PAY THE HITMAN
1
In the backwoods of Vermont, up the private driveway surrounded by evergreen trees, several miles from the job I closed this evening, I drive deliberately slowly because a dim light from my living room lamp shines between the open blinds.
Someone is inside my safe house, and the idiot is practically telling me he’s there. What kind of amateur invades someone’s home and leaves themselves exposed like that?
I park at the side of the road and initiate my security system. “Puss-I, scan for human heat.” The dashboard panel lights up and shows me three heat signatures. Two animals register as human heat signatures, and I note that I gotta get Sokol on this error. But one is definitely two legged and sprawled on my couch. Did the idiot fall asleep on the job?
I sigh and exit the car, then text my cousin about the possible threat.
He replies with “Get rid of it.”
I give him an eye-roll emoji. “No, I was gonna make him dinner.”
I sneak between the dense trees and reach the steps up to the cabin, noticing the snow’s been cleared off, and the footsteps show a small boot. This guy’s got small feet.
From inside my jacket, I get my gun and screw on the suppressor. I could take out the dude without the suppressor, but I don’t wanna wake up the deer. It’s below infinity out here, and the wild animals are all hangry, half of them starving to death. They need to sleep instead of getting scared and running around my property, inviting hunters. I’d have to shoot the hunters. I dislike their sport.
I punch in my security code, and the door unlocks. I wait a few seconds before entering. Ideally, the amateur would lose patience, come to the door, and open it, and I’d put a bullet in his head, then go on with my vacation. When nothing happens, I slowly twist the lock and peek with one eye, my gun aimed at the couch.
The lamp next to the couch and the glare from the TV light the room so I clearly see a woman sleeping on the couch. That’s weird. In my line of work, I rarely come across women, but I have come across a few, and let me tell you, female hitmen are vicious, and you don’t see that shit coming. Vlad went down that way. She nailed his balls. Literally.
I do not approach.
I do not underestimate the seemingly sleeping brunette with the big tits. Nope. My balls should remain firmly attached to my body at all times.
I crack the door open a bit more. When she doesn’t stir, I step inside, close the door behind me, and lock it. Keeping the gun trained on her, I walk as quietly as a panther to the blinds she left open and close that shit manually. The Puss-I voice-controlled system works in the cabin, but I can’t yap right now.
Looking around, the first thing I notice, besides tits, ass, and lots of long brown curls, are textbooks on the living room tableand glasses on top of them. Black rimmed. I glance upstairs to an open-loft bedroom. Nobody else. Just the girl. I sniff for cologne, the stink of men’s feet, gunpowder, or anything out of place, but the cabin reeks of vanilla from the burning candle on the kitchen isle.
Who the fuck falls asleep with a candle burning?
Who sent this careless girl to invade my safe house?
I climb the steps to the bedroom loft, where I find the bed made and a note on the quilt. I pick it up. It reads:
Welcome, Ms. Bentley,
You will find clean towels in the bathroom, and breakfast for the weekend in the fridge. Should you need anything, call us at the number in the listing. We hope you have a pleasant stay!
Mr. and Mrs. Homer.
I read the note twice,then stick it in my pocket. Bentley. I know a Bentley, but so do a lot of people. For now, I dismiss my suspicions and paranoid thoughts.
A black suitcase stands next to the bed. I pick it up, throw it on the mattress, and open it. Sweaters, pants, slippers, bras, underwear, stationary. A bunch of what-the-fuckery that girls take on trips.
I know what girls take on trips. My sister takes two suitcases for a weekend in the country and ends up wearing the same thing both days because the countryside makes her lazy, and all she does all day is sleep and read books. Still, every time we leave for our country home, I point out that she needs only a backpack, we argue, and I don’t point that shit out anymore.
Descending back downstairs, I remove the suppressor and tuck it and the weapon into my jacket pocket. In the kitchen, I open the fridge and make a turkey sandwich, hoover that shit in seconds, then make another one. I chase it with a soft drink I popopen as loudly as I can. The invader keeps sleeping. I check the time. Three thirty in the morning.
Nothing good ever happens after midnight. Everyone has heard that one at least once from one of their parents, and if not parents, as was my case, their uncle. My uncle also told me that would be precisely when I started working. At midnight, nice and slow, first stalking the target, logging in the patterns, until one night, I moved in for the job.
I am Stefan Ludvenich, Ludi, which means crazy in most Slavic languages. Crazy, cold, indifferent, which is precisely why I execute important jobs for the family. I think you get the picture I didn’t grow up in an ordinary family.
In the living space, I crouch by my little cabinet under the TV and grab a tiny airplane bottle of whiskey. I sip it and sit in my uncle’s old chair. Ah yeah. Inwardly groaning, I roll my shoulders, put my feet up on the table, and kick off my boots. They thud on the fluffy black carpet my sister picked out for me.
She decked the place out for me because I give zero shits about style. I’ve enjoyed the Cook County accommodations many times, so minimalism is fine by me.
