Any author will tell you that crafting a story doesn't always flow smoothly. Sometimes, we get stuck. The ideas gum up in our brains, making it difficult to put words on a page. When that happens, it's time to take a break, focus on something else, even if it's cleaning the house.
I've been experiencing a bit of the funk myself, lately. For me, picking up and reading other authors' works has been helpful. Reading a suspense-filled novel chock full of mystery and thrills fills me with appreciation for character, timing, plotting, the balance between action, dialogue, background, and description, and, of course, twists, all key elements to make a page-turning story. But just reading a few great thrillers was not enough for me to break through the blockage in my writer's brain. But avoiding writing was not an option, as my blog for Writers Who Kill was due in a few days. At a loss for a topic, I decided to pull up an old short story from my early days as a writer (2012!) and give it a good edit, offer it to my fellow bloggers for review, edit again, then post it.
The feedback from my WWK buddies was enthusiastic, as well as helpful in catching typos and offering minor edits. A nice pat on the back, boosting my confidence to get back to my work-in-progress. Moreover, the act of taking a story and reworking it, was what I really needed.
Enjoy my story! Afterwards, share a few words on what you do when you feel stuck, unsure what to do next when you're working on a story, or some other project.
DEAD ON
By Lisa Malice
“You’ll pull
the trigger at an open-air event in New York three days from now. Very public.
People around that bitch nearly every second. Dozens on the stage with her during
her speech. Take her out early.”
I cringed at
the deep, familiar voice as it bellowed over the small phone in my hand. The
device had been sealed in plastic and left for me in the men’s room of an old
beltway bar, hidden in the tank of the handicapped john. The only number in the
contacts list was another disposable phone. Such communication arrangements
were SOP in my line of work, a standard precaution to keep calls anonymous,
untraceable, leaving the cops unable to make any connections between clients
and contractors.
“You’ll get
one shot. That’s it. Think that’ll be a problem?”
Anger washed
over me at his words. It wasn’t an unreasonable question. Most of my clients
were nervous about my services, uncertain whether they should trust that I was
as good as my reputation, so I often had to put their minds at ease. But coming
from this jerk, the question was an insult. He knew first-hand I was the best
of the best. I’d served under him. He’d trained me. I took out dozens of enemy
combatants per his orders. After retiring my stripes, my semi-automatic M24
sniper rifle and I followed him to a civilian posting. Life working security
for him was good.
Until it
ended abruptly.
A few party
photos, somehow leaked to a freelance reporter, made the headlines across the country.
The optics were bad. The press had a field day. “These are the good guys?” one
headline asked. Three of us identified in the photos couldn’t be fired fast
enough, even though we did our jobs. The photographer, whoever he was, didn’t
get any bare butt snapshots of the big guy cavorting with the three exotic
Columbian beauties I let into his hotel suite. Shielding his fat ass—and other body
parts—from the public and the press was an unspoken part of our job. Instead of
a pat on the back from my boss for a job well done, I got a swift boot to the
butt. Had to pay my own way home on a commercial flight, too. I never forgave
the big man, nor my boss for the disgrace.
Unemployed
with no respectable prospects, I went into business for myself. It paid well
enough that I could take any job or leave it. Morally, I didn’t see a problem.
I took out scum, hits contracted by other filth, who often got what they
deserved, too. What this guy wanted me to do now—an assassination of a
political opponent—didn’t fit that mold, but I thought I could handle it. The lucrative
fee was something hard to refuse. It would free me from having to work this
job, or any other, for that matter. I’d finally be on easy street.
“I can hit a
flea off the tip of a dog’s dick from a thousand meters,” I said. “With her
head in my cross-hairs, she’s as good as dead.”
"Good.
Cover your tracks. Leave nothing behind. The feds ID you somehow, you’re on
your own. My boss will do nothing to help you, and neither will I. Utter one
word, and you’ll be dead before you can finish the sentence. Do I make myself
clear?”
I sneered at
his icy cold words, his tone of voice that betrayed our past relationship again.
The trust we once shared to defend each other with our lives was gone, not an ounce
of loyalty left.
If I took
this job, I’d be all on my own, with a threat hanging over my head that was all
too real. His boss had the power and resources to order whatever dirty work he
wanted done. The last thing I needed or wanted in retirement was to have a
target on my back. At the same time, I knew
that refusing the job was also a risk. I’d be a loose end they couldn’t leave
behind. I really had no choice in the matter now.
