Chapter 2: Blackheart pt 2

We drive for a few minutes with Mr Allard death gripping the wheel till I can see the bones of his knuckles practically glowing in the darkness of the car. I instruct him to pullover, and he complies. He turns off the engine and manages to compose himself.

“What do you want from me?” He asks in a level tone.

“I don’t want anything. Your wife on the other hand would love to see you dead. Can’t say I blame her. You’ve been very naughty Mr Allard,” I tsk at him.

His eyes widen in surprise before shifting into angry slits. “My fucking wife sent you?” He seethes, his hands balling into fists on the steering wheel. I say nothing, I’m not one for repeating myself or answering obvious questions. “I knew that bitch would bring me nothing but trouble the moment I stuck my dick in her. Whatever she’s paying you I’ll double it,” he offers, fear gone from his body only to be replaced with rage.

I hate when they try to barter, it’s pointless. A contract is a contract. If you don’t stay true to the contract you’re finished in this world. If you renege on a contract for a higher offer, you can expect to either be dead within twenty-four hours or be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. While offering more money will probably work on a street thug or mercenary, I’m the one he’s dealing with, so he’s shit out of luck.

He’s starting to get angrier, and I can see his body preparing itself to try and attack me. Sometimes it’s almost boring how predictable these people are. With one hand still holding Crimson to his neck, I pull the bright red 7” metal spiked stiletto from my duffle bag, and before he can make a move to even attempt to disarm me, I jam the heel directly into his carotid artery. His eyes widen in horror and his hands instinctively reach up to his neck to where the shoe is now protruding from as I watch on with a blank expression on my face.

3…2…1…He rips the heel from his neck and attempts to cover the hole with his hands as blood begins to spurt from the hole like a fountain, drenching the leather interior of his SUV and obscuring the once clear windshield with his blood. I internally shake my head. They always do that. It’s a reflex to pull out a foreign object, but it’s the opposite of what one should do.

With one hand to his neck, he fumbles for the door handle with the other. He finally gets it open and falls out of the car. I place Crimson back in my ankle holster and calmly get out of the car with my duffle bag. I watch as he crawls along the sidewalk, torn between putting pressure on his wound or using both hands to crawl. The panic and energy he’s exerting are causing his heart to pump faster which in turn is causing blood to spurt out quicker. He screams for help, but the sound is strangled. I stand silently by the car watching colour drain from his face. The blood that once provided that colour is now drenching his expensive suit and leaving a trail along the sidewalk. It doesn’t take long before his body finally stops moving and he takes his final breath.

I throw my now empty duffle bag over my shoulder and take a look around. Should anyone have seen they’d have to join Mr Allard here, which would really mess up the scene I’ve set. I casually start walking down the street, my all-black attire consisting of my turtleneck, leggings, combat boots, leather gloves and cap with my hair neatly tucked under it with the help of a hair net – wouldn’t want to leave stray hairs behind – allowing me to blend into the shadows nicely. It’s not a statement piece, it’s practical. Can’t hide out as easily in a black car if you’re wearing neon. After a couple blocks I take off my gloves, followed by my cap and hair net releasing my shoulder blade length straight black hair, and put the items in the duffle bag. I pull out the burner phone from my back pocket and speed dial 1. After three rings it answers.

“Hello?” Answers a timid voice.

“It’s done. Tomorrow morning, leave my payment along with the burner I gave you in your mailbox. I will come to collect it. This will be our last interaction,” I instruct in a cold and firm voice. I go to hang up, but she has something to say it seems.

“Wait! ...How… how did you do it?” She nervously asks. I’m not sure she can stomach the realities of what she’s asked me to do, but I’m not her therapist or her mother, I’m not getting paid to coddle her. So I give it to her straight.

“After your husband was done screwing his latest whore, I coerced him into driving to the red-light district and once there stabbed him in the neck. He then bled to death on the sidewalk. Between the area, the murder weapon I chose, and the fact that they will find evidence of sex during the post-mortem, this will lead authorities to believe this was a sex job gone wrong. Analysis of your husband’s SUV navigation system will also show where he goes every Thursday night which will further solidify what appears to be the obvious answer,” I explain clinically.

She’s silent for a moment, but her heavy breathing can be heard through the phone. “Thank you,” she tells me.

With nothing more for us to discuss I hang up. I make my way to a rental car I have parked two blocks away, get in and drive back to Hotel LeVeque, where I plan to soak in a nice hot tub and get a good night’s rest.

This is what my life consists of. I travel the globe killing people for a living. I don’t take any sexual gratification from what I do, I don’t even do it for the money really – although it does pay incredibly well. No, this work; this life, runs in my blood. It’s deep rooted in who I am. By the age of twenty-nine I have become one of the most prolific assassins in the world. To those in this shadow world or those who seek me out I am only known by my codename. Blackheart.