A Life of Crime

The client that contacted me last week was a special one. Not only was he willing to pay a lot of money for the job, he also had exceptional requests of how it should be done. He even wanted to provide me with a gun, but I declined this generous offer – I have my own weapons to carry out my duties, it would feel weird to use other ones.

My client was absolutely right when he suggested using the big hedge behind the house as a hiding-place. Crouched behind the thick bushes, I had perfect vision to the apartment on the first floor. My target seemed to be busy with the makeup as she was getting ready to go out. She was sitting in front of a mirror in the bedroom, obviously in a good mood, as she was crooning to the music that she was listening to. She was a beautiful woman, apparently in her thirties, with long brown hair and a bland smile, not even having a clue that her husband paid a lot of money for her assassination. She seemed to be nice. I hated it when my targets were nice people, it made my job a lot more difficult. Of course, it would be great if all of my targets were idiots or criminals, but unfortunately the reality of a contract killer is another one.

The reality is that I kill men and women because other people tell me to. I often think about my past, desperately trying to find out what made me the kind of person I am today. I was born and raised in Russia and I came to England seven years ago – illegally, of course. I haven’t used my real name for years, and I have four passports that distribute me with different identities. My latest client thought my name was Roman Rascalov, while I might introduce myself as Dimitri Zhirkov, Mikhail Petrov or Richard Miller as well (although I did not use the last one frequently – my accent quickly exposed me as an immigrant).

Apparently, my target was finished with her makeup as she stood up and left the bedroom, but I still heard music being played in the apartment, meaning that I had to wait a little longer. When I met her husband, he told me that she had cheated on him – nothing special to me, this was the most commonly used excuse to have a formerly loved person executed. I doubted that these lame accusations were always true, but as long as I received hard cash, I decided not to bother.

Talking about money – I knew I had a well-paid job. My clients were willing to spend horrendous amounts to have annoying people out of the way instead of doing it themselves. Some didn’t want to dirty their hands, while others simply were scared of the idea of killing another person. They realized that they were still destroying lives, but they were more comfortable with the thought that another one would do the dirty work. That “another one” was me – risking my own life to end others and hoping that the police wouldn’t upset my plans.

However, it was not only a dangerous, but also a lonely occupation. I was nearly forty years old, and the desire of quitting this senseless job and starting a family became bigger nearly every day. “Just one more mission”, I constantly told myself to soothe my conscience. However, it was a hard fact that changing my everyday life was not that easy.

Finally, my target left the house and headed for the parking lot at the other side of the street. It tore me out of my thoughts and reminded me of my job. I took a deep breath, clutched my weapon and followed her as quietly as possible.