There's no reason for a disclaimer. If I owned anything from Red Eye, I'd be writing the sequel, not fanfiction.

My first fic after a long period of stagnation. Enjoy.

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It's Tuesday today.

The TV is on, and I keep watching those fucking speeches. Over. And over. And over.

"Do I have your attention?"

Maybe I'm just jaded. Maybe everyone else takes this fucker seriously. Not me, though. I've been in this business too long. I get a memo that gives me a name. Take a few phone calls. Say things like Of course and Yeah, it's definitely on. Sure. I'm ready to psychologically torture whoever I need to. Uh huh. Have a good day. You too. Bye.

Give me a fucking break. I'm being trained to hate our targets. I'm sure they're not terrible people, but I can't let that get in my way. I'm paid to rig the slayings of people who wouldn't glance at me in a crowded airport. I pocket several thousand bucks and fly to Miami to lie on the beach. I drink Jericho Blues and think about the women that walk by me. I think about fucking. I think about the fact that the cell phone is going to ring at four A.M. the next morning, and how I'll answer it like I usually do and this whole business will start over.

I'm turning the TV off. I can't stand it anymore. Yes. This man is the enemy. By giving the order to kill him, I'm pissing a lot of people off. Isn't it great? There will be shock and outrage. Whispers of conspiracy as the Department of Homeland Security covers up the death of Charles Keefe as an assassination. It as an accident! they'll cry, and I can already feel the smile on my face. Accidents don't happen in this world.

It's six in the evening, and I'm already starting to feel tired. The clock doesn't tick, and I'm glad it's one of those electric things, because the repetitious noise would probably knock me out, and then what? Someone's gonna be knocking on my door with a pistol in their pocket.

You can't fuck up in this line of work.

If you do, you're dead.

I'm good at my job. Can you tell?

Hell, I'm still alive, right?

Two days until I board that flight. Forty-eight hours until little Lisa Reisert has to grow up.

I can hardly wait.