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Feb. 20th, 2004
Depression had started to set in. It always did, the day after another job was finished. It comes from being one of the very best assassins. You're paid to kill people. You do so. But the thrill comes from the deed, and between jobs, what is there?
Money? The interest on his many bank accounts allowed him to live comfortably for the rest of his life.
Companionship? How can any assassin possibly live a normal life with someone else when one slip means you have to kill them to keep your secret?
...
...
Not that he slipped up, but it's the principle that matters.
The last job was perfect. They all were, but each job was a piece of art. According to a few well-placed sources, the police were writing it off as an accidental death. Twenty million dollars for an assassination, and no one else but the buyer even know that it was an assassination. Or why it had to be done. The client's words. It has to be done. Discreetly. As if there was any other option.
But with the job finished, all that was left was to wait for the next job. Days would almost certainly pass before that happened. Weeks, likely. The best are expensive, and their services sought so rarely. Months? It had happened before. Never a whole year. Not yet, at least. That would be intolerable. What is the point of being the best in your field if you are never used?
The phone rang.
It only rang if one of his go-betweens had a job offer for him.
It rang again. Two jobs in a week? This never happened.
It rang a third time. It wouldn't ring a fourth. He picked it up.
"Hello?"
Money? The interest on his many bank accounts allowed him to live comfortably for the rest of his life.
Companionship? How can any assassin possibly live a normal life with someone else when one slip means you have to kill them to keep your secret?
...
...
Not that he slipped up, but it's the principle that matters.
The last job was perfect. They all were, but each job was a piece of art. According to a few well-placed sources, the police were writing it off as an accidental death. Twenty million dollars for an assassination, and no one else but the buyer even know that it was an assassination. Or why it had to be done. The client's words. It has to be done. Discreetly. As if there was any other option.
But with the job finished, all that was left was to wait for the next job. Days would almost certainly pass before that happened. Weeks, likely. The best are expensive, and their services sought so rarely. Months? It had happened before. Never a whole year. Not yet, at least. That would be intolerable. What is the point of being the best in your field if you are never used?
The phone rang.
It only rang if one of his go-betweens had a job offer for him.
It rang again. Two jobs in a week? This never happened.
It rang a third time. It wouldn't ring a fourth. He picked it up.
"Hello?"