THE LAST ASSASSINATION
Chapter 1 - Espionage
Jackson Rippner was good at his job. Damn good. He had a quick mind, he was efficient, and most importantly, he followed orders. He never asked questions and he always got the job done. He knew that the best way to handle the most complicated of schemes was to break it down into simple tasks. For instance, as he sat in his black Lexus parked behind the dumpster of an old warehouse, he knew that all he had to do was wait until he recieved a phone call at exactly 2:20am, then he would be given instructions as to what to do next. He had learned early on that it wasn't too smart to get ahead of himself, and so he waited, masked and hidden beneath a burnout lamp post.
The Miami heat had turned to a cold chill as dusk approached and fog enveloped the water by the docks. Jackson checked his watch for the second time since he'd arrived and swallowed hard. 2:15. It wouldn't be long now. He glanced at the file sitting on top of the brief case on the passenger's seat and clenched his jaw.
This is it, he thought. Just one more. One more and Sonny will let me go.
When Jackson Rippner first met Sonny Falcone he was a no good punk, fresh off the streets of New York at 19 years old and slammed into a jail cell to pay off his debt to society. Sonny was his cellmate, a towering figure at 6'3, forty-seven years old with a heavy italian accent. A hard glare smacked on his face and a cold presence that even the prison guards felt, Sonny looked like he was carved out of wood. Jackson wasn't one to be intimidated though, and when Sonny fixed him with a stone hard stare, Jackson returned it with icy blue eyes. Now Sonny Falcone was known for his hot Sicilian temper, and where as many would have expected him to strike a blow, Sonny only smiled at Jackson. A surprisingly friendly smile.
"You got a name?"
Still staring hard at Sonny, Jackson only grunted, "Who wants to know?"
Sonny laughed hoarsely. "You got moxy, kid," he'd said. "I'll tell you what. Whenever you get outta here, you look me up. The name's Sonny Falcone. You just mention my name anywhere in Brooklynn and they'll tell you where to go. I might have a job for you."
And that was how it all began. Sonny was released the very next day, and Jackson could only wonder what kind of job he had in mind. He hadn't asked. He figured if it was important, Sonny would have told him, and if not, he'd know in time.
Upon his own release, and with no family or close relatives, Jackson headed straight for Brooklynn and found Sonny's headquarters with apparent ease. It was there that he began his training for the job that would consume him from that point on. When he first arrived, he'd thought that Sonny was part of the mob, but to his surprise Sonny had laughed it off saying, "Hey! Not all Italians are in the Mafia, aight? The smart ones know where the real money is." And in time, Jackson would find this statement extremely true. He was a well-made man now and very well off.
Being a behind the scenes guy worked well for Jackson, because he wasn't much of an enforcer. Sonny had said he was much too smart for that. Jackson proved to be a smart choice for Sonny, who he began to look to as a father figure. Being the brains behind the operation, Jackson made use of his talents of persuasion and his natural charm gave the false air of innocence that always gave way to a surprising attack. He nailed every job that came his way, and when that happened, Sonny had moved him up to the big time:
High profile asassinations.
Now at 28 years old, as his wrist watch gleamed 2:20 and the familiar ring of his cell reached his ears, he had to remind himself again, as he had to a lot more lately, that he wasn't the trigger man.
"Yeah...so it's done? Alright, I'll see it through." Hanging up the phone, Jackson glanced again at his watch before readjusting his rearview mirror. He sighed. Any minute now the word on Senator Dagwood's assassination would reach federal ears and when that happened it would eventually reach the ears of his wife, three kids and seven grandchildren. Jackson felt the fleeting moment of guilt that had been coming up more often and shook it away. He had been in this business for too long to know that he couldn't let his emotions get in the way. He did his part, and he moved on. It was protocol.
The job came before everything else.
But even though he knew this, he couldn't understand the feelings that had been gnawing away at him in recent months. It was as if years and years of doing what he did were adding up in his sub-concious and slowly the thread was unravelling. These feelings only came in quick succession but it was enough to make him realize he'd had enough. Sure the money was good, and it was the main thing that kept him going all this time, that and his loyalty to Sonny, but he'd been doing it for 9 years, he'd paid his dues, and now he wanted out.
Sonny had promised him. One more. One more important, high profile job and he'd let him go. His part would be easy, a simple task. Change one thing and the rest will fall into place. "I need you to be the one to do it," Sonny had said, his hand on Jackson's shoulder. "This is a very important customer and we need to make him happy. I know you won't disappoint me."
And that faith from Sonny had been enough to accept this last job, on the prospect that once it was over, it was over. Jackson would be a free man.
Stepping out of his car and into the moonlight, Jackson walked slowly across the peer and stood in front of the empty warehouse. He smashed a broken window through with his elbow, pulled out a match and struck it against the side of the building. The smell of kerosene from the open window was strong as Jackson breathed in. All the evidence, all the documents that would have helped in finding five wanted fugitives...would soon be blazing. That knowledge would die here as it had died with Senator Dagwood.
With a flick of his hand, he threw the match through the open window and began to walk away. The fire was sure to spread quickly and sure enough, as he got into his car and drove away, the roaring fire had already reached the roof and when he looked back in his rearview mirror, the sky was ablaze.
One down, one to go.
Grabbing the file off the brief case, he began leafing through it. He skimmed the profile as he made his way to Miami and grinned. It would be simple enough. If he was the flashy type, he might have wanted to go out with a bang, but Jackson preferred it this way. Simple, straight forward. Direct.
"Lisa Reisert," he said aloud, staring at the snap shot of an attractive brunette walking her dog. He tossed the file back on the seat and chuckled, "If I had a weakness..."
But Jackson Rippner did have a weakness.
Failure.
Please R&R. :)