The Hit
Chapter 2
"What do you mean they're not available?" Negaduck demanded of Bulba.
"I think it's a simple concept to understand," the bovine responded calmly. Only Bulba would be able to get away with such snark around Jim Starling.
"But how could all the hitmen we know be busy?" Negaduck wondered. "What about Megavolt?"
"He's got a job in Chicago," Bulba said.
"Okay, Quackerjack?"
"Bounty hunters caught him last week. He's in a Federal prison."
"Liquidator?"
"Visiting his mother."
"Bushroot?"
"Retired."
"Paddywack?"
"Dead."
"Steelbeak?" Negaduck sounded desperate now.
Bulba gave him a knowing look. "Really? Steelbeak?"
"Oh, right…" Negaduck said, remembering. "He still wants to kill me for double crossing him that one time."
"Nobody wants to work with you. At least, nobody who really knows you," Bulba said, taking off his glasses. "Are you sure we can't resolve your problem in a more non-violent way?"
"How?" Negaduck asked as if he couldn't think of one.
"Oh, I don't know. How about just breaking up with Charity?" Bulba suggested obviously.
Negaduck drummed his fingers against the wood desk, contemplating. Yes, it sounded reasonable. After all, she wasn't his enemy. She was only the woman he loved, and she had crushed his heart under her heel like it was some sort of bug. The memories flared his anger. "No," he told Bulba. "I will not let her get away with embarrassing me." Besides, it wasn't like he wanted someone to torture her to death. He wasn't a complete monster. A bullet would be enough.
Bulba sighed. "Then I suggest we look into getting some new blood. There's always some young gangster wanting to get on your good side."
"Yes, let's go with that," Negaduck said. "Send out some feelers that we're hiring. Just get it done."
"What about the bodyguard?" Bulba asked.
"Huh?" Negaduck asked.
"You hired a bodyguard for your fiancé," Bulba reminded. "She's protested that fact every chance she could get. Perhaps it would be prudent to fire him."
"Are you joking?" Negaduck asked in unbelief. "He signed a contract. If I fire him now, I'll have to pay him for services rendered. No, I'm getting my money's worth out of him."
"But…"
"If he manages to survive one measly little hitman, it'll prove his metal and we can find a spot for him in the ranks," Negaduck said. "If not, what's one little bodyguard in the scheme of things?"
Their conversation ended at the right time as Charity burst into the room as if she were entering a red carpet event. "Jim!" she cried out, rushing to him clumsily in her high heels.
"Hey, babe," Negaduck said, meeting her halfway across the room. He pulled her tight against him and kissed her deeply, his hands squeezing her hips.
"Jim, why didn't you tell me you were coming home today?" Charity pouted, twisting one of her curls around a delicate finger. "You should have called."
Negaduck took her chin in his hand. "Sorry, sweetheart, it was a last minute decision. But I'm here now. How about I take you to dinner?"
Bulba gave him a one-eyebrow look. You're cold, the look said.
Yes, he was.
The FBI office was like an ant colony. There were ants who went out into the world to gather information. There were ants who used that information to achieve goals, like gather supplies or bring back more information. And there were soldier ants that fought invaders, dangerous creatures that wanted to harm innocent ants. And all these different ants with different jobs worked towards a higher goal that benefited the entire colony.
But what most people didn't know about ants was that there were a chosen few—very few—that were kept deep within the ant tunnels whose only job was to prepare, organize and complete paperwork.
Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera was that ant.
He didn't mind it so much. After all, he was only a few months out of training, and he knew that every newbie had to take their turn at the bottom of the food chain. He didn't even mind that, even with his photographic memory, top academy scores, and the fact he had two bachelor degrees—one in criminal profiling, the other in forensics—everyone in the office still called him demeaning names like Agent Double C or Baby Agent. Sure, he was young. He was classified as a genius before he even went to school and had achieved much more than most in the FBI. No, he could understand that jealousy sometimes manifested into playful teasing. Chances were that they would get tired of it eventually, once he moved up in the ranks and gathered some experience.
No, the thing he minded the most was the agents that purposefully didn't sign their own statements and paperwork, leaving him the task of tracking them down and pleading until they added their John Hancock. He couldn't recall how many times he had to corner people in the break room, in the locker room, or—worse—at the urinal just so he could get his work done.
He had complained to his supervisor, Bradford, but the buzzard was unsympathetic and merely told him to, "Do his job."
Sighing, Fenton leaned back in his chair, which was dangerously close to toppling over. That was another downside to his position as Junior Agent: he always got the worst office supplies, which didn't make sense since he was the only one who never left his desk.
"He's at it again," Agent Donald shouted, which immediately caught all agents' attention. Agent Donald was a legend in the office. Not for amazing case work or for following rules. His reputation was founded upon his temper. And nothing set him off more than hearing more bad news regarding the slipperiest snake in all of St. Canard.
