The Hit

The hit was to take place a half an hour from now, at nine o’clock. Lester Buford was the hitee. At the designated time he would be, forcibly if necessary, removed from the Sinclair Town bowling alley where, while out on bail, he was enjoying himself. He would be escorted to a waiting car by two men. Once in the car he'd be bound, gagged and hooded, then driven deep into the woods. In the woods, under a full moon, he would be shot in both kneecaps. This excruciating pain would be physical payback for the psychological pain his victim wound have to endure for the rest of her life. A small price to pay. Just a little extra the hit men were willing to throw in at no extra charge. “Won’t even charge ya for the bullets,“ one of them said. “Sort of like getting a free donut with your large coffee,“ the other hit man added. Most decent criminals (oxymoron, perhaps?) as a rule have a code. You don’t harm women or children. Hence the willingness to add an extra ingredient to the execution recipe. After fifteen or twenty minutes of kneecap pain, Lester Buford would be shot again. This time, one bullet to the back of the head. Nice and clean. Just another day at the office.

At eight-thirty Jack Wheeler was racing across town in his Chevy four by four. He had to get to the bowling alley before nine o’clock and cancel the hit or an innocent man would die tonight. Jack had been sure Lester Buford had raped his wife Julie. At least until ten minutes ago when the radio reported that a drifter had been arrested in Allenton, the next town over from Sinclair, for raping a sixteen year old girl. The drunken drifter was overheard in a bar by an off-duty deputy describing what a “young, sweet piece of ass,” he’d knocked off last week. “I’ve tried ‘em all; old, middle aged, and young,” he bragged. “For my money, give me the thirty something’s; they’re more feisty than a cat with it’s tail on fire.” Julie Wheeler was a thirty something.

Knowing of the rape of the sixteen year old and of Mrs. Wheeler, the off duty deputy called for back up and when it arrived, together they placed the drifter under arrest. After being interrogated for a mere twenty-five minutes, the inebriated drifter confessed to seven rapes; not by name but by enough description and location to draw near certain conclusions. Julie Wheeler was one of them.

Jack had wanted revenge. Trusting the courts was out of the question. Too many Lesters got off on technicalities. He’d thought of taking care of Lester himself but after much deliberation decided it would be too risky. Hiring the hit men was the way to go. Now it looked like he’d made a mistake. Unfortunately, there was no way for Jack to get in touch with the men who were to take care of the problem for him. After all, if you’re in that line of work, doing business over the phone would be as dangerous as looking for a gas leak with a match.

Jack stomped on the gas pedal, watching the odometer needle tickle eighty miles per hour. Even before reaching the crest of the hill, he saw the glow of red and blue lights. Great, he thought, an accident, just what he needed. The only way to save Lester now was to ride the railroad tracks running parallel with the road and go around the accident. Driving down the slight embankment he positioned his four by four so that it was straddling one of the tracks rails. The driver’s side tires bounced along the railroad ties, making a noise sounding like an amplified version of the baseball cards in the bicycle spokes thing you used to do when you were a kid. The passenger side tires kicked up gravel from between the ties. With all this noise assaulting Jack’s ears, he didn’t hear the train until it was right behind him blowing it horns. By now he was by the accident, so pushing the gas pedal to the floor he cut the wheel hard to the right, jumped the rail and got himself out of harm’s way and back up on the road.

It was ten past nine when Jack pulled into the bowling alley parking lot.
Spotting the black Caddy he pulled up beside it on the driver’s side. Lowering the passenger window Jack let out a sigh of relief. Both men were sitting in the front seat.

“We heard the report on the radio about the arrest over in Allenton about an hour ago and thought you might want to hold off. Were we right?” The driver asked Jack.

“One hundred percent,” Jack answered.

“Oh, and by the way,” the passenger in the black Caddy chimed in, “We don’t give refunds, Sherriff Wheeler“.

The End