Writing for Fun
Dressing To Kill - Pete Norman
May 2014
Water as hot as hell cascaded down threatening to flay the very skin from his body, more a lava flow than a shower, but Connor gritted his teeth, spread his legs wide, pressed the palms of his hands against the shower walls for support and braved the onslaught. Finally, when he could no longer bear the intense heat he spun the dial full round to blue and the heat disappeared instantly, replaced by an icy flood, a torrent of icy shards ripping into his flesh. He was shivering violently, but only when his legs began to falter did he finally throw the lever to 'OFF'.
For a few moments he leaned against the tiled wall while his heart pumped out of control and his muscles struggled to regain their strength. Every nerve in his body was screaming out in protest, but he felt awake, alive, fully fit to face the rigours of the day ahead.
Connor meticulously towelled himself dry and in front of the mirror he brushed his black hair into slick perfection. He wandered across the hall into the bedroom, where a wardrobe revealed a rack of shelves, floor to ceiling. On one shelf boxer shorts were carefully folded and stacked in neat piles; he selected a black pair and from the next shelf removed a sweat shirt, freshly ironed with two sharp, precise creases running vertically downwards through the thin white cotton.
It had been a sultry night and it was too warm to wear anything more substantial about the apartment.
In the kitchen he measured out precisely one and a quarter scoops of Brazilian Blend into the machine, pressing it firmly and setting the morning caffeine fix into motion. Two thick slices of Rye were slipped into the toaster. While the heavy aroma of coffee began to percolate through the room he booted up the laptop and pressed his fingertip onto the security reader. After a few seconds the computer burst into life, opening directly onto the Google screen.
There was one new e-mail.
He scanned quickly through the message. It was detailed and explicit.
He re-read it more slowly, committing the pertinent details to memory . . . and then deleted it.
He poured the coffee strong and black into a mug, slipped the toast onto a plate and wandered off onto the veranda deep in thought. He sat back in a soft white leather chair sipping the coffee in silence while his eyes absently scanned the vast expanse of ocean which stretched out to infinity before him. It was early enough in the day that there was no breeze; the surface of the water was unblemished. The clouds hovered in soft wispy tendrils, disturbed only by a fragmented vapour trail on the horizon. Nothing moved except a lone pelican cruising across the field of his view about fifty metres out, it's great wings moving in slow, effortless strokes, mirrored perfectly in the still water just a few feet beneath.
When Connor finally rose he washed and dried the mug and the plate and returned them to their correct places in the cupboard.
In the bedroom he opened a second wardrobe and flicked through the hanging clothes. Running his finger across the rail of suits one by one his finger eventually stopped on a set of simple black overalls with a company logo on the breast. In front of the mirror he stepped into the suit, zipped up the front and turned from side to side to check the result.
He was satisfied.
He was dressed to kill.
From a locked safe in the garage he removed a squat black bag, which he placed on the bench and quickly carried out an inventory of the contents. It was essential that everything was right there and each one in its rightful place; it would be catastrophic if he was not able to lay his hand directly onto the right tool the instant he needed it.
The Chevrolet G20 van was large, sleek and black. He slipped behind the wheel, put the bag on the seat beside him and sat back. Whilst facing forwards in the driving position he reached his right hand across and rested it on the bag's zip.
It was too close.
He moved the bag an inch to the right and then reached out again. Finally satisfied that the bag was precisely positioned he pressed a button on the dashboard. Slowly, silently, the great double doors opened in front of him and he powered up the Chevy and drove out into the California sunshine, waiting for the doors to close down behind him before he drove off.
At the far end of town a small white church stood back from the road. Without the large black cross on the gable end the simple wooden structure would have looked more like a clapboarded barn than a place of worship, but Connor made a promise to pay a visit to the church later in the day. In his profession it was always prudent to toss a few worthy gestures onto one end of God's see-saw in an effort to compensate for the trail of death and destruction which followed in his wake throughout his working day.
The drive into L.A. down Highway One was uneventful, he stayed well within the speed limit and a safe distance from the other traffic; he kept to his own lane on the San Diego Freeway and was careful to avoid running any red lights. He turned onto the Santa Monica Boulevard, finally leaving it at North Rodeo Drive and heading into Beverley Hills.
