I sat in the corner chair. The beer opened with a hiss and cool vapours rose up into the hot air. Droplets of condensation ran down the bottle as the two temperature’s mixed. Taking a long sip from the bottle I let the bittersweet liquid fill my mouth before I swallowed. Putting the bottle down on a coaster I looked down at the set of four feet sticking out from the floor at the foot of the bed. One set belong a very cute woman. She was in her mid-thirties; the other set belong to a man in his late forties.
There was the tiniest spot of blood on the woman’s ankle, the man’s left foot was covered in it. I didn’t know their names, didn’t care to know them. I didn’t even know what they had done. I simply got a phone call followed by a job offer and a dollar sign. Then it was up to me to decide if I wanted to take it or not. The pay day was too good to pass up and I was already in town by chance. What town you ask? That I can’t exactly say, or you’d report me and then I’d be running from the authorities. That is something I had never had to face yet and didn’t want to. I took another sip from the bottle and as I stared at the four feet I couldn’t help but wonder what they were trained to do.
Every day I passed people on the street that had normal jobs. I ordered my chai tea latte from the same barista you might. You know the petite dark-haired girl, probably in her early twenties. Always smiles, even behind the mask I’m sure she was still given that cute heart melting smile. I wondered how many men came back here every day at the same time just hoping to see her. She was trained how to use the machine to steam the milk, how to make the drinks, probably had to study the steps to making everything on the menu.
Doubt that her trainer showed her how to stalk a target. To not rush into it. Assassination was a fine art, like painting or writing. It took years to get good at it and if the man or woman that helped you learn was a competent killer you could rest easy knowing the skills you’d learn would keep you alive and out from behind bars. A bad trainer would end your career before it started. In the business we don’t call them trainers or mentors, nothing like that. We have our own names for these people, which I cannot share, being an assassin is also like being part of a secret society. Think of it as being a Freemason, you can know a little, but you never really know anything for sure.
I’m sure if we had monthly meetings it would be rather interesting and bloody. Probably a few fights here and there and not to mention the egos that would be in the room. Hell, there probably wouldn’t be any room to sit with all those egos. We assassins are a proud bunch.
I finished the beer; didn’t worry about the DNA that I would leave on it. I didn’t exist in any database anywhere, so I wasn’t worried. I’d be a ghost that the authorities would be looking for and never find.
Standing over the bodies I looked down at them. Another story of two people that I ended. I wondered that if I had been adopted by a nice family maybe I’d be the barista working beside the dark-haired cutie.