The assassin Phoenix was killed by my hand two days ago.
7.2.07
Phoenix
The sun was blinding. Hurrying toward the fashionable end of Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue, I wiped the sweat off my face and cursed the heat. Two failed attempts to catch my mark alone at home had forced me out here into this crowd to try and tag her in commute, when she should be unguarded. I knew that this was not one of my better ideas; I’d never seen her office and didn’t know where she habitually parked, but I had word from a good source of where she ought to be and when. I cursed myself for lack of planning and recon and cursed the time for passing. The heat made speed near impossible, but I moved faster anyway. I would not miss this hit.
I found my rat half a block from her building and waved in greeting. He grinned and gestured that I should follow, and led me, panting, out of the press of shoppers and into a shadowed concrete walkway. Glass-fronted shops [Candy! Tobacco! Adult magazines!] lined the way down to where Phoenix should be leaving her office in ten- no, seven minutes time. I slouched against a pay phone near the doorway and looked around. The place was nearly empty, without cameras or guards, and nobody paid me any attention.
To be safe, I turned my body to face the phone booth and stuffed the grimy receiver under my ear before I brought out my tiny two-shot derringer.
‘Piece of shit gun,’ I thought fondly, smiling. The horrible thing was ancient and miniscule and, for reasons unknown to anyone but poor dead Missy Wilma, was painted a flamboyant purple. My Remington was a fourth-generation hand-me-down, a post-mortem gift from my great-grandmother, left to me hidden in her box of jewels and trinkets. I had loved it and restored it and I carried it everywhere; today, on a close-quarter kill in hot summer daylight, it was the only firearm I trusted not to draw any attention.
Not that it mattered, really: anyone who’d ever seen it assumed it was used for paintball or something. The gun’s ridiculous color made it look like a toy.
I palmed the old purple derringer and checked my watch. Five minutes; time enough for a cigarette, if I’d had any. The rat’s eyes were tracking someone through the office’s plate glass window. I resumed my slouch against the phone booth, keeping the door in my peripheral vision. My heart thumped once, twice.
‘This is it,’ I told myself. ‘I’m gonna miss that girl.’
The office door swung open, and my hit stepped out into the corridor, wearing dark blue silk and with her blonde hair bouncing just above her shoulders.
“Tank!” she exclaimed, “What’re you doing here?”
I reached out and pulled her into a hug. “Hey, Phoenix,” I said. “I’m here to kill you.”
The tiny bang from my tiny pistol went unnoticed by any onlookers. I held her at arm’s length and watched her blue eyes widen, watched as her lips formed an ‘o’ of surprise, then came together in a smile.
“Good hit,” she said. “Go tell Craig, he’s across the street.”
I followed her down as she sagged, and we sat together, just for a moment; then I closed her wide blue eyes and left her slumped against the wall. Nobody saw me leave, and I had one shot left just in case.
7.2.07
Phoenix
The sun was blinding. Hurrying toward the fashionable end of Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue, I wiped the sweat off my face and cursed the heat. Two failed attempts to catch my mark alone at home had forced me out here into this crowd to try and tag her in commute, when she should be unguarded. I knew that this was not one of my better ideas; I’d never seen her office and didn’t know where she habitually parked, but I had word from a good source of where she ought to be and when. I cursed myself for lack of planning and recon and cursed the time for passing. The heat made speed near impossible, but I moved faster anyway. I would not miss this hit.
I found my rat half a block from her building and waved in greeting. He grinned and gestured that I should follow, and led me, panting, out of the press of shoppers and into a shadowed concrete walkway. Glass-fronted shops [Candy! Tobacco! Adult magazines!] lined the way down to where Phoenix should be leaving her office in ten- no, seven minutes time. I slouched against a pay phone near the doorway and looked around. The place was nearly empty, without cameras or guards, and nobody paid me any attention.
To be safe, I turned my body to face the phone booth and stuffed the grimy receiver under my ear before I brought out my tiny two-shot derringer.
‘Piece of shit gun,’ I thought fondly, smiling. The horrible thing was ancient and miniscule and, for reasons unknown to anyone but poor dead Missy Wilma, was painted a flamboyant purple. My Remington was a fourth-generation hand-me-down, a post-mortem gift from my great-grandmother, left to me hidden in her box of jewels and trinkets. I had loved it and restored it and I carried it everywhere; today, on a close-quarter kill in hot summer daylight, it was the only firearm I trusted not to draw any attention.
Not that it mattered, really: anyone who’d ever seen it assumed it was used for paintball or something. The gun’s ridiculous color made it look like a toy.
I palmed the old purple derringer and checked my watch. Five minutes; time enough for a cigarette, if I’d had any. The rat’s eyes were tracking someone through the office’s plate glass window. I resumed my slouch against the phone booth, keeping the door in my peripheral vision. My heart thumped once, twice.
‘This is it,’ I told myself. ‘I’m gonna miss that girl.’
The office door swung open, and my hit stepped out into the corridor, wearing dark blue silk and with her blonde hair bouncing just above her shoulders.
“Tank!” she exclaimed, “What’re you doing here?”
I reached out and pulled her into a hug. “Hey, Phoenix,” I said. “I’m here to kill you.”
The tiny bang from my tiny pistol went unnoticed by any onlookers. I held her at arm’s length and watched her blue eyes widen, watched as her lips formed an ‘o’ of surprise, then came together in a smile.
“Good hit,” she said. “Go tell Craig, he’s across the street.”
I followed her down as she sagged, and we sat together, just for a moment; then I closed her wide blue eyes and left her slumped against the wall. Nobody saw me leave, and I had one shot left just in case.
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California
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