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He was sitting at a bistro table, Starbucks Coffee at Tower Bridge Piazza. The area around Shad Thames and Horsleydown Lane looked like the old country. He was only a few yards away from where he had dropped the WAG. He had done as he was ordered. The WAG’s estranged husband wanted her dropped on the spot he had proposed to her. He had paid a lot of money to make sure that happened. People were mumbling about a body that had been found in the Thames this morning. People thought it was suicide. London was a dark and dreary, depressing place that had plenty of self-killings. But the man with the broken nose knew the truth. Glasses on, he was reading Divorce for Dummies, drinking a tall house coffee. No cream. Sugar. With his cell up to his ear. Frustration was crawling up and down his spine. Jaw tight, he told his soon-to-be ex-wife, “I’m in London. Left a message on your phone.” “I’m leaving you. I’m moving on with my life.” “Let’s not go through this again. I can’t handle this right now.” “I’m taking our daughter. I’m taking Melaine. Skeeter can stay with you. Boys should be with their fathers. You can teach him things I can’t. No child support. Agreed?” “I’m tired of the threats. Lets get this divorce over with, Can we? This is worse than that crap Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger went through. You need to calm the fuck down.” “Don’t tell me to calm the eff down. Don’t you dare tell me to calm the eff down.” “Your killing me over here, you know that? It’s what, still the middle of the night in Texas and you’re blowing up my phone. Why do you do this to me? Why harass me?” “I’m leaving you.” “Don’t talk about it. Be about it.” “I’m leaving you.” “And I want you to leave. I was served. I signed. What else do you want?” “But I’m not taking Skeeter. I can’t deal with Skeeter. I can’t handle Skeeter Pressure at both temples. He wondered if Paul McCartney was this stressed. He snapped, “Don’t do this to me, not right now.” “Two weeks you’ve been gone. When are you coming back?” He took a breath. “Trying to get back to Katy sometime tomorrow.” “I can’t handle Skeeter. Come get him. He should be with his father.” His cell rang. Not the one in his hand, the one in his pocket. The hotline He told his soon-to-be ex-wife to hold on. She asked, “Hold on? I’m falling apart. Why should I have to hold on?” “Business call coming in. Need to take it.” She hung up on him He almost called her back. But there was no need trying to put toothpaste back in the tube. That was both futile and messy. He flipped one phone closed, Flipped the other one open. He answered, “Talk to me, Sam.” “Got another job for you.” He grunted out his frustration. “Where?” “London.” “Need to leave. London’s going to be on fire in the next few hours.” “Top dollar on the next one.” “Top dollar? What’s top dollar?” He listened. What he heard caused him to put his book to the side. “That’s a lot of money.” Can get you half in the next day or so.” “What’s the job?” “Cleanup. High-profile” High-profile. People liked to clean up after big jobs, jobs that drew too much attention. The contractors liked to assassinate the contract killers to prevent them from testifying or even spreading rumors about who hired them. Rotten business. Profitable, but rotten to the core. Everybody was expendable in the name of self-preservation. The man with the broken nose asked, “From what Job?” “Can’t say.” “Well, is it a European cleanup?” “Something back in North America.” “North America runs from Mexico to the North Pole.” He sipped his coffee. Cleanups were the most dangerous. Killer against Killer. But wives cost money. Kids cost money. Coffee cost money. He asked, “Who is the package on? Who is the hit on, Sam? Man or Women?” “Don’t know. Not like there is a hit man’s registration Act to keep you guys in line.” “Save the jokes. Get me the package.” “Will do.” “If I’m staying, I’ll need some perks. And I need some additional hardware.” “Place your order. I can get almost anything.” “Had my eye on a Desert Eagle .50. Titanium finish.” “Israeli gun. Big bullets. Loud bang.” “Hadn’t planned on staying, Need money. Not to be held against my fee.” “Use the American Express that came with the passport and tickets.” “Need suits. And you know what kind of suits I wear.” “Then buy kind of suits you wear.” He hung up that cell. Then flipped open the other one. Started putting in the 713 area code to his soon -to-be ex-wife’s cell. Made it to the last number and paused. He hated her. He really did. He wished he had thrown her into the Thames Now he was stuck in London He had planned on returning to Gatwick. An hour trip. Go through customs. Another hour. Wait for three or four hours to board a flight at British Air. Take a nine-hour flight back to Atlanta. Again through customs. Then wait for another plane. After that a two-hour flight to Houston. Drive the forty-five minutes to Katy. Get Mexican food for dinner. Then listen to his soon-to-be ex-wife bitch about how much she hated her life. Listen to her brag about her new boyfriend. How he takes her out. He hung up the phone He didn’t want to rush home to that. He’d take a nap, buy a couple of suits, maybe head out to the Brick Lane Market and take a glimpse at the Bengali culture. He’d picked up a travel guide. London in 24 Hours. Had circled a few things that looked interesting. A restaurant on Portobello Road looked nice. Brochure said it was across the street from a famous tattoo shop that had been seen in the opening of a Julia Roberts movie, one she had done with some wimpy British guy. Might find his way over to the Ten Bells pub. Maybe just relax for a few hours and do like the brochure recommended, become a tourist and take in some of Dickensian London. He checked into Novotel. He had wanted something more discreet. But it was right across the street, he really didn’t feel like looking for a place. So why not take the one across the street. He checked in, got his room key, but didn’t go up to his suite; instead he came right back out for the tube. He wanted to have on clean clothes when he saw her again. Maybe a nice European suit with one-and-a-quarter-inch cuffs. His phone rang again. The hotline. He answered, “Talk to me.” “The contact is on a guy who uses the handle Carmine. He calls himself Carmine Vestieri.” “Carmine?” “That’s it.” “Was expecting something more