Discipline and Murder Chapter 2

                   The killer wakes up in a cold sweat, the ringing of the phone signifying his boss's call.
                   "Seen your handiwork, looks nice.  The money will be in your account by tomorrow, twenty five larges from some fast food place.  Thanks."  He hangs up, and the assassin wonders what his boss's face looks like.  He knows his boss knows his face, the car he drives, where he lives, where his mother lives, and even the location of his fathers grave.
                   Time for breakfast.  Leaving the cordless phone on the receiver on his nightstand, he pulls the sheet and blanket up beneath the pillows, and tucks the sheets and comforter under the sides and foot of his mattress.  He goes into the bathroom and shaves his face.  Neck and face alike are both as smooth as they were yesterday when he completed the same procedure.  He doesn't shave his head today, the stubble that's growing is barely noticeable.  Everything must go back in it's place, so before he turns the shower knobs to release the stream of warm water the razor and small tube of "Men's CREW" brand shaving cream are put back into the medicine cabinet, right next to the short barrel .357 caliber Remington revolver with wood on the pistol grip that he used to perform his task the night before. 
                   The shower water feels good on his body, and the skin moisturizing soap (bar form, not body wash) feels good on his skin.  Plush and white, the towel he uses ensures that every inch of his body is dry.  White boxers, never briefs, and a white tank top are donned underneath a pair of pleated front dress pants and a dark blue sateen button up shirt.  He sees the solid colored shirt on his body in the mirror and thinks pinstripes are for idiots.
                   Leaving the bathroom and entering the living room, he turns on the news, hoping to catch a glimpse of his handiwork on the 42" LCD screen television.  Then into the kitchen he goes, still able to watch TV while pouring the contents of the cereal box into a clear glass bowl.  The box goes neatly back into the cupboard it was retrieved from.  Lighting up when the door is opened, he pulls a half gallon of milk out of the fridge and pours the rest of the white fluid into the bowl with the flaky cereal that's "good for your heart," according to the box.  He stands to eat breakfast, it's the most efficient way to do it, at least for him. If you're wondering the reason, it's because the sink is closer that way.  Plus he thinks standing more during the day keeps body healthier.  The mistake those fat people's mother made was probably letting them sit in front of the TV while doing their homework.  Oh well, they're history now. 
                   Just as he's rinsing out the bowl of cereal, the phone rings.  He grabs the handset off of the receiver in the kitchen.
                   "Hello?" He says, wondering if his boss wants him to work again this fast.
                   "Did you send your rent check out?"  It's the landlord.  Greedy German bastard.
                   "It's only the twenty-seventh, Don, you're supposed to call after the first."
                   "Shows what you know, is that a yes or a no?"
                   "Yes Don, I sent it yesterday.  You really should get an online thing going on, that way you can get it the day I send it and stop harassing me with monthly phone calls."
                   "Yeah, yeah. Don't waste your breath.  How come you haven't talked to any of your neighbors yet?  They say you're like a ghost; you don't make any noise, you don't flirt with the women, and your apartment never stinks. They're starting to think you're weird, and besides, there's a girl down on the first floor, her name's Yvonne.  Apartment five I think.  She's cute, petite, dresses nice, single, and she keeps to herself too...maybe you should bump into her."
                   "Alright dad, thanks for the tip, I'm hanging up now."
                   "What'd I tell you about that dad shit! I did NOT have a hand in birthing you, and I don't even know your mother's name.  Kids these days, so cocky.  Alright I gotta go.  You take it easy, and that check better not bounce."
                   "I haven't bounced one yet." And then the line is dead.
                   "What a jerk." He says to no one in particular.  Just then a newsflash flashed on, a blond woman in a blue pantsuit (thankfully, with no pinstripes, instead a white blouse on underneath the shirt,) was talking about his hit.  He turns up the volume a little just to make sure he hears everything correctly.
                   "Police are saying that at 8:55 this morning two bodies were discovered laying on the corner of Vine and Main.  They don't yet have many details.  The chief of police had this to say..."
                   "The bodies were of a man and woman, no wallet was found on the man and the woman's purse contains no ID.  We suspect that by running the plates on the vehicle they were found next to that they are a Mr. and Mrs. Nass.  The two were killed by gunshot, it appears the man was shot in the head and the woman in the chest.  At the moment, the only clue we have to the shooter's identity is the pair of clown shoes he or she was wearing at the time of the shooting.  We think this may have been an attempt at a joke on the shooters part, however, all clowns in the city will be searched before they can leave.  That is all that we can release to the press at this time..."
                   The news flash went back to the blond woman who reiterated that the police weren't releasing anymore information today, and we were expecting a very rainy day today. 
                   “That's just what I need.  Bad weather.  Oh well, maybe I will go and bump into Yvonne.  It shouldn't be hard to do, I mean it's not like I've never had a woman before.  Hell, it's because of a woman that I kill people.  If she hadn't taught me so many things and gave a handler a line on me, I wouldn't be stuck doing this job.  Sure, it pays good...but eventually the damn targets become younger, faster, and stronger than the person trying to hit them.  Now, that doesn't really matter.  Thanks to the inventions of bombs (homemade or professional), and sniper rifles, you can take someone out and all you have to know how to do is hook up a few wires to some volatile compounds, or pull a trigger.          And it's just that easy,” he thinks to himself.
                   He goes to the closet and grabs a jacket.  Being just a raincoat, it's little more than a sheet of plastic with a zipper.  It's nylon or polyester or something, dark blue with yellow stitching signifying a brand that most people probably never heard of.  He puts it on, and looks to the top shelf where he keeps his hat.  It's there, on the top shelf, sitting next to the briefcase.  He reaches up his hand and grabs his hat, setting it on his head, and then grabs the handle of the briefcase.  He pulls the briefcase and sits down on his white-leather wrap-around couch made by Ashley Furniture, one of the best manufacturers in the furniture business and affordable too.  He sets the black briefcase on my red-stained wooden coffee table and fidgets with the combination lock on one side of the briefcase until it pops open without causing any physical damage to the latch or combination, then he puts the successful string of numbers into the lock on the other side and that one clicks open as well.  He opens the top of the briefcase, causing his eyes to open wide with surprise at what he finds inside.  The contents were almost overwhelming:
         
