The Apprentice Assassin by A. P. Littlewood written version
Chad turned the door knob gently and pushed. Damn. The old bat had locked the bathroom door. He could hear the shower going strong and smell that flowery goo women used. So much for Plan A. She was alone in the house, or so she thought, but she'd locked the damn door anyway. Must of watched that old movie about some psycho hacking up broads in the shower.
He walked back into the living room, no point in tiptoeing, and waited, trying to think. He bounced the crowbar in his palm, bounced a little on the balls of his feet. He could handle it. This was—what—his fourth job? Really his third since the last one hadn't gone too good. But this one would go fine. He'd remembered the gloves this time,cloudy pale vinyl. Remembered to wipe the crowbar for prints, done
everything perfect. This was a slow-ball job, no question, old lady inthis house out in South Nowhere with no alarm system, but if it went right, Irma would get him the bigger jobs with more money.
How should this come down? Nothing sweet came to him. OK, just wait until she walked out and whack her. Tear the place up, steal something so it looked like a robbery gone wrong, and book it on out. Dead simple. Call in and tell Irma, then check his bank balance in a couple of days, buy the Honda Goldwing and hit the road for couple weeks. No sweat.
He heard the shower go off and after a tedious wait, out walked the target, a mess. Short gray hair still wet, some sort of saggy yellow bathrobe, looking a hundred years old. She didn't see him, turned the other way toward the bedroom. "Neva Ralston?" he said, cold voice.
She jumped a mile, turned and looked at him, eyes big as headlights."Ohmygod. Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"Neva Ralston?" he asked again, enjoying this part.
Her voice was high, uneven. "No. I'm Bertha Wilson, her sister. What do you want? I don't have any cash."
Shit. "Where's Neva Ralston?" He could hear his own voice lose the icy edge. Damn.
"Hawaii. I'm house sitting." She clutched the robe over her chest, as if he cared about her tits.
"Sit." He pointed to a chair in the living room, something old and wood and spindly.
She sat.
He called in, hating it, knowing he had to. "Irma, gotta situation.Her sister's here, says Ralston is in Hawaii. Sister is—what'd you say?" He glared at her.
"Bertha Wilson."
He finished the call and hung up. Irma set up this mess, she could straighten it out. No blame on him.
He sat down on the sofa, lots of those little squishy pillows,everything loose and tan, and crossed his legs. Sofa like that kind of dog with all the wrinkles. "We wait." That came out good. Short,tough.
The old woman got herself organized, robe just so, messed with her hair, nervous. Irma didn't call. The woman stood up. "I need to get dressed."
"No way. You sit there."
"I don't own a gun or anything. I just have to get my clothes on."
She was up and scuttling barefooted down the hall. So he had to clip her now or else follow. Last time he'd clipped the wrong person and
that couldn't happen again. He followed, pissed off, the crowbar feeling good in his hand. He was in charge here.
He let her get herself dressed, underwear, pants and a tee-shirt. She sort of hid behind the robe with her back to him. He watched, amused that she hid her tired old body from him. She walked to the closet.
"Where in hell you going?"
"To get my shoes." She didn't hesitate, didn't look at him, just opened up the big folding door on the closet and walked in.
He had to hump on after her. Grabbed her by the arm, yanked her out of there, and spun her onto the bed. "You move when I say to and not before."
She curled up on the bed, cuddling her arm. "I only wanted my shoes."
Looked like she was about to cry.
He marched her into the living room again, shoved her into the wood chair, heard something crack, a dry, brittle sound, but the chair
didn't collapse. He sat on the soft sofa, sank deep in the cushions,and waited for Irma to call. Damn. He wanted this over, sick of waiting.
The woman wasn't quiet for long, too nervous. "You get hired to do this. You're a professional assassin, right?"
He kept his face blank, maybe a hint of a nod.
"You must have been in the military. Delta Force? Navy Seals?"
He shrugged. Juvenile detention was as close as he'd come to the military, but he liked her thinking he was trained to kill.
"How do you get a job like this? A middle man? Like an agent?"
Yeah, that would be Irma. Plus a friend to get him started, a friend who owed him. Not that he needed any help.
"You have to make it look like an accident, right? Like a robbery"? She leaned toward him in the chair, hands clutched together almost like she was praying. "I know where Neva keeps her jewelry. You'll never find it by yourself. An emerald necklace from our mother. Pearl rings. You could get good money for them. I'll show you if you let me go."
Emeralds and pearls.
