Killjoy
I spent three days casing the Victorian-style house fronting the Arabian Sea at Gateway of India. There was no sign of Jeb Markham, the man I was hired to kill, or his wife who didn’t know the fate that awaited her. Early widowhood. Maybe the poor devil had got wind of the contract out on him and fled the city. Wise move. But how far could he run? And how long? I dialled a number on my phone.
“There’s no sign of him or his wife,” I said to the gruff male voice at the other end. “What do you want me to do?”
“Stick around till the end of the week. I have been assured they’ll be there. Take a boat ride or something. Go to a spa and pamper yourself. Read a book. Or better still find a date. I pay you good money to have fun while you go about knocking off people.”
“All right, I’ll hang around a bit,” I said and disconnected.
It was half past nine and I was hungry. I entered the Green Bay Hotel and took the lift to my room on the eleventh floor. I showered, changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, called room service and ordered a meal fit for a hitman. I switched on the TV and watched Two and a Half Men as I ate. But I wasn’t really watching. I was thinking of my target. Something told me I’d get him tonight. A killer’s instinct, I guess. Honed since I was seventeen. I finished my meal, tucked the Glock in my waistband and stepped out into the winter night. The moon was out. Boats and yachts danced off the Gateway. In the distance, lights twinkled on cargo ships. Too bad if he was home. It was a lovely night to snuff out someone’s life.
I was right. For the first time in three days I saw the lights on in Markham’s third-floor apartment. I removed my phone from my hip pocket and dialled another number.
“Hello? Hello?”
“Markham?” I said.
“Yes, who is this?”
I cut the call and dialled again. I repeated the process till he showed up, agitated, at the bedroom window. It’s funny how people do that, as if expecting the caller to be waiting on the street, looking up and waving. Technically, I was standing in the shadows across the street, except I wasn’t waving. But I’d to be one hundred per cent sure he was home before I went up, made a positive identification and put a bullet through his brain.
I crossed the street and entered the dimly-lit foyer of the old building. As I’d already found out, there was no security guard. And no stray neighbours about. I pulled the hood over my head, held the Glock by my side and climbed the stairs.
Jeb and Nyra Markham. Nice nameplate. After tonight, just Nyra Markham.
I rang the doorbell. Beethoven’s 5th chimed somewhere inside the house. The door opened. It was the missus. Before she could react, I pushed my way in, clamped her mouth with my free hand and kicked the door shut.
“One word and you get the bullet first. Where’s your husband?” I loosened my grip.
“In…in the shower,” she mumbled, pointing to a door on the left.
I looked down at her. Something wasn’t right. Her eyes weren’t wide with fear, like they show in the movies. Nor was she trembling under my hold. In fact, she appeared strangely calm given the situation. As if she’d been expecting me. I held the gun to her face, put a finger to her lips and let her go.
She grabbed my hand and whispered. “Make it quick. I don’t want him to feel any pain. Promise me you won’t.”
“What the hell?”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Nyra smiled. “I’ll make you a nice cup of tea while you finish him.”
Just when I thought I was gettin’ used to my job.
~ The End ~
© Prashant C. Trikannad
Disclaimer: This is only a work of fiction. All the names, characters, places, events, incidents and businesses in this short story are a product of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with anyone or anything real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright: No part of this short story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author.