He glanced at the dashboard clock. He was early; traffic had been unusually light. He pulled over into a parking space beside the road – the e-mail had been most specific about the time and it was considered unprofessional to be early for an appointment.
While he waited he silently meditated, but he kept his eyes open, always alert to the possibility of an over-curious passing black & white, but for twelve minutes he was able to sit quietly and uninterrupted.
At 11.57am precisely he powered up the engine once more and cruised up North Rodeo, turning right into Lomitas Avenue. The first house on his left had a short driveway which led up to a formidably high wrought iron gate set into an even more formidable wall, topped with an array of evil spikes. Connor turned into the driveway and pulled up at the gates beside a small window set into the wall. He allowed the engine to idle while he waited. After a few moments a tinted glass panel slid back and a uniformed guard appeared. He spared a disapproving glance at the black van and then leaned forward for a better look at the driver.
'What do you want? I don't have any visitor's scheduled.'
His tone was sharp and authoritative, but Connor had seen them all before: the 'jobs-worths'. Beneath the official voice was the bored tone of a bottom of the food chain operative and his clothing exposed the reality, for although the design and cut were quality, the wearer seemed to have little interest in maintaining his appearance – it looked as if the man had slept in his uniform.
Connor let out a loud sigh and spoke slowly, his voice dripping with condescension as he traced the logo on the left breast of his overalls with his finger. 'REN-TO-KIL, buddy. Got the call this morning.'
The answer appeared to confuse the guard, who made a point of checking and re-checking a computer monitor before he finally turned back. He made an attempt to reflect the sarcasm in his reply, but he was clearly unsettled by the enigma. 'Nope. Don't have no record of any visit from REN-TO-KIL.' He thought for a moment and then said, 'Anyways, aren't your vans usually marked and stuff?'
Connor shrugged. 'Seems to me like some of our more . . .' he waved his hand towards the grand house beyond the gate, 'discerning clients . . . might like us to turn up in something a little more discrete. D'ya think they'd prefer us to turn up in a sign-written van with a big neon sign saying: This rich bastard's house is infested with roaches?'
The guard seemed to digest the concept, but he was still not satisfied. It was more than his miserable job was worth to admit an unauthorised person.
'I'll have to ring through,' he announced and reached for his phone.
Connor knew this guy was never going to give up. He shouted out, 'For Christ's sake, I've got a pad full of jobs here and I don't need this hassle from you, ok? Look, I've got the confirmation right here.' He reached across and picked up a clipboard from the passenger seat with his left hand and held it up for the man to read. The guard leaned forward and studied the page with a frown on his face. He was concentrating hard to read the tiny writing – too hard to see Connor, still staring up at his face, reach into the bag with his right hand and pull out a small silver semi-automatic with a stubby silencer fitted to the end of the barrel.
There was a dull phutt! A neat round hole appeared in the centre of the guard's forehead. He never felt a thing. The puzzled expression never left his face, he just disappeared from the window.
Connor disapproved of unnecessary killing; in Afghanistan they would have called it collateral damage. Back here in the fragile homeland it was more that the needs and security of the many outweighed the needs of the few. Nevertheless, he would do his duty – he would say a prayer for the guard later this afternoon.
But now the game was on.
He had passed the point of no return.
He selected a telescopic mirror from the bag and scanned inside the booth; he knew that the gate release button had to be close to the window. He found it just under the right side of the opening, a familiar bright red plastic mushroom. His fingers located the button and pressed; the huge gates swung slowly open.
Connor eased the van up the driveway ensuring that the wheels did not scatter the gravel in his haste and advertise his approach. The topography of the grounds precisely overlaid the plan he had in his mind from the e-mail – he had an eidetic memory – and he drove with confident familiarity up to the last turn in the driveway where he stopped and from the shelter of a lush laurel hedge viewed the grand white stone house through binoculars. In front of the wide columned portico stood two large, expensive cars: a bright yellow BMW and a black Lincoln.
The senator was at home, just as Bradley had said in the e-mail.
Bradley had been his Special Forces unit commander in Kabul and they each had a mutual respect for the other's capability. Connor had an understanding that he would only accept contracts where there was a genuine public need, there was never to be any grey area in the morality of the hit. He was happy in the knowledge that a corrupt senator was just as viable a target as a ruthless Taliban Warlord.
He slipped silently up to the house.