* * * *
The jewelry hooked him, she could tell. That immobile look copied from The Terminator flickered. He wanted it. A second chance, if she had enough time. He'd yanked her out of the closet before she could get to the box that held her grandfather's straight razor collection. Whoever Irma was, she was likely to call back any minute, and that would be that. "What do you say? I'll show you if you promise not to hurt me, to let me go." She shivered and forced a little smile. "A deal?"
She watched his brain click over to "lie".
"Works for me. I get the jewels and leave. This job sucks anyway."
She stood up, knees weak. She had to be careful. It was possible the kid wasn't as dense as he seemed. Tristan had hired him, she was sure of it. Tristan didn't want to pay her any more for enduring ten years of marriage to him, the worst mistake of her life. Things had changed somehow in the financial heights where he operated, and Tristan no longer feared the records she'd kept as insurance against his retribution. The understanding had been that, dead or alive, she could put him in jail. Tristan was capable of violence—she had the scars—and she'd been foolish to believe she'd be safe forever. She expected the money to stop someday, but not this. Surely Tristan would hire someone capable—the kid was faking dumb? Or maybe not. It would be like Tristan to dispose of her on the cheap. The kid was out of shape although he couldn't be older than 25, pale unhealthy skin, plain as a mud fence. No one would ever notice him. Unless he was in your apartment carrying a crowbar. She felt dizzy and a little nauseated,sure that fear was dismembering her brain, neuron by neuron.
She led him to the second bedroom, her office, and took the Tuscany landscape off the wall, setting it carefully on the bed. She reached for the dial and, as she half expected, the kid snapped at her. "Get away from there. Tell me the combo. I dial."
"Um, four, six, then nine. No, wait. I can't think. Six, nine, three?"
The kid's face tightened, his hand pausing on the dial, and she realized he thought she was stalling, that she'd changed her mind.Stalling? She was in a panicky rush to beat Irma's call. But she couldn't let him open the safe. "I can't think of it. I just can't. I have to turn the dial to remember." It wasn't hard to cry.
He stood aside, crowbar raised, glaring at her with the face he'd learned from bad movies. She spun the dial and tugged on it. The safe ignored her. She breathed deeply, fighting the black specks swirling before her eyes, and dialed again. His cell phone rang and he fumbled with it, trying to get it out of his pocket and open with his left hand while his right hand brandished the weapon. She tugged, and the safe did not open.
"Yeah, got it. Whadda lying bitch. No, totally under control. Give me five and I'll confirm."
Ah, she'd forgotten the last digit. She turned the dial and the door opened.
He wasn't even looking at her. He closed the phone and looked up. Neva let him see the .38 Special, waited for his eyes to go wide, waited to see if he would back off or remember that he had a weapon. The arm with the crowbar drew back for attack, and she pumped a bullet into his chest, bracing herself the way she'd been taught. He spun back against the wall, every line of his face and body expressing
amazement. She shot him again and he jerked hard and crumpled. This time she felt the recoil shocking her wrist and arm.
Neva stood with her hands shaking so hard she almost dropped the gun.She'd wet herself. Waves of dizziness swept in and out like tides. She forced herself to look at him. He was as dead as a person could be. Trembling, she set her gun back in the safe and sat down in the office chair.
She'd taken a human life. She waited for that to settle. She'd killed to save her own life, not avoidable, certainly not criminal. But she had taken years away from a young person in exchange for whatever remained of her own allotment. She had committed an act of extreme violence against another human being. The first bullet was terror, and it had hit where she aimed it. The second bullet? She rocked a little in the chair. Yes, the second bullet was to make sure, but it was also rage. Tristan had sent this ugly punk into her house to smash her skull and make it look like a robbery. This punk who broke her grandmother's chair, who sneered at her body, who assumed a sixty year old woman was helpless. She took an unsteady breath, wondering if this lingering fury was post traumatic shock or what. Had she always harbored a killer inside? Perhaps Tristan had created the nucleus and this incident had set it free, like a dry sponge ompressed and tiny until it encountered water and swelled to full size. Or maybe it was only an inner core of iron that had always been hers, that would not accept anything but survival.
She should call the police.
But still she sat. She'd been spared because her assassin wasincompetent. What if he hadn't been? Tristan would send another, a better one. She would never stand a chance against a skillful killer. How would she even identify him before it was too late? If she didn't come up with something, she would live in fear and hiding for the rest of her life.
She had to admit that the kid dead on her carpet had a few characteristics of a good assassin. No one would notice him in a crowd. Without the crowbar, he wouldn't look dangerous, no matter howhe narrowed his eyes and curled his upper lip. If he'd been any good at his job, he would have a big advantage because people would always underestimate him. Just as he'd underestimated her. Like Tristan had.
Neva felt her heart rate steady with her breathing. She should definitely call the police. She reached down to the floor for his cell phone and held it in her hand. She opened it and found Recent Calls.
