Jones woke up in his plush bed on a morning like any other. He rolled over on his side, grinned flirtatiously at the mirror, and pulled a gun out from under his mattress. Armed, as he took care to always be, the young man slid down the banister to the kitchen. "What's for breakfast, pretty?" he called to his maid, leaning on the saloon doors that led into the kitchen. He'd taken them from one of his favorite bars as payment for the bartender's life. (The stubbly old man had heard too much one night when Jones had had a few too many shots. He'd almost passed out in relief when Jones had decided to take his doors, with a promise of silence, instead of shooting him in the head.) Jones patted the wood, fondly remembering how he'd ripped them off their well-made hinges with his unnatural strength.
"Hellooo?" he whistled into the kitchen, popping his head in. "Where's my pretty?" The new maid wasn't earning his breath, so far. Jones clucked his tongue. He'd known it was a bad idea taking an adult. Normally he watched for little kids with his targets, took them in, brainwashed them out of the trauma of having their parents shot, gave them a job caring for his every need. It was all very altruistic. But when he saw this one - fully grown and thinking he couldn't see the idiot following him around - he just couldn't shoot him. He reminded him of someone, somehow. What was his name? Arnold? Arthur?
"Pretty," he let his word develop a knife edge, "you should really come over here. I want to make sure you're still here! Can't have you slinking off, now can we?" Jones continued calling into the kitchen, perfectly aware of the man darting toward the front door behind him. He waited until he felt the breeze of his passage on the back of his neck - then whipped around and pressed the barrel of his gun into his skull.
He whimpered, but didn't fall apart. The twenty-something man didn't even close his eyes. He stared straight ahead, staying very still, and Jones was so intrigued by his composure that it was unexpected to feel his thin, strong hand on his wrist. The hitman looked at it, surprised.
"Alfred," he said softly but insistently, almost like he was trying to wake someone up from a nightmare.
Jones tightened his grip on the gun, ignoring the strange feeling that name gave him. "You're never gonna see your boyfriend again, pretty."
An ironic smile crossed the man's face.
Did I say something funny?
"Alfred Jones," he said, slowly turning his blond head to face him. Underneath his thick eyebrows, his eyes were full of what looked almost like pity.
Pull the trigger. Goddamnit, pull the trigger, Jones! He couldn't make his finger tighten. "Little girl," he snarled, uncharacteristically angry, "shut up about your man."
The man suppressed a laugh. What the hell? "First of all, I'm neither little nor a girl, Alfred." He released Jones' wrist and looked directly into his eyes. "And second of all, is Jones your first name or your last name?"
Jones' hands trembled.
His voice softened. "Do you even know?"
Stop it. Stop listening to him. He's playing mind games. Pull the goddamned trigger!
The gun slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor.
Arthur - because yes, that was his name - stepped very close to him, closer than he had ever been to someone he wasn't about to shoot, and pushed Jones' blond hair out of his eyes. "I know you're in there, America," he said quietly. "You just have to want to come back." And he turned and left, leaving the most elusive hitman in the world shaking.
Later he sat at his kitchen table, having changed out of his baby blue silk pajamas into his usual calling-card outfit: white collared shirt, slacks, expensive shoes, and of course his trademark black bowtie and suspenders. Arthur. He closed his eyes, picturing the mysterious young man he'd taken as a servant. Who was Arthur, and more importantly, what did Arthur know? Alfred. He tried to picture an "Alfred." His subconscious came back with his own face. He let out a hissing breath and pushed it away. His name was Jones, he reminded himself. "Jones" was the name that quadruple-quadrupled security. "Jones" was the name that sent rich and powerful people all over the globe shaking in their boots. And "Jones" was his name. What did it matter if it was his last or his first? What did it matter who he was before he woke up at the foot of the Washington Monument with one thought left in his head: I have to hide somewhere so I can kill him? Jones pressed his round baby face into his knees. It didn't matter what came before.
It didn't matter.
It didn't matter.
Jones raised his head as his cell phone vibrated. After a few seconds, it began playing "So What" by Pink.
A maniacal grin spread across his childish face, lighting up his piercing electric-blue eyes. "My favorite ringtone." He flipped open the phone. "Ye-es?"
"Es tú, Amerigo?" The deep, brusque voice was a man's, European by the sound of it but definitely not Spanish. Jones smiled to himself; the prearranged code always meant a job. His fingers itched already.
"Right number, wrong person," Jones sang, not bothering to disguise his barely pubescent voice. "May I take a message?"
There was a pause: shock, he guessed, that the coded answer was given by a teenager. Then the man answered carefully, "Somos muy enfermo. Dice a Amerigo a la mi casa. Mi dirección nueva es..."
Jones listened to the address, memorizing it. Then: "I'll deliver your message when he's home. Thanks!" He waited for the man on the other end to hang up, as was his custom.
Click.
Jones broke out in giggles of anticipation, which had everything to do with the thrill of the hunt, the electrifying sound of screaming, and the seductive, almost sultry smell of blood, and nothing to do with relief at the distraction from the "Arthur Complication," as he had just termed it. Jones never had problems, only complications. And right now, his only complication was meeting his client for information on the target, when his client had chosen a very public place. Not Arthur, not "Alfred," and not his disturbing amnesia.
Just a kid and his gun.