Page 8 of A Shot in the Dark
If I hadn’t been walking home from being fired, none of those gunshots would have been fired, no one would have panicked, no one would need serious therapy as a result of having had the misfortune of randomly sharing a sidewalk withme.
The shooting stops as suddenly as it started. Sirens wail in the distance, growing increasingly closer as the city’s finest show up to deal with the potential tragedy. The officer who had shown up yesterday to allay my fears has returned and immediately picks me out of the milling crowd waiting to give their statements to the police. He looks me up and down briefly, but trains his gaze on the rest of the crowd as he talks to me. Officer Newbuck. That’s his name.
“Was that box yours?”
“The one with the bullet holes in it? Yes, that was mine.”
“So it seems pretty obvious that this was the work of whoever left you that note.”
I nod.
“You were the one being targeted and everyone else was in the way. Remind me of your line of work?”
“International business.”
“Impressive.”
“Honestly, they give me all the data, I check it against other data, make a fancy slideshow, write a presentation and… That’s pretty much it.”
“Do you ever give big presentations?”
“Depends on the audience. Some countries like blondes showcasing data, some think women of any sort should sit down and shut up.”
“Hmm. Ever deliver bad news?”
“In this economy? Who hasn’t?” I study his face. “Oh. No... You know what they say: ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’”
“Isn’t it the messenger usually suggesting that?”
My gaze drops to the ground, to the shattered remnants of some of the box’s contents. “Shit.” I can’t even immediately make out what the broken thing is. Could this all also be because of my work entanglements?” My stomach grumbles uncomfortably in distress. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Nothing more than a few people banged up from falling onto the sidewalk in their hurry. They’ll have some nightmares for sure. As big as our city is, and as much of a bad reputation as it gets, this is not normal.”
“I know.”
He shepherds me into the building, guiding me to one of the couches in the condo’s lobby, saying, “Sit.”
I drop like my spine’s come undone, my bracelets clinking together loudly. I grab the chunkiest one on my left wrist and give it a twist. Then I switch hands and do the same with a gold bracelet on my left wrist, breathing more calmly as I toy with them.
“Did you call Andrei?”
“No. I tried to get some sleep and just now got back from being fired from my job.”
“Shit. Sorry. The hits just keep on coming don’t they?”
I can’t do anything more meaningful than nod mutely.
“I’ll go gather up the contents of your box. You stay right here.” He motions to security; they don’t have to move far—they were drifting nearby anyhow. “Stick with her for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Again he is absolutely true to his word and returns carrying my broken box and what's left of its contents. “It looks pretty bad,” he concedes. “It could have been worse. He could have actually hit you.”
“True.He?”
“I’m not sure of course, but nine out of ten times it's a guy pulling the trigger. Usually ex-Special Forces or some sort of military background. Sometimes an ex-cop.” He gives a little shrug like becoming an assassin is something he’s considered as a side hustle.
“Yikes.”
“Maybe not ‘yikes,’” he says. “I mean, this guy hasn't managed to actually get his—or her—hands on you. He can’t be that good.”