Pressed Send.
Said, "Irma, this is Neva Ralston. There's been a change in personnel.We need to talk about your training program and salary."
He walked back into the living room, no point in tiptoeing, and waited, trying to think. He bounced the crowbar in his palm, bounced a little on the balls of his feet. He could handle it. This was—what—his fourth job? Really his third since the last one hadn't gone too good. But this one would go fine. He'd remembered the gloves this time,cloudy pale vinyl. Remembered to wipe the crowbar for prints, done
everything perfect. This was a slow-ball job, no question, old lady inthis house out in South Nowhere with no alarm system, but if it went right, Irma would get him the bigger jobs with more money.
How should this come down? Nothing sweet came to him. OK, just wait until she walked out and whack her. Tear the place up, steal something so it looked like a robbery gone wrong, and book it on out. Dead simple. Call in and tell Irma, then check his bank balance in a couple of days, buy the Honda Goldwing and hit the road for couple weeks. No sweat.
He heard the shower go off and after a tedious wait, out walked the target, a mess. Short gray hair still wet, some sort of saggy yellow bathrobe, looking a hundred years old. She didn't see him, turned the other way toward the bedroom. "Neva Ralston?" he said, cold voice.
She jumped a mile, turned and looked at him, eyes big as headlights."Ohmygod. Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"Neva Ralston?" he asked again, enjoying this part.
Her voice was high, uneven. "No. I'm Bertha Wilson, her sister. What do you want? I don't have any cash."
Shit. "Where's Neva Ralston?" He could hear his own voice lose the icy edge. Damn.
"Hawaii. I'm house sitting." She clutched the robe over her chest, as if he cared about her tits.
"Sit." He pointed to a chair in the living room, something old and wood and spindly.
She sat.
He called in, hating it, knowing he had to. "Irma, gotta situation.Her sister's here, says Ralston is in Hawaii. Sister is—what'd you say?" He glared at her.
"Bertha Wilson."
He finished the call and hung up. Irma set up this mess, she could straighten it out. No blame on him.
He sat down on the sofa, lots of those little squishy pillows,everything loose and tan, and crossed his legs. Sofa like that kind of dog with all the wrinkles. "We wait." That came out good. Short,tough.
The old woman got herself organized, robe just so, messed with her hair, nervous. Irma didn't call. The woman stood up. "I need to get dressed."
"No way. You sit there."
"I don't own a gun or anything. I just have to get my clothes on."
She was up and scuttling barefooted down the hall. So he had to clip her now or else follow. Last time he'd clipped the wrong person and
that couldn't happen again. He followed, pissed off, the crowbar feeling good in his hand. He was in charge here.
He let her get herself dressed, underwear, pants and a tee-shirt. She sort of hid behind the robe with her back to him. He watched, amused that she hid her tired old body from him. She walked to the closet.
"Where in hell you going?"
"To get my shoes." She didn't hesitate, didn't look at him, just opened up the big folding door on the closet and walked in.
He had to hump on after her. Grabbed her by the arm, yanked her out of there, and spun her onto the bed. "You move when I say to and not before."
She curled up on the bed, cuddling her arm. "I only wanted my shoes."
Looked like she was about to cry.
He marched her into the living room again, shoved her into the wood chair, heard something crack, a dry, brittle sound, but the chair
didn't collapse. He sat on the soft sofa, sank deep in the cushions,and waited for Irma to call. Damn. He wanted this over, sick of waiting.
The woman wasn't quiet for long, too nervous. "You get hired to do this. You're a professional assassin, right?"
He kept his face blank, maybe a hint of a nod.
"You must have been in the military. Delta Force? Navy Seals?"
He shrugged. Juvenile detention was as close as he'd come to the military, but he liked her thinking he was trained to kill.
"How do you get a job like this? A middle man? Like an agent?"
Yeah, that would be Irma. Plus a friend to get him started, a friend who owed him. Not that he needed any help.
"You have to make it look like an accident, right? Like a robbery"? She leaned toward him in the chair, hands clutched together almost like she was praying. "I know where Neva keeps her jewelry. You'll never find it by yourself. An emerald necklace from our mother. Pearl rings. You could get good money for them. I'll show you if you let me go."
Emeralds and pearls.
* * * *
The jewelry hooked him, she could tell. That immobile look copied from The Terminator flickered. He wanted it. A second chance, if she had enough time. He'd yanked her out of the closet before she could get to the box that held her grandfather's straight razor collection. Whoever Irma was, she was likely to call back any minute, and that would be that. "What do you say? I'll show you if you promise not to hurt me, to let me go." She shivered and forced a little smile. "A deal?"
