Page 6 of Tethered Souls
“Confirmed,” I say.
“Woman by the tree at eleven. White hat, blonde hair.”
My eyes track to the left. She’s standing, her shoulders hunched, her head down. Long sleeves and trousers. A man walks by her, and she flinches. “Confirmed.”
“Preteen male at twelve. Black wife beater.”
I tense even as my gaze picks him out in the crowd. It might be the beginning of February, but today’s the first day the sun has been out in a while, and the park is busier than normal. The boy is young. Ten maybe. Or eleven.
“Dayne,” I say. We agreed to kill three others. Our client paid the quarter million fee, the first half made six months ago, when her husband was first diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. One hundred thousand for the kid. Fifty for each one thereafter as they aren’t specific targets, just extras to hide the real crime. But in cases like these, we are always particular in our choices.
No ‘good people.’
And no kids.
The old man is hiding an erection between his crossed legs and newspaper. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe he has priapism, but his eyes are on the kids instead of down in embarrassment.
The woman is being heavily abused, her bruises hidden behind long sleeves and a curtain of hair over her face. But she is out here with her child, free fromhim, and she isn’t running. She’s going to go back. Take her child back tothat.
“Look at him,” Dayne says softly, and my gaze sharpens on the kid.
There aren’t any bruises on him. His head is up, and he’s standing with his mates, a metal water bottle in his hand. He passes it to a friend, and she takes a swig before pulling a face and coughing. He laughs, but my eyes are on the arm he uses to grab the bottle back. A gang tattoo covers half his forearm. And his knuckles are red and raw.
I think back on the man the woman flinched from. He’s the same build and has the same hair color and cut as her son.
“He’s beating her,” I say.
“Most likely.”
Dayne never confirms any of the deductions we make. To him, they’re merely deductions, never confirmations. To me...they’re simply enough for me to live with the choices I make.
“She’s a mercy killing,” I say. A mother being beaten by her own son. She loves him too much to stop him. But even if he dies, she’ll most likely drink herself to death. Either due to the judgment of others for having failed as a mom. Or her own voice judging her too. A civvy might argue that she could break the cycle of pain, that she could beat the statistics, that there is such a thing as hope. That she could come out stronger…
But everyone in this park has thepotentialto change. A future that could be worth saving.
Target Preteen approaches his mom, and she instantly fumbles inside her purse and pulls out another bottle. He sneers at her as he takes it. A psychopath who gets off on seeing her fear. Otherwise, he would have just left her at home. Ditched her to be cool with his friends. Instead, he trained her well.
Exhaling, I say, “Confirmed.”
“Target now on the swings.” Dayne opens the slats, then slides the window up.
Keeping the gun inside the apartment, I line up the shot, watching as our target swings back and forth. His eyes are closed. There’s a smile on his face.
I wait for him to fall back to the lowest point.
And then I fire into his skull.
TWO
HER
The park erupts into chaos as I swing my gun to Target Preteen. The bullet rips through his lung. The next one goes into his mother as she rushes to his side. I turn my weapon to the old man as he runs away, his cane forgotten. The shot goes in his back. He falls on a scream. As he starts to crawl, I fire again. He no longer moves.
Turning to Dayne as the panic outside rages, I find him sitting our patsy up against the wall. The man groans, his eyes fluttering again. Squatting in front of him as Dayne zips up our bag, I place the gun in the man’s hand, then raise it to his temple. His eyes are glossed over, but they latch on to me. Like so many people, I’m the last thing he sees. Bits of brain spray out the other side of his skull. A public shooting, followed by a death by suicide – painting him as just another statistic.
Removing my hand from his, I watch as he sags over. Then I turn to Dayne as I rise. “Do you think if I put out a hit on Varius, Father will take it?”
He laughs as we head for the exit.
