The Next Job

KACELA

I stepped out into the bright sunshine, shielding my eyes and looked around.  Spotting what I was looking for, I ran across two lanes of traffic and cut in front of a couple who was wrestling three huge bags of luggage.  I slid into the taxi that had stopped for them. 

“The Hyatt Downtown,” I told the driver.  He looked in his mirror at the couple who were staring at me in outrage and then shrugged, pressing on the gas and driving away.  I settled back into my seat and my phone chirped again.

“This is Kacela,” I said.  Emmett spoke, sounding irritated.

“Finally, you answer,” he said in a deep whine. 

“What do you want, Emmett?” I asked.  I needed to pack up my room and leave the city.  I didn’t think there would be too much uproar for a person who left a wolf dead in a bathroom, but you never know.  Most likely they will want to question me after they review the video of the terminal.  There’s the matter of two of us entering the bathroom, one leaving and a dead wolf being left behind.   I didn’t really want to stick around for those questions.

“Ton of requests for your services, but there’s one in particular I think you should seriously take a look at,” he said.  He sounded excited instead of his usual bored self, so my interest was piqued. 

“Tell me about it.”

“Some super rich guy wants a pack taken out.  Says that they run a lumber mill and it’s in direct competition with his.”  I made a noise.  I didn’t care why the guy wanted the werewolves killed.  It never interests me. 

“I know, I know,” Emmett said.  “You don’t care.  It’s reason enough that they’re werewolves.  Someday you’re going to have to tell me why you hate them so bad,” he said.  He paused for a moment.  I made another impatient noise and he sighed.  “Fine.  I told him you’d call him when you got back to your office and talk to him about it.  He is paying well.  You could take a really nice vacation when you’re done with this job.”

“Maybe,” was all that I said.  I have never taken a vacation.  I haven’t gotten tired of killing werewolves yet. 

“I’ll text you the number,” he said.  “Give him a call.  Try to be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” I said.  Emmett made a condescending noise and I smiled wryly into the phone before disconnecting.  My phone chirped again, and I saw that Emmett had done what he said and texted me the number.

Stanly Jones, I read, followed by his phone number.  I put that information into the search engine in my phone and read the results.

Seems Mr. Jones is indeed a lumber mill owner up north, right on the Canadian border. He was located about seventy miles from a major metropolis and five miles from a decent sized town. I put the location into G****e Earth and spent some time scrolling around, looking for signs of a Pack near the location. I thought I potentially found something, but was unable to zoom in. Weird.

The taxi arrived at the hotel, and I paid the driver in cash, giving him a decent tip.  I slipped out and then made it to my room, happy to see that housekeeping had already been in and refreshed everything.  I would normally like a shower before I traveled but I wanted to get out of town before people started thinking they wanted to talk to me.

Three hours later I was on a train that was taking me to Kansas City, the place I currently call home.   The clacking of the wheels on the tracks lulled me and I put my phone away, deciding to do my research on Mr. Jones another time.  I asked the porter to turn my compartment into a bed and then disappeared into the bathroom for a moment.  When I got back, I locked the door and lay down, drifting into a restless sleep. 

I woke as we were arriving into Kansas City.  The train had stopped, and I was groggy, gathering my bags and opening the sliding door.  The porter waved at me; the forty-dollar tip I had given him made an impression.  I grabbed an Uber outside the train station and gave him my home address. 

I lived in an old flour mill that had been converted into apartment lofts and office spaces.  I had one of each; a small loft space upstairs and an office space on the street level of the building.  I liked that my commute to the office was five sets of stairs and one hundred feet.  The loft was located within a twelve-dollar Uber ride from the train station and for thirty dollars I could go to the airport.  I also owned a jeep that I parked in the covered parking garage and rarely got to use, much to Emmett’s chagrin.  He was constantly trying to borrow it, but I let no one use my cars.

Once home I spent some time watering the plants I desperately try to keep alive and fail miserably.  It was 10:30pm and I wasn’t in the least bit tired, having slept the entire eight-hour trip back here.  I took my long-awaited shower and then plopped down to check up on these people who wanted to hire me. 

I saw, with amusement, that the discovery of a dead wolf in the airport had caused a stir and made the rounds on social media.  Smugglers were suspected and extremist groups from the northern states were also suspected.  I snickered and then switched to one of my favorite programs to use.

Within minutes I had Stephen Jones’ entire digital footprint laid out in front of me.  I knew his address, the address of his kids, the three marriages he still owed alimony on and his credit score.  I knew the names of his associates, his employees, and his neighbors.  I pulled up his last few credit card statements and saw that he racked up quite the bill, but also paid it off each month.  I saw several subscription charges and, curious, looked up one I didn’t recognize.  It was a girl-on-girl porn site.  Eeew.  I studied his photo and was not impressed.  He looked like he tried too hard. 

I checked my watch.  It was currently 10pm where he was at because of the time change, and it was technically too late to call.  However, I was beginning to be curious.  I have never been hired to take out an entire pack before, and I wanted details.   I picked up the phone and dialed his number.