The Killer

By Patrick McCormack (Bio on "Choices")

The first time you kill a man you have to fight every natural instinct not to. You’re trained not to care, regardless how hard. The first one’s the hard one. You shake. Your heart feels like it’ll burst from all the adrenaline pumping through you.

Load up. Pull the trigger. Stab. Pull blade from ear to ear. These are the easiest to learn. What they don’t teach is how to forget his face. How to close your eyes without seeing him.

I’d never met my first mark. Not before that night. All I knew was where he was going to be. Club Zero. He’s there every night chasing tail. There with his wall of hired security. It’s amazing how high-profile Fed security is for witnesses when you pay attention. This guy was about to turn state’s evidence against my employer. That’s why I was there, two tables away. Sweating under the lights. The ice in my drink shaking as I lifted it to my lips. Waiting for the perfect opportunity.

It came.

A man can only drink so much scotch before he has to piss.

After his fourth round I went to the men’s room and waited. I puked twice.

When you shoot someone they don’t die immediately. Sometimes they don’t even fall after the first shot. You could hit them with a double-tap in the sternum - execution style. They’ll freeze; just standing there, staring. The third bullet, the headshot, ends it. I know this because they taught me. A soon-to-be killer.

After an eternity in the stall, waiting, watching the door through the space between the stall door and wall, he walked in. Fly already down. Security didn’t follow him. The room was ours.

I exited the stall when I heard piss hit the urinal. The knife felt cold in my hand. I knew I only had a few seconds before some drunk stumbled in the door. I had to do this quickly.

He was oblivious to everything beyond his own relief. Deaf to my approach out of the stall and behind him.

My knife entered his lung in one stab. Right between the second and third ribs. Silence. It’s impossible to yell with a knife in your lung. The perfect silent kill. He froze except for the piss still flowing. I twisted the knife. My eyes closed. When I opened them I saw his face reflected in the tile wall in front of us, locked like lovers. His eyes were locked on mine.

He fell when I pulled the knife out. I pushed him into the urinal. Head in the bowl.

I wiped off the knife and walked out.

It all took less than thirty seconds.

Job done. An envelop of cash would soon be mine.

It’s all down hill after your first hit. There’s a line, and once it’s crossed there’s nothing left. You’re a killer. It’ll never be hard again. After the first it’s too easy to kill.

My phone rings. Back to work.