"Negaduck went to New York. Who's the idiot who forgot to inform me of that?" Donald shouted, jumping up and down like a boxer.
Every agent in the office looked away, hoping the blame wouldn't fall on them.
"We're supposed to be watching his guy better than a toddler around a pool, and nobody realized he went to New York," Donald shouted. "I want to know when he arrived, when he left, what he did there, where he stayed, and what he ate for lunch, and I want this information yesterday!"
The whole office scrambled to obey, nobody remembering that while Donald was a Senior Agent, he didn't necessarily power to order anyone around.
Grabbing a folder, Fenton took a deep breath and approached Agent Donald. His Mama had always told him that he needed to put himself out there if he expected anyone to give him a chance. If he wanted to get out of this office and into the field, he had to take the initiative.
"Uh, Agent Donald?"
"What!?" Donald shouted, still furious after his rant.
Fenton cleared his throat more to dispel his nervousness rather than clear any phlegm. "It's just, I've been doing some research on Jim Starling."
"Yeah?" Donald asked, looking interested.
Under the intense gaze, Fenton became more nervous. "W-well, it's just…I-I think that the only way we can bring down his whole operation is from the inside. I-If we could get s-someone on the inside, w-we could find evidence that c-could—"
Donald interrupted Fenton's explanation. "Look, kid, as much as I want to bring down The Negaduck myself, the FBI have already tried infiltrating his gang, and each time, it doesn't end well. Either he can read minds or he has someone on the inside because all of our undercover agents end up in the bay. You got that?"
"But my idea is different," Fenton said. "All undercover agents are given the same training, so all of them tend to look and act as if they belong to Jim Starling's world. But what if we send it someone who doesn't fit that mold. Someone that Starling wouldn't expect."
"Someone like you?" Donald asked, looking amused.
"Well, unless someone more qualified is available," Fenton said. As much as he'd like the glory of being the operative for this plan, he also wasn't too full of himself to think he was the best man for the job. "After studying his profile, I've found a hole in his security. Even among his inner sanctum, he doesn't trust anyone too much except for his right-hand man, Bulba. He trusts those down the line even more. However, he tends to have a blind eye when it comes to his fiancé."
Donald raised an eyebrow as Fenton pulled out a photo from his file, showing a lovebird and a duck coming out of a shop.
"This is Drake Mallard, hired bodyguard. Before this, he's had no experience, no connection to any criminal element, and absolutely no record. Clean as a hospital operating table," Fenton said, getting more excited the more he explained. "The same with the limo driver. Squeaky clean except for a number of moving violations. I think this is our in."
Donald rubbed his chin, studying the photo. Then he snapped the folder closed. "I like your moxy, kid. This shows real initiative. Tell you what, I'll run this by the guys upstairs, and I'll get back to you."
Fenton's face fell. It wasn't because he thought Donald would steal his plan. Despite his temper, Donald was an upstanding guy, and Fenton had always appreciated that he never used the nicknames the other agents had given him. But after all the research and planning he had done, the plan more than likely wouldn't go through.
Sagging into his uncomfortable office chair, Fenton shuffled through the files on his desk, not really looking at what he was doing.
"Hey, Baby Agent. Looks like you got shot down," a horribly familiar voice said. "Did Agent D deny your request for naptime?"
"Agent Beaks," Fenton said coolly, redoubling his work speed and really focusing on his job.
Mark Beaks represented everything wrong within the FBI. He was cocky, over-confident, and was lazy getting anything unless it would increase his reputation. Basically, he was a glory-hog. He sucked up to the bosses, made friends with those of higher rank or had any kind of power within the office, and basically made Fenton's life a nightmare. He was the one who came up with all the nicknames that stuck.
"Hey, I hear that they're hiring down in the Bureau's daycare. If you transfer there, you can work with someone more your own age," Agent Beaks said, leaning against a tower of files.
"Why don't you take these down there?" Fenton asked, handing over a stack of files. "I'm certain someone can finally teach you how to sign your own name." He shouldn't have said it. Baiting Beaks would only earn him more retaliation in the future.
Whether the comeback surprised him or he didn't have anything else clever to say, Beaks merely snatched the stack away and left, his face just as smug and cool as it always was.
Returning to work, Fenton tried not to let negative thoughts bog him down. But he couldn't help but thinking he was the Bureau's joke. He was too young, too small, and too self-conscientious to be ready for the field. But how was he ever going to learn and get better if they forced him to remain in this corner day after day?
Launchpad stood outside the café where he had just dropped off his passenger, gearing up his courage to go in there and talk to Mr. Starling.
