Parker's heart thumped loudly within her ribcage as she entered the room. Normally, she felt very calm during simple heists. All she had to do was climb up the fire escape and disable the window alarm. But a little more was on the line this time. This time, it wasn't just any apartment. This was Eliot's.
Examining the militant room, she inhaled his familiar scent: sweat and Head and Shoulders. The room consisted of a small, neatly made bed, many book shelves, and a desk. Parker didn't take the hitter as a big reader, but the volumes on a variety of topics proved otherwise. Setting to work, she searched the desk and bookshelves for anything interesting. Anything having to do with his past.
Earlier that day, he'd made another light comment that hinted at something deeper, something darker. This remark gave Parker an itch, one so big and so bothersome she had to scratch it. Just a little.
Under his pillow, she found it. The thief found a cigar box. The wrapper was faded and E + A was carved on the inside part of the lid. Sifting through the contents, she found a ring. Upon examination, she figured it couldn't have been worth more than a hundred bucks so the value must be sentimental. It also contained a picture a smiling woman holding a four-year-old boy. For a moment, she thought the kid was the hitter's, then she remembered, a few years ago, he mentioned a nephew and Parker's panic subsided. Another photo depicted a younger version of Eliot in some kind of Army outfit. He looked a lot different in the picture, and it wasn't just because of his youth or buzz-cut. The hitter's eyes contained a laughing spark that had long since diminished, one replaced with unnamed mystery and hardship. Beside the photos were letters. Most of them were back and forth between Eliot and Amy but one was different.
I'm writing this, it began, because I can't forget. No matter where I go, or what I do, what happened that day needs to live with me forever.
Eliot parked outside the mark's house, pulled on his gloves, and grabbed the bag on the passenger seat Moreau had given to him an hour ago. The job was simple: plug in the USB drive into his computer (wiping it of sensitive information), plant the suicide note, inject the mark with the alcohol, make it look like a suicide, and take care of the family. Somewhat in that order.
He exited the vehicle and approached the back of the house. Quietly, he broke into the office through the window. Eliot shut the door, took note of the liquor cabinet, and turned back to the computer.
"Where are you going, Jacob?" a woman's voice demanded, the wife.
"Nowhere," a gruff, teenage voice answered.
"That's not a proper response."
"Ask me if I care."
"Answer your mother," Simon Hall, the mark, commanded.
"Tell me how many beers you had today, Dad, then I'll tell you where I'm going."
"That's not…wait, what is that?" demanded Simon.
After a few seconds of scuffling and resistance, the wife, Michele, gasped. "Is that a tattoo?"
Then it crossed the hitter's mind that he'd never killed a kid before but ridding the world of a rebellious, snarky teenager probably wouldn't bother him. Suddenly, the computer gave a small: BLEEP, alerting Eliot its job was done. He removed the drive, put it back in the bag, and pulled out a glock from a holster on his hip. It was registered under Simon's name.
"Did you hear something?" Michele wondered aloud.
"Yeah," her husband replied, "it sounded like it was coming from my…" he trailed off as footsteps approached the office. Simon opened the door to reveal a gun pointed right at his face.
"Don't make a sound," commanded the hitter. "Go in the living room." He followed the mark out of the room, weapon still aimed and ready.
"Simon…oh my god," his wife's eyes filled with tears. "Please, don't-"
"On the couch and no one gets hurt," he interrupted.
The two sat down on the magenta couch as a little girl's voice said: "Jacob? Can you get the peanut butter for me?"
Simon shut his eyes and Michele sobbed softly when Eliot advanced toward the kitchen. He walked into the tiled room to see a greasy-haired boy (no older than fifteen) in a punk rock outfit hand a jar of JIF to a five-year-old with fairy wings. They turned around when they heard their mother yell: "God, no! Please, don't hurt my babies!"
Immediately, the boy stepped in front of his younger sister.
"Move."
The two obeyed but the teen never let go of the girl. She sat in her brother's lap in the armchair.
"Make a sound or try anything and I'll shoot all of you, starting with the girl" Eliot announced. "Understand?" The parents shook their heads vigorously in agreement.
The hitter removed the syringe from the baggie and advanced to Simon. He put the gun back in its holster. Grabbing the man's hair roughly, he injected him with the alcohol behind his ear. The effects, as usual, were almost immediate.
"Don't hurt meh family," Simon slurred.
The hitter went back to the study and approached the mark's liquor cabinet. He grabbed a bunch of beers then dumped them in the sink, saving about a fourth of a bottle. The remaining amount he forced Simon to drink.
"Alright, you three kneel down on the ground," Eliot barked, taking the firearm out of his holster. "Face away from me."
When they obeyed, the girl turned around and begged, "Mister, please don't hurt me."
Her big green eyes peered up at him from behind a mesh of brunette curls. The girl's lip quivered when the scary man before her took aim…and fired.
"Leah!" Michele screamed before she joined her daughter.
The boy didn't even have time to choke out a sob before he crumpled into a lifeless ball. Eliot forced the gun into Simon's hand and held it up to his temple.
"Why?" the mark sobbed.
Hesitating before the kill, the hitter replied, "It's my job," then helped Simon pull the trigger.
That night, I had a dream, the note continued. I saw Leah except she was twelve. She was sneaking away from her class with a boy on a field trip. They kissed. Then the dream faded and she was older, probably sixteen. Simon was handing her car keys and she was jumping up down. I couldn't hear anything but I could tell she was squealing. Again, the scene faded and she was at a party with another boy, somehow I knew it was her boyfriend. He took her hand and led her away from the crowd; that night they made love. Then she was dressed in white, god she was so beautiful. Leah would've been beautiful. Her dad walked her down the aisle and the boy from the party was standing at the altar. The dream kept showing me this stuff, Leah holding her own little boy, hugging her brother, kissing her husband, growing old. It showed me everything she could've been if I hadn't…
I told Moreau I was gonna take it solo from now on, maybe be a retrieval specialist. If I told him the truth, that I'd gone soft, he'd kill me in a heartbeat. Hell, maybe I deserve it. Every time I pick up a gun, I see her looking up at me, pleading not to hurt her. But what haunts me even more so was that, at first, I didn't care. Not for one damn moment did I hesitate, did I consider letting them live. No matter what happens, I can't forget her; I can't forget Leah Rosalind Hall.
Annoying wet things made Parker's vision blur. Suddenly, she heard the front door open. Eliot was home.
A/N So, what do you think? I couldn't get this idea out of my head and last night I just HAD to get this down. I'm considering making a sequel where Parker confronts Eliot so comment and maybe I'll write it.