She watched his brain click over to "lie".
"Works for me. I get the jewels and leave. This job sucks anyway."
She stood up, knees weak. She had to be careful. It was possible the kid wasn't as dense as he seemed. Tristan had hired him, she was sure of it. Tristan didn't want to pay her any more for enduring ten years of marriage to him, the worst mistake of her life. Things had changed somehow in the financial heights where he operated, and Tristan no longer feared the records she'd kept as insurance against his retribution. The understanding had been that, dead or alive, she could put him in jail. Tristan was capable of violence—she had the scars—and she'd been foolish to believe she'd be safe forever. She expected the money to stop someday, but not this. Surely Tristan would hire someone capable—the kid was faking dumb? Or maybe not. It would be like Tristan to dispose of her on the cheap. The kid was out of shape although he couldn't be older than 25, pale unhealthy skin, plain as a mud fence. No one would ever notice him. Unless he was in your apartment carrying a crowbar. She felt dizzy and a little nauseated,sure that fear was dismembering her brain, neuron by neuron.
She led him to the second bedroom, her office, and took the Tuscany landscape off the wall, setting it carefully on the bed. She reached for the dial and, as she half expected, the kid snapped at her. "Get away from there. Tell me the combo. I dial."
"Um, four, six, then nine. No, wait. I can't think. Six, nine, three?"
The kid's face tightened, his hand pausing on the dial, and she realized he thought she was stalling, that she'd changed her mind.Stalling? She was in a panicky rush to beat Irma's call. But she couldn't let him open the safe. "I can't think of it. I just can't. I have to turn the dial to remember." It wasn't hard to cry.
He stood aside, crowbar raised, glaring at her with the face he'd learned from bad movies. She spun the dial and tugged on it. The safe ignored her. She breathed deeply, fighting the black specks swirling before her eyes, and dialed again. His cell phone rang and he fumbled with it, trying to get it out of his pocket and open with his left hand while his right hand brandished the weapon. She tugged, and the safe did not open.
"Yeah, got it. Whadda lying bitch. No, totally under control. Give me five and I'll confirm."
Ah, she'd forgotten the last digit. She turned the dial and the door opened.
He wasn't even looking at her. He closed the phone and looked up. Neva let him see the .38 Special, waited for his eyes to go wide, waited to see if he would back off or remember that he had a weapon. The arm with the crowbar drew back for attack, and she pumped a bullet into his chest, bracing herself the way she'd been taught. He spun back against the wall, every line of his face and body expressing
amazement. She shot him again and he jerked hard and crumpled. This time she felt the recoil shocking her wrist and arm.
Neva stood with her hands shaking so hard she almost dropped the gun.She'd wet herself. Waves of dizziness swept in and out like tides. She forced herself to look at him. He was as dead as a person could be. Trembling, she set her gun back in the safe and sat down in the office chair.
She'd taken a human life. She waited for that to settle. She'd killed to save her own life, not avoidable, certainly not criminal. But she had taken years away from a young person in exchange for whatever remained of her own allotment. She had committed an act of extreme violence against another human being. The first bullet was terror, and it had hit where she aimed it. The second bullet? She rocked a little in the chair. Yes, the second bullet was to make sure, but it was also rage. Tristan had sent this ugly punk into her house to smash her skull and make it look like a robbery. This punk who broke her grandmother's chair, who sneered at her body, who assumed a sixty year old woman was helpless. She took an unsteady breath, wondering if this lingering fury was post traumatic shock or what. Had she always harbored a killer inside? Perhaps Tristan had created the nucleus and this incident had set it free, like a dry sponge ompressed and tiny until it encountered water and swelled to full size. Or maybe it was only an inner core of iron that had always been hers, that would not accept anything but survival.
She should call the police.
But still she sat. She'd been spared because her assassin wasincompetent. What if he hadn't been? Tristan would send another, a better one. She would never stand a chance against a skillful killer. How would she even identify him before it was too late? If she didn't come up with something, she would live in fear and hiding for the rest of her life.
She had to admit that the kid dead on her carpet had a few characteristics of a good assassin. No one would notice him in a crowd. Without the crowbar, he wouldn't look dangerous, no matter howhe narrowed his eyes and curled his upper lip. If he'd been any good at his job, he would have a big advantage because people would always underestimate him. Just as he'd underestimated her. Like Tristan had.
Neva felt her heart rate steady with her breathing. She should definitely call the police. She reached down to the floor for his cell phone and held it in her hand. She opened it and found Recent Calls.
Pressed Send.
Said, "Irma, this is Neva Ralston. There's been a change in personnel.We need to talk about your training program and salary."
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