                                                 "Date: 02062010
                                                  Time: 0313AM
                                                  Contact: Nicole I. Newport
                                                  Mark: Johnathan I. Male
                                                  Number: 1-2
                                                  Number: 3526780211
                                                  Test: 1
                                                  Subject: 2
                                                  Preliminary Instructions were completed three days ago.
                                                  Subject is adapting to new situations easily and is learning
                                                  combative at an accelerated rate.  The contact, name stated
                                                  above, has finished detailing on investigative procedures and
                                                  the measures to be taken to counteract and hide ones identity
                                                  from any other investigating government agency. 
         
                   "Nicole?" John thinks to himself, knowing that she taught him much about the ways of discipline and murder.  A better teacher, he couldn't think of one, except maybe the guy that played in that movie.  But why was this here? He started going through the papers, setting them face down on the table next to the briefcase.  The first sheet, the one with more personal info on it than he cared to think someone had, was first.  The next one:
                                       
                                                 “Assignments to date: 150
                                                       Target Status: Eliminated
                                                  Rate of Success: 100%
                                                  Efficiency: 100%
                                                  Next rank: Promotion, field commander
                                                  Effective: Upon reading the contents of this briefcase.

                   “What does that mean?  Field commander for what?”  The questions kept cycling through his mind to the point of insanity, he didn't understand.  He didn't really even work for an organization.  The man who paid him might work for some organization with ranks, but he didn't think he did. Plus, He'd never even met anyone from this organization.  So how could he get promoted?  So many questions, so few answers.  The next page was addressed to him personally.
                                       

                                                                     “Dear John,
                                                            If you are reading this than you have done your job well.
                                                 Every target we have sent you to kill has been eliminated successfully,
                                                 and the police have no clue as to “whodunnit.”  If you would like to receive
                                                 promotion to field commander, you must meet me within three days at
                                                 the Hilton hotel in Milwaukee.  That means that on the day of you
                                                 reading this you have about thirty-six hours to get there.

                                                                                                                       Godspeed.”

