guard in the entrance. My hand reaches for my knife as we make our way upstairs, to the master bedroom. (See, guns make more noise, and leave behind more evidence–all the blood splatters and ballistic markings. Best to be efficient with murder.)
We reach the door, unsurprisingly closed. Tamara nods at me, knife already at the ready. Trying to keep my breathing to a minimum, I open the door.
Fortunately, the target’s too deep in sleep to hear–or perhaps a drunken slumber? The overwhelming stench of cheap beer provides overwhelming evidence to the latter.
I lean over the sleeping figure, mentally going over the profile I had memorized. White? Check. Thin lips? Check. Choppy, light hair? Check. Straight, thin nose? Got it.
This is the guy we need to kill.
I pull out my knife, gripping it tightly. With a silent exhale, I plunge it deep into the side of his neck until I can see the blade from the other side. His eyes snap open, and he makes the mistake of gasping in terror. His breath catches, and he makes that strangled gasp that dying men make.
With this opportunity, I climb onto the bed, get on my knees, and look him in the eye as I pull the knife out of his throat. Immediately, blood starts pooling on the pillowcase, and he’s coughing and spluttering and trying to sit up, but with a torn windpipe, it’s no use.
Climbing over him, I raise my knife to deliver the final blow–right to the center of his throat. The gasping stops, and is replaced with a gentle thud as his head falls back. My hand reaches for his wrist, but I already know the results before I feel them–or, rather, don’t feel them. His ex definitely has far less sleepless nights as of now.
I quickly rub the bloody knife on a clean spot of pillow and stash it away (disgusting, I know, but it would be too suspicious to clean it on-site), and walk out, meeting back up with Tamara, who’s leaning against the doorframe. She nods again, and we head downstairs, meeting up with Tamara, who’s got another limp corpse at her heels. She shrugs and raises her palms, and we understand; a snooping neighbor. He had to be disposed of.
The three of us head out. Aisha briefly stops to take care of the door, and we’re off, sprinting to where our car is parked. Another abuser is dead. And, hopefully, another woman is freed from his clutches.
