Protecting Her(29)

“Liar!” he screams. “You told me to deliver a package. I did exactly what you told me to do. It’s not my f*cking fault that you gave me the wrong address! And now you’re trying to kill me for your own f*cking mistake!”

As he talks, I’m putting this together. This is Royce’s mistake. Royce’s original assignment wasn’t to kill this man. It was to deliver some type of package to someone. Probably a package that contained confidential information that was not to be seen by anyone but the person it was intended to go to. But Royce gave the freelancer the wrong address, and now he’s covering his tracks and blaming the freelancer for the error, thus causing the need for him to be killed. I got the kill assignment, and somehow this man found out my name and thinks I’m the one who gave him the wrong address. He obviously doesn’t know about Royce. He knew Royce as a number, not a name. So how did this man get my name?

“It wasn’t me,” I tell the man. “I didn’t give you that assignment.”

“Stop lying!” He breathes in and out, loudly, into the phone. “If I’m being killed, I ain’t going alone. I’m taking your wife with me. How do you like that, you f*cking *?”

I grip the phone and get back onto the road. “What are you talking about? Where are you? What did you do?”

I hit the gas and speed off, heading toward home.

“She’s a beauty. But then again, I suppose rich guys like you can buy whatever woman you want.”

“Where are you? Tell me where the f*ck you are!”

“I’m watching her,” he says in a slow deranged voice. “Tight jeans. White sweater. Long dark hair.”

“If you get anywhere near her, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Go ahead. I know I’ll be killed eventually. But I’m not going alone. I want you to suffer. I’m sick of you bastards making us do your shit, risking everything, while you sit back and count your millions.”

My tires screech as I round a corner. “We’ll work this out. I’ll pay you whatever you want. Just tell me where you are!”

I listen, but there’s no sound. He hung up. Fuck!

I speed down the street. I’m almost home. When I get there, I pop the trunk and quickly unlock the hidden compartment that contains my guns. I grab the loaded handgun, attach the silencer, then race into the house. It’s quiet and nothing looks out of place.

“Rachel?” I call out. I run up the stairs, checking every room. They’re all empty. I check out the back window. She’s not there either. Shit!

I get my phone out and call her, but hear ringing here in the bedroom. I follow the ringing and see her phone sitting on the dresser. Dammit! I hurry back down the stairs. Where would she go? If he saw her, she must be out in public. She never goes anywhere but the store and the park. The park. That’s gotta be it. The park she goes to is surrounded by trees and bushes, the perfect place for him to hide.

My heart’s thundering in my chest as I run back out to the car and peel out of the driveway. The park is only a couple miles from the house. I get there and see Rachel sitting on a bench, holding Garret. There are some children behind her, kicking a ball around. Thank God they’re there or I’m sure that man would’ve shot her by now.

I scan the perimeter of the park, looking for any movement in the bushes or trees. My eyes dart to the right when I see a flash of red. I look again and see another flash of red through the bushes. That’s him. I get out of the car, my gun hidden in my coat, and walk quickly down the sidewalk. Rachel