The Hitman's Last Job(16)

One of his favorite hobbies was to torch random people’s cars just to watch the ensuing chaos. But that fun came to an end when he set fire to a young mother’s VW as she jumped out for a moment to run an errand. He hadn’t realized that her six month old son was in the back fast asleep. He had to lay low after that even though the kid survived but still…. He had gotten cocky and complacent, sloppy even. After that he just stuck to abandoned buildings and stolen vehicles, and as he got older the habit faded he only threw lit matches for cash. It was a peculiar skill he was rather good at.

In the wing mirror he noticed an old, beaten up people carrier in that particular shade of beige that only old folk like.

“That must be him,” Jorge whispered to no one in particular as he lit a cigarette.


He breathed out the blue smoke and watched it dance on the breeze. Across the road an old yet athletic man was carrying in groceries from his car while talking into an outdated cell phone. Jorge watched him from the comfort of his car through his beady eyes and smiled as he thought about what he’d do with him. He eventually tucked his cigarette into his cars ashtray instead of flicking it out the window – they weren’t finding his DNA on the crime scene - and swaggered over the street. He pressed the doorbell. Silence. He knew the old man was in there, he was just playing hard to get. Reaching out a sweaty hand he pressed the doorbell again. Still silence. Jorge soon tired of the old dude playing coy and he knocked on the door loudly.

“Who is it?” the old man called.


Jorge could hear the panic in his voice. He obviously wasn’t used to visitors. In his strongest Puerto Rican accent, he put on especially for privileged white people, he playfully yelled:

“Yo man! Girl Scouts! You wanna buy some cookies?”


The old man immediately blustered into the hallway and Jorge could see him through the blurred glass.

“What do you want?” he was terrified but nevertheless tried to stand his ground. “I have a gun you know?”
“So do I,” came the glib reply from the Puerto Rican with the dazzling smile. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” that playful voice again.
“I have no cash in the house!” was all the man could say to try and placate the terror he was feeling.
“Look man I don’t want your money. I just need to talk,”
“Please leave! Or I’m phoning the police!”


But it was too late. As he reached out to the phone that lay by the front door Jorge had smashed in the glass with the handle of his gun and unlocked the door. He instantly grabbed the man by his cardigan and pushed him into the wall.

“Don’t play games grandpa….”
“What do you want?”
“You’re Carl Reiner’s father ain’t ya?”


Suddenly the old man’s face turned pale and Jorge could see the fear in his eyes.

“Take that as a yes,” he put him back down on his feet. “So what can you tell me about him? Is he here?”
“No he’s not here. Hasn’t been in a long while,” his voice shook with sadness.
“Well you won’t mind if I take a look around then?” Jorge said menacingly as he began to knock ornaments from the mantel piece and books from the shelves.


He was enjoying himself and this was part of the interrogation process that Jorge loved. The fear in people’s eyes as he violated their personal space was priceless. But more than anything he loved the way they looked so helpless. He glanced over to Reiner Senior who wasn’t trying to stop him from trashing the place. Jorge walked into the dining room and knocked a glass off the table like a naughty child. It shattered loudly on the floorboards and Reiner flinched at the noise. Jorge saw how scared he really was.

“Look please….I don’t know what you want and I don’t know where my son is. Haven’t seen him in years,”
“Is that so?” Jorge could see honesty behind the old man’s eyes. He knew he was telling the truth but still…. He wanted his playtime.


Pulling out the rope from the inside of his jacket, he wound the ends around his hands while looking Reiner in the eye. Next he strode over and quickly grabbed him by the arm and twisted it behind his back. The old man screamed and grimaced in pain, but Jorge didn’t care. He just pulled at the other arm and secured both wrists together. Reiner made a pained and pathetic noise as he was dragged by his shirt collar down the stairs into the basement.

It was a dark yet strangely homely space filled with Reiner’s various hobby crafts and old photographs. It wasn’t the usual dungeon that Jorge was used to but it would do. He placed his captive in the corner and tied the rope to a water pipe. He looked down to check that it was tight enough and he saw that Reiner’s hands were quickly turning purple.

“Good job,” he muttered to himself. “Soon the pain will be unbearable,”


And for good measure he kicked his prisoner in the groin. He yelped in agony but again Jorge didn’t care. He liked to watch the struggling. It was times like this he wished he was prepared, and he thought it would have been nice to have some snacks to hand. He’d sit in front of the old guy and kick back, relax and watch the torture. All he had though was cigarettes. He lit one and blew the smoke into Reiner’s face who immediately began to cough.

“Why are you doing this?” his voice was becoming increasingly desperate.