menacing.” “Well Isaac isn’t exactly gruesome.” “Isaac is a kick-ass name” “Well, this guy calls himself Carmine.” What else you got for me.” “Got more information coming in later.” “Don’t keep yanking my chain.” “I assure you that a package is being sent to me as we speak.” “Could you be a little more vague, Sam?” “My apologies to you, Isaac. They are dragging on the other end.” “Well, tell them to be professional. Respect my fucking time.” “I should have the info soon.” “When is soon? Thanksgiving? Christmas?” “Within the hour. In the meantime, my cranky friend, get some sleep!” He rubbed his jet-lagged eyes. “Call me when you get the package.” He hung up. Harry Potter books He had to find Harry Potter books It was the one thing his baby girl asked him, bring her the London copy of Harry potter. And if his princess wanted Harry Potter himself, he’d kidnap the boy, take the bastard to her. He was anxious to take this contract, kill the target, then go back home, eat some authentic Mexican Food. As far as he was concerned, Carmine was already a dead man. And that was nothing but business. He was in the business of killing. - [ * * * ] - * - [ * * * ] - It’s time. Isaac, do you feel the jitters? Do you feel the pain in your stomach, casting doubt upon you, all the way to your head? Those are the feelings. The feelings we feel when we are worried about something, or unsure of our current predicaments. It’s a six sense, in which we as humans have been delt with. It keeps us out of danger, or at least attempts to. Because despite these feelings, Isaac. Surely, you will walk into the ring and try to prove your superiority to me. Will you fail? Well, that’s a different story for a different day. Isaac Reynolds, you are a solid competitor. But when it stacks up to me? You’re a few chips short. I understand that I’m seen as the under dog. I know people believe, I have a few mountains to climb when it comes, to hooking your leg for the count of three. But by god mark, my words it will be done. The world will witness it. The big and mighty Isaac Reynolds, being forcefully tossed off his pedestal. It’ll make the news, it’ll be on the news paper head lines. Your friends, your family, your whore—they will all see, Isaac crash and burn in epic proportions. The flames, will light up my eyes, as I watch on with a smile across my face. You see Isaac. This has become much more personal, than being named the North American champion, or anything of that sort. I’m here to prove to myself, that the dark path I’ve took? Leads me to light. Not of that of the heavens, or stars—but to the fame and glory. There’s only one man holding a key to that, and that’s you. I’m not just going to take the key from you, I want to hurt you. I want to make you miserable. I’m not going to stop, until you’ve gave me everything you’ve got. You see, I’m not going to take that key from you. You’re going to give it to me, by the ways of victory. I know the only way to beat the dragon, is to slay him. There’s no wounding him, until he crawls up in a corner and hides. No. To beat the beast, you destroy the beast. And trust me Isaac, you are a mighty beast. You’re strong, your powerful, your vicious. But you will be beaten on that night, and the dragon dagger will lay witness to such noble acts, on our night. You can kick, you can scream, and you can deny it. But these aren’t my opinions. These are facts, which will be written by the blood on my hands, and the marks on your body. Isaac, I know these are just words. And I know, they may not hurt you. However, there honestly not meant to hurt or sting you. This talk? These threats? Are only a fraction of things to come. I spit venom, and I spit venom that stings. But trust, I’ve proven to you and everyone else that I can back these words up. I’ve systematically destroyed, broken, and picked apart each on of my opponents. In the end? You’re no different from them. Isaac, I have everything to gain on your losses. This is about cementing my name, on the marquee of the wrestling world and making history. This is about proving I am the best North American Champion, in the entire world to date. And if you Isaac stand in my way? I’m going to move you to the side. You stand in my way of my goals; that’s enough to piss me off. That’s enough to make things personal. Anyone who gets between me and my achievements? They will pay the price; in blood. Isaac. On our night you have two choices. You can think back to the time, you won and retained your title. Or you can open your eyes long enough, to watch yourself lose it. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve set my eyes on something, and not you or anybody else can change that. This is my night, you day in the sun has already set. All your glory, all your fame, all your fun at the top. It ends with me. You don’t fight to win from here on out, you fight to survive. If you fight to win? You leave yourself open, for complete and utter failure, in which you will have to cope with for the rest of your pathetic existence on this earth. Isaac, you’ve spread your plague upon us for way too long. And now it’s time I bring on the antidote, and cure an entire nation after suffering from your grips. These fans of the experts, have suffered way too long watching you parade around as the top guy. They’ve been poisoned, and brain washed, into believing you’re the right guy for this job. As if you are really the North American Champion and the top wrestler in the world today. I want to ask you this. What happens when I ascend up that ladder, and grab hold of that dagger? What happens when I thrust the blade into your rib cage? Will the fans help you? Will their cheers, help you move on? What happens when I hit you with my finishing maneuver? Will the predictions, give you the extra push to get back up and prove them right? Isaac, what happens when your down on your back, and you witness your title in my hands, and the bell rings, confirming you of your failed efforts? Are you going to remember last month, when you were standing over me in the same manner? These questions, they will be answered. When I place my hand over the foundation the arena was built on, shaking it for all it’s worth. The building will rumble back and forth, the fans will cry out in horror, for their hero has fallen. You’ve written a nice pretty story for yourself, but this? This is how it all ends. -- That’s a Wrap! -- |