That morning, he had driven his best friend and roommate to that nice Miss Charity's apartment before heading back to the large mansion. Usually, Miss Charity would spend an hour or two inside before the three of them would drive around town, going wherever Miss Charity wanted. Sometimes, they would be home by five. Sometimes they would go back to the mansion for the evening. Sometimes Miss Charity clubbed until past midnight. It was always something different and never planned. Launchpad liked it. He was fine with routine, but with Miss Charity, nothing was boring.
Which was why when they went to pick up Miss Charity, Launchpad showed Drake the ad, looking for a permanent driver. While the name on the ad wasn't Mr. Starling's name, the address definitely matched. Perhaps Mr. Starling was wanting a full-time driver for his fiancé after they were married, and that could mean a good, solid job for Launchpad.
But Drake looked mad when he read the ad and told Launchpad not to apply. He didn't give a reason for being so angry. Drake had always given a reason for doing or saying what he did in the past. Of all the people Launchpad knew, Drake was the only one who didn't treat him like an idiot, even explaining things when Launchpad didn't understand. Drake knew that Launchpad wasn't stupid, but that he didn't have the same common knowledge as everyone else or saw things the same ways as the rest of the world.
But that morning, Drake didn't explain why he shouldn't apply for the job. Was it that he didn't like working with Launchpad? Or was it something else?
Whatever the case may be, Launchpad needed the money from a steady job. As much as he liked driving Miss Charity around, she didn't go out every day. Sometimes, she just walked around town from her apartment, which meant Drake got paid, but Launchpad didn't.
No, he shouldn't let Drake take on all the responsibility of paying for their apartment and utilities. He needed this job, especially when he was banned from every limo and cab company in the city with his record.
So when Mr. Starling left his house alone and told Launchpad to drive him to the café, Launchpad forgot to correct him that he was Miss Charity's driver and obeyed. He pulled out of the estate, barely missing several cars racing through the morning's commute as he prepared his words. But he was too flustered to bring up the subject inside the limo.
So he ended up standing in front of the café, practicing his words several times. Drake would understand. Launchpad needed the money, and this job would be enough to get by.
Taking a deep breath, he went inside.
The café was one of those posh places where the coffee cost more than a tank of gas because they used large shiny machines that could steam, chill, foam, and do amazing things with coffee beans. There were beans from all over the world, including a coffee so rare that it cost a hundred buck a cup.
Launchpad was already intimidated by the expensive establishment. He was more of a gas station java guy himself. But if he wanted this job, he had to pretend he belonged there.
He spotted Mr. Starling in the back, sitting at a luxurious table, sipping from an intricately detailed porcelain coffee cup. Taking off his hat, he approached the table, twisting the limo driver's cap nervously.
"Uh…Mr. Starling, may I have a word with you?" Launchpad asked.
"What is it?" Mr. Starling asked, his face twisted in distaste. "You're my driver. What are you doing in here? I'm not done with my coffee."
"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I was hoping to talk to you. I heard that you are hiring," Launchpad said, feeling successful that he wasn't stuttering.
"Hiring? Oh, you're talking about the job," Mr. Starling said with a smile. "So, you've been in contact with Bulba?"
Launchpad thought it was odd that he emphasized those words, but at least he wasn't angry at him. "Actually, I heard about it from a friend," Launchpad said, remembering that it was some guy named Glomgold from his last job. He had been a jerk to Launchpad while they worked together, but perhaps he wasn't so bad.
"Well, well. However, I don't just hire anyone for this kind of job," Mr. Starling said, leaning back. "I want to get my money's worth. How much experience have you had?"
"Well, I've been doing it since I was sixteen," Launchpad said, taking a seat across from Mr. Starling.
"You started out young. That's good. It means you've got instincts," Mr. Starling observed.
"Well, I guess so," Launchpad said with a shrug.
"How many do you have?"
"How many what?"
Mr. Starling leaned forward, hissing, "How many people have you hit?"
Launchpad grimaced. He had hoped to avoid questions like this. But he was always taught to be honest. "I'll admit that I'm not perfect. Five."
"Five?"
"Just last week."
Mr. Starling's eyes popped open. "That's…impressive."
"Huh?" Launchpad was surprised to hear admiration in the duck's voice. "Thanks, I guess? You see, that's why I need this job."
"I would think with five hits a week, you'd be rolling in money. How much do you get paid?"
"Paid? Usually it's the other way around for me," Launchpad said.
"You mean you pay money to hit someone?" Mr. Starling asked skeptically. "I mean, I'm not one to judge, but is it because you like doing it that much?"
"No, I don't like it, but I can't stop myself," Launchpad explained. "Usually I'm just minding my own business and before I know it, I've cut someone off and then the police are called. So you can see why I need the money?"
"Whoa, you're…intense," Mr. Starling said with a nod of his head.
"Well, now that you know all the gory details, I'll understand if you want to hire someone else," Launchpad said, downtrodden. He started to stand up.
