A/N: This story is dedicated to Cpl. Charles Hill, Detective Vicky Armel and the over 20,000 other police officers who have given their lives in service to their communities here in America. I also offer it out to those who have done the same around the world. Two of you impacted my life directly. The others, indirectly. All of you and your families have my eternal gratitude.
To our living LEOs: every day you say goodbye to your loved ones never guaranteed that you will say hello again. You give yourself to us daily without knowing what dangers you will face. Thank you for all you do. Special hugs sent out to the police officers in my family and in my circle of friends. You all are true heroes.
-AR
Anthony Powell carefully disassembles his revolver. He dumps the drum and slides the 3 unspent shells to the side. He picks up the 5 used casings and places them in a box. He picks up a Sharpie and carefully writes the date and time the shells were used to carry out his mission. He would keep them until final payment is made for a job well done.
He starts to whistle as he pulls out his cleaning kit. He gently brushes each chamber of the cylinder. He brushes the barrel. He even uses a bore light to make sure nothing remains from the firing. He runs a clean rag through everything, happy to see that it picks up no residue, proof of his cleaning prowess. He then carefully oils the moving parts and then puts it back together.
"Perfect," he praises himself.
He places his executioner in its special satin-lined box. He runs his gloved hand down the blue steel once more before closing the lid and locking the latches down.
"Until next time old friend."
He secures the box in the false bottom of his suitcase, tucking the box of casings beside it. He then picks up the cheap tablet he had purchased for cash earlier that day and walks down to a coffee bar offering free wifi. In seconds he is sipping an espresso as he checks his account in the Cayman Islands. He knows the death of the cop had made the news so it shouldn't take long for…
"Ah, there you are."
He smiles as he sees the deposit has been made. He finishes his drink and leaves. On his way to a bar to enjoy a stronger drink he breaks the tablet in half, tossing one piece in a trashcan near the coffee joint and the other in a can 2 blocks away.
Later that night he packs up the few things that had come out of his suitcase at his motel. At 2 a.m. he drives the beater car he had been using to a part of the city where it won't last long in one piece. He then walks the three miles to the storage facility where a 'John Smith' had paid in cash for a 3 month lease large enough to hold a car. He uses his passcode to enter the gates and goes right to the unit. He unlocks the door and rolls it up, smiling with pride at his restored, black 1966 Ford Mustang Cobra GT.
"Hello, darling," he say to the car.
He quickly places his bags in the trunk and then fires up the engine. Within the hour he is driving calmly out of New Orleans to await his next contract. At a rest area south of the city, he throws the box of shells away. He had his money, no need for the casings with the fingerprints of his employer any longer.
Sliding an 8-Track tape into the factory original stereo he starts to sing along to Simon and Garfunkel. No, he wasn't your typical hit man. But he was good at his job and for those that pay him that is all that matters.
A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting. Had some personal issues and work issues delaying things. Hopefully all is back on even keel now. I hope. :o)