"When I
say I'll do something, I do it. Just fix things on your end. Five mil in my crypto
account in one hour. Otherwise, there's no deal.”
The phone
went silent on the other end.
“Is there a
problem?” I asked, holding back my annoyance with the man. We wrangled before
on the subject of money. That had to be it. Five mil was just the upfront
money. A down payment. The bulk of my fee would be due once the target was
pronounced dead.
“I still
think you’re overpriced for what you do,” he said, grumbling. “What’s a guy
like you going do with that kind of dough anyway?”
I stifled a
chuckle. I had a hunch that my old boss was jealous of my success, more
specifically, the money I pulled in for working a very part-time job. His words
proved me right. I ignored his stupid question, and instead, reasserted my
worth, as I did during our initial negotiation.
“You want to
walk away from this deal now, that’s your prerogative. But you get what you pay
for. This is a high-risk target we’re talking about here. It has to be done
with one shot. You said it yourself. If that first bullet misses the target,
it’s all over. The opportunity to take her out is gone. A cheaper, less skilled
contractor might squeeze off a couple more rounds hoping to finish the job, but
that would just cause collateral damage, the wrong people shot.”
I let my
words sink in for a moment, then continued. “Is the client willing to risk that
kind of disaster to keep a few bucks in a foreign bank account we both know is
overflowing with dirty money?”
The man
grunted, then hung up. I took that to be a “no.”
I tossed the
phone into the Potomac on my drive home. Sixty minutes later, I checked my
account online and smiled at the balance. The deal was sealed. With my bag
packed, I headed for New York to case the venue and prepare to execute my part
of the contract.
###
Suddenly, a
bead of sweat rolled down my cheek, my heart started to race. I jerked back from
the window, pressed myself against the wall, and struggled to understand what
was happening. I’d experienced a mild case of the jitters only once, when
taking aim at my first contracted target. I got over it quickly by remembering
what the scum had done to deserve his fate— prostituted out barely pubescent
girls as party favors for filthy millionaires. I took the shot with a steady
hand and never wavered again. Putting a bullet into the heads of other bad
actors was just a job that had to be done, and I was the guy to do it.
I closed my
eyes and tried to remember what this woman had done to warrant her death.
When I was
first approached about the job, the thought of taking her out made me a little
giddy. Personally, I couldn’t stand the woman. I’d been around her enough in
the past to find her difficult, demanding, and thoroughly unpleasant. Her
politics were divisive, her policies repulsive. She was a bitch, no doubt about
it. But the bottom line was that she’d done nothing so awful to deserve my
bullet except stand in the way of my client’s political ambitions. Could I live
with her death on my conscience? Would twenty mil in my pocket and a
more-than-comfortable retirement be enough to compensate me for abandoning my moral
integrity?
I wasn’t
sure, but the consequence of standing down and walking away wasn’t pretty
either. If I didn’t take the shot, it’d be me in the crosshairs next. My client
would no doubt put a hefty bounty on my head. Every contractor in the biz would
be gunning for me. Was I willing to live my life on the run, always looking over
my shoulder, always prepared to kill rather than be killed?
I took a
long, deep breath and let it out, hoping to clear my head, at least enough to answer
the questions burning inside me. But it didn’t.
Steeling
myself for a difficult decision, I raised my rifle and stared down the barrel
through the telescopic sight. As I scanned the stage, my gut instincts suddenly
kicked in, showing me my path forward. I took careful aim.
Two shots
later, it was all over. I slipped out of the city and left my country behind.
###
The irony
was as thick as a brick, at least in my mind. The dead man had, after all,
contracted the assassination of the woman speaking those words. And for the
record, the assassination wasn't a mistake on my part. I shot her Vice
President dead on. Put the other bullet in the head of the big guy’s lead
Secret Service agent.
Why? Well, it wasn’t for the money. After all, I left fifteen mil on the table. I didn’t pull the trigger on them because they were the bad actors in this scenario, or to prevent the big guy from putting a contract out on me. No, I took these two cretins out to maintain the integrity of my moral code, part of which requires me to honor an oath I made long ago—to protect the Constitution – my president, especially – from all enemies, both foreign—and domestic.
The End