"No. No. Sit down," Mr. Starling insisted. "I think you're the right man for the job."
"Really?"
"Yes. I need someone who isn't afraid of getting his hands dirty," Mr. Starling said with a wide smile.
Launchpad looked at his hands. There was grease under his nails from doing his own maintenance on the limo. Perhaps he needed a mechanic as well.
"You're hired."
"Oh, thank you Mr. Starling," Launchpad said, taking his hand and shaking it so hard, the table vibrated, spilling a few droplets of coffee onto the table cloth. "You won't regret this."
"Now, let's talk specifics," Mr. Starling said, reaching inside jacket pocket. He pulled out a photo and slid it across the table. "This is the target I want you to hit."
Launchpad picked up a picture of Miss Charity and scratched his head in confusion. "Wait, you want me to hit on your fiancé? Won't you be mad?"
"You don't need to know the specifics, but she's getting what she deserves," Mr. Starling said. "I need you to take her out."
"Oh. Yeah, I could take her out." Launchpad finally understood what was going on. Miss Charity must be feeling lonely, and Mr. Starling wanted Launchpad to take her out—not on a date—but to do something fun because that's what she deserves. "You got it, Mr. S. But I don't understand why you don't just do it yourself. She's your fiancé."
"Are you kidding me?" Mr. Starling hissed. "I've got enough heat on my head that I can't be connected to this at all."
"Oh," Launchpad said, not quite understanding. That must mean that Mr. Starling was too busy. He was always flying off to different places, so that makes sense. "I've got lots of good ideas. I could take her to a restaurant, or maybe a movie or the mall."
"Oh, good. The more public, the more tragic it'll be," Mr. Starling cackled. "I know you're quite experienced in this sort of thing, but since we haven't worked together, how does twenty grand sound?"
If Launchpad was drinking something, he would have choked. "Twenty grand? Like in dollars?"
"I know it's low, but if I like your work, we can discuss a pay raise for the next person you take out."
"You mean you're giving me twenty thousand dollars just to take your fiancé out? For one day's work?" Launchpad asked in disbelief.
"That's usually how it goes. Do we have a deal?"
Launchpad laughed. "I would have done it for twenty bucks." What luck! He already liked being her driver, and now he was going to make a whole lot more money driving her around. "I can't wait to tell Drake."
"Whoa. Whoa. Who's Drake?" Mr. Starling said. For some reason, that name sounded familiar although it was an uncommon given name.
"He's my best friend. He'll be so surprised you've hired me," Launchpad said.
"Ooooh, this should be kept on the down-low," Mr. Starling said. "I hope you understand. I don't want the world to know my business. Secrecy comes with the job."
"Oh, I guess that's okay," Launchpad said. After all, as long as Launchpad was making good money, Drake wouldn't care about the details, right?
"When you drive me back to my estate, I'll give you half upfront," Mr. Starling said. "It's very convenient of you to have that limo. It'll make things a whole lot easier for you to take out my fiancé." Mr. Starling laughed.
Launchpad joined in. Yeah, it was convenient. "I'll just wait outside until you're finished, okay?"
Mr. Starling tilted his hat in a nod before going back to sip his coffee.
Launchpad still didn't understand why Drake didn't want him to ask Mr. Starling for a job. The man, while sometimes didn't make any sense, was a nice guy. And Miss Charity did deserve a surprise day on the town.
After Jim "The Negaduck" Starling finished his coffee, he patted his beak with a napkin and left.
Fenton released a huge sigh of relief as he crawled out from under the table. When he went into the fancy café for his weekly splurge—the FBI didn't pay him well enough for him to get his favorite coffee every day—he hadn't expected to see the face of St. Canard's most despised criminal overlord. At the first sight of Starling's face, Fenton had ducked underneath the table more out of a desire to hide rather than thinking that this was his chance to spy.
It was only by fate's design that Jim Starling sat at the same table to drink his coffee.
At first, Fenton saw that he had acted rashly. Starling could be there for a long time, and that would mean that Fenton would be late getting into the office. But then destiny dropped an opportunity in his lap as Starling started talking to someone, discussing something obviously illegal. This was it! He had information that Negaduck was paying a hitman to knock-off his fiancé, and it was the perfect opportunity to make a name for himself at the Bureau.
And to add icing to the cake, Fenton so happened to have a listening device on him. Agent Beaks had thrown it at him the day before because it had malfunctioned on him, but Fenton had tinkered with it—he had always been good at fixing things—and it worked perfectly. With care, he planted the device on Starling's shoe. It wasn't the perfect place, but it was the best anyone at the FBI had done so far.
With the coast clear, Fenton grabbed his coffee from the ground, now cold, and raced outside and down the streets. He needed to tell Agent Donald immediately.
