Page 4 of Mine to Keep
Peggy: Did you fuck up a job?
If it were anyone else, I’d be pissed at my fuckups being pointed out. But Peggy and I go back years. She’s my second handler, taking over after my first handler was…fired. Peggy and I have a better relationship than me and my first handler, actually meeting in person a few times. It’s more of a security thing for both of us, mutually assured destruction and all that jazz.
I text her back with a frown.
Me: No. I killed him like I was supposed to.
I’m comfortable sending messages like that over the phone, as Peggy encrypted it herself with some fancy software I can’t begin to explain or understand. As soon as messages are sent, they’re deleted and unrecoverable.
She texts back quickly.
Peggy: What happened?
I give her the rundown of the job as I walk to my car that’s parked a block away, in a copse of trees just before the large, heavy gate for this community. It’s out of the line of sight of all the cameras mounted on top of the gate, so I can make a clean getaway.
A few minutes later, she messages me back.
Peggy: *laughing emoji* at least the job is done. Are you taking a break?
Me: Yeah. For a month, unless the money is right.
I might work for the company, but I’m the best contract killer they have on payroll and the most in demand. I can pick and choose what jobs I do, and tell them when I don’t want to work. Over the years, I’ve made a name for myself, able to name my own prices and pick my own targets.
Peggy texts me back.
Peggy: Enjoy. If something good comes across my board, I’ll hit you up.
I climb behind the wheel of my car, sighing as my muscles finally scream at me. It’s been a few years since I’ve had to fight before a kill, even longer since someone hit me as hard as Judge Bowers. I’ll have to stay inside my apartment for a week or more until my face heals. I don’t live in the same state, but I don’t want any reason for anyone to suspect me of murder.
Makeup can only do so much.
Before I pull off, I get another phone call from the company.
“Dammit, I swear to God,” I say into the receiver when I answer.
“Client is still unhappy. We will not go down for your fuck-up.”
“You won’t,” I say, irritated beyond belief. “I have her on-camera discussing the murder. Send it to her and she’ll back the fuck off.”
Pulling my phone from my ear, I scroll through my video recording app and forward them the recording.
It’s a five-minute clip of Teresa, discussing how she wants her father killed. There’s no way she can deny it’s her. The camera I had discretely affixed to the collar of my shirt was aimed directly at her. In the video clip, she’s heard saying her name, her father’s name, how she wanted him killed and why. If she tries to take us down, she’ll go down too.
“Hold, please,” he says, then hangs up.
“Fucking dick,” I mutter, and toss my phone into the passenger seat.
I grab a fitted cap from my backseat and pull it low over my face. I have on a disguise, but I want to be careful. My car is a nondescript sedan with fake plates, so if someone spots me, they won’t get any leads from that either.
I’m just clearing the gate when my phone rings. Keeping my eyes on the road, I grab it from the passenger seat and put it on speaker.
“You better have good news,” I threaten.
“Your message was received. She will not trouble us any further.”
I hang up without another word.
I know she won’t. Unless she wants to go down too.