                   Brief and to the point, it was exactly what he would have expected.  Thirty-six hours is actually more like twelve hours, however that goal is the least of his problems.  His handler gave him a tip a long time ago and it resonated through his brain, like a flashing red warning light.  Something isn't right about this, either someone in the business was setting him up or someone outside the business was setting him up.  He gets up off the couch, in three strides he's across the bur bur carpeted living room floor and he grabs the cordless handset of his phone off of it's charger.  He looks through the caller ID and find the number that his handler called him from. His thumb presses the talk button, and he raises the phone to his ear while he walks back down the small hallway and into the bedroom.  After dialing the number straight from the caller ID memory, the phone starts ringing.  It rings twice, and a woman answers. 
                   “Hello?” The tone of her voice is low, and she speaks with confidence.
                   “I need to talk to him.”  He says, without introducing himself.
                   “I'm sorry sir, who do you need to talk to?” John didn't know his name.  What would he say?
                   “I don't know his name, but if you don't put him on the phone I will trace wherever this call came from and find you.”
                   “There is no need for threats Johnathan, I just had to make sure that you were the one I was talking too.  I'll transfer you to his phone right now.”
                   “How do you know my name?” Before he can finish the question, he hears the telltale click and slight change in tone on the line that means she already transferred the call.  He waits for a little while, and while he waits he flips the mattress off his bed and then lifts the false top on his box spring open.  He looks through his small home arsenal and starts thinking about which guns to take. 
                   “Hello Johnathan!  What brings this call about?”
                   “I thought you'd be in Milwaukee.”
                   “What do you mean?”
                   “The briefcase on my targets last night had some documents inside of it that tell me to meet someone at the Hilton in Milwaukee.  Something about a promotion to field commander.”
                   “Exactly how much information did that briefcase contain, Johnathan?”
                   “Alot.  A picture of me, my phone number.  How many jobs I've done for you.”
                   “How many jobs did it say you'd done for me?”
                   “One-fifty.”
                   “Johnathan, I've only sent you out on one hundred forty-six.  Is the count on the paper wrong?”
                   “No.  I've done one hundred and fifty jobs for you.  That is how many you've sent me on, over the last five years.  If it wasn't you, then who assigned the extra four?”
                   “I don't know Johnathan, listen to me.  I want you to go to the Hilton meeting, and arm yourself to the teeth.  Get outside the front door an hour before your time limit is up and I will have someone meet you outside.”
                   “Yes sir, what's your name sir? I assume now I'll meet you eventually.”
                   “My guy will bring you to me, Johnathan.  Then you can know.”  He hung up, and something definitely didn't sit right now but he couldn't figure out what it was because his brain was flustered. He always knew that something like this could happen, but he always thought the chance was so slim.  Most professional hitmen don't get found out except by other professional hitmen, and he was willing to bet that's exactly what happened here. 
                   He grabs a black duffel from his closet and starts packing it full.  Two pistols, a sawed-off twelve gauge shotgun, a case of flashbangs, two compact submachine guns barely as long as his forearm with two extra banana clips for each, a wiring kit with various explosive mediums so he can rig something to go boom in a variety of ways, and a broke down sniper rifle in a case with two boxes of ammunition and two clips.  Certainly a nice personal arsenal for one job.  He decided to leave behind his real fragmentation grenades this time, because he doesn't like making a spectacle out of killing innocent people.  Most hitmen who stop caring about innocent lives wind up getting caught up due to sloppy work.
                   He closes the lid on his box spring and puts his mattress back on top of it but he doesn't bother making the bed again, instead he piled his black comforter and pillows right on top of the bed.  The guns and explosives were in the duffel, so he went and grabbed a change of clothes, a black sateen shirt and black tie with a white tank top and white boxers, as well as another pair of pleated pants.  If you're going to be conducting business, you must look the part.  He also included a black ski mask.  He stuffed the clothes into a small gym bag and zipped it up tight. Walking back out to the living room he put the blue raincoat back into the closet and grabbed a long black leather coat with a zipper.  He had personally seamed extra pockets inside the jacket that were heavy enough for clips and a few flashbangs, and he had the jacket modified so that in the places where his holsters hung the bulges didn't show.  He picked the duffel bags up again and opened the door to his apartment and walked out, closing and locking the door behind him. 
                   In the hallway he saw no one, just white painted walls and closed doors with plastic numbers screwed into them just above peepholes that allowed the tenants to see who's at the door before answering, and dirty red carpeting that ran from the top hallway down the stairs and then into the bottom hallway, the shoddy workmanship showing around spaced apart seams and spots where the carpet was bubbling up off the floor.  Taking quick steps but being careful not to let the weapons in the duffel clang together, he rounds the corner and goes down the stairs.
                   Upon reaching the bottom he turns the corner and runs into someone.  A short, fit, dirty-blond haired girl.  Her silky hair flowing part of the way down her back, resting just above her shoulder blades.  Her teeth were white and straight, and her clothes are very form fitting, and to his surprise, very flattering on her.
                   "Sorry, miss."
                   "It's okay, really.  Name's Yvonne." She said the words coolly, and her lips moved to form a small smile.
                   "Ah...yeah.  Nice to meet you, I gotta go."  He didn't even extend his hand and he stepped past her.  He looked back as he was crossing the threshold on his way out the door, and she was still standing in the hallway holding that slight half smile on her lips.  She was beautiful.  He forced her image out of his mind, having no time for distractions.  The chilly outside air hit him, cooling his body off instantly.  The raindrops that hit the hood on his raincoat made a soft patter that was a little bit louder than hearing the rain hit everything else.  Due to the rain, and the time of day, there weren't many people on the sidewalks at all.  They were probably all sitting in some office building or at a job-site somewhere, or else just not wanting to be outside when it rained.
                   He walked around the building to my car, a habit he had gotten into in part to keep an eye on who was around, instead of just walking out the back door.  His car, a small black BMW coupe that he had bought used from an ad in the paper was in good condition and looked almost new thanks to the free car wash that the weather provided.  Upon pushing the button on the keyring, the car emitted a beep and the lights flashed once, and after pushing another button the doors unlocked.  He pulled open the back door and carefully set the two bags on the backseat.  He hopped in and put the key in the ignition, a half turn and the car was fired up.  He let it run for a few minutes while putting a CD into the player, and just sat thinking for a bit. 
                   As he put the car into drive something from the conversation with his handler was nagging at him.  He couldn't quite put his finger on it though, so he pushed it out of his head and listened to loud trance music as he pulled out of the asphalt driveway onto the street and the dark red brick apartment building faded out of the rear view mirror.  Driving towards the highway the town was still dead, with only a few cars in various parking lots here and there, and with his windshield wiper switch set on intermittent he was watching the road and thinking more about his predicament. 
                   A lot of thoughts were circled through his head, and he was grateful that he had actually stayed at the Hilton before, because training had taught him that knowledge of his surroundings is a crucial part of a successful mission.


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Discipline and Murder Chapter 3  (13+) A time in the life of a hitman. #1616164 by PenName