It was a torrential night. The rain relentlessly lashed down upon me. I peaked at my wristwatch and, with squinted eyes being prodded by the wind-swept rain, could make out that it was approaching 2 AM. I could hear loutish yelling and music fading not so far away as a local nightclub spilled out into the streets. Scantily clad women swayed and shrieked, seeking shelter from the inclement weather. Intoxicated men yelled profanities and sung demonstrably out of tune. As business concluded for some, it was only beginning for others.
I turned up a darkened alleyway, constantly peering around me to ensure I wasn’t being followed. Not that anyone would know me. I’d lived in this town my entire life. But I was, quite deliberately, a non-entity. As a hitman for hire, it helps not to broadcast oneself from the rooftop. Over a decade in the profession taught me that. I headed up and again glanced at my watch. “Any minute now” I said aloud, despite being alone.
“Where is this guy?” I muttered, again aloud. “Bloody politicians - all the same.” At this stage, a good ten minutes had passed. Suddenly, I was almost blinded by an intense light. A jeep had rolled into the alleyway. I was surprised, as I didn’t even think one would fit. I could see there were several men (or at least broad figures) in the jeep. From the passenger door, a tall figure emerged; Rob McKenzie.
“Evening my old Sport. Fancy seeing you here” he called out. I approached hesitantly, under the impression he was to meet me here alone. “So, is it done?” I offered a solemn nod, nothing more. “Oh Murphy, you’re a hero.”
“A hero?!” I responded with an almost wry, disbelieving chuckle. “Heroes don’t go around killing young expectant mothers.” McKenzie shrugged. “You’ve sometimes got to play the game. Dumb bitch. I even offered her hush money. She could always have one for the next guy. When we’re this close to election day, I could NOT afford to let something like this derail us. Imagine trying to explain that to the campaign manager, or as I call her, the missus” he laughed. I was in no humour.
I rubbed two fingers together, an internationally recognised gesture that it was time to pay. “Huh, all business with you ain’t it. You’d want to lighten up a bit - you’ll live longer.” From the inside pocket of his jacket, he produced a brown envelope and pushed it into my hand. Normally, I would keep my client there, possibly even with a weapon aimed, to ensure my payment was in full. But I had not envisaged there being anyone else present. I had specifically said I would meet him alone here. As such, I was just eager to get the Hell out of there.
***WE CAN CONFIRM OFFICIALLY THAT ROBERT H. MCKENZIE HAS REACHED THE REQUIRED QUOTA. WITH A SHARE OF 51.2% OF THE VOTE, MCKENZIE SQUEEZES PAST HIS RIVAL, THE INCUMBENT MAYOR BAXTER. THIS WAS A TIGHT-RUN CONTEST, BUT BAXTER HAS NOW CONCEDED DEFEAT ON THE FIFTH COUNT***
I watched as the local news network regaled the events of the day, the live stream from the polls a mere twenty minutes up the road from my home. McKenzie wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist before hosting her arm in the air. He proceeded to lean in and plant a firm kiss on her cheek. My stomach heaved.
My media-induced migraine was interrupted by a pounding at my door. “Who is it?!” I was too lazy to rise from my seat. The pounding carried on. “Who’s there?!” I roared. Still the pounding came. I exhaled loudly, shouting an obscenity and rising to my feet. I opened the door and a total stranger was stood before me. A tall, handsome, broad man. He was extremely well-dressed. “Yes?”
“Mayor McKenzie thanks you for your kind assistance and support of his campaign.”
“Don’t mention it.” The words were as much sincere as they were based on social decorum. “The mayor has another assignment he wishes for you to complete.” It dawned upon me that this must have been one of the men with McKenzie that night. “Well, he knows my fare. Tell him to get in touch and we can talk.” The man gave a deep-throated laugh.
“I don’t think you quite understand, Murphy.” The man gently pulled the right side of his suit jacket outward to reveal, stuck upon the shirt he was wearing, a glistening sheriff’s badge. “Henceforth, your fee is freedom. Your commission is liberty. Your time borrowed. I’ll be sure, should we have any disagreements, to let them know to expect you in the prison. From experience, ladykillers don’t last too long in there.”
The sheriff took a brisk step to the side to reveal a large jeep parked outside my house. Sat in the back were two obscured figures. He headed back toward the jeep. I too descended upon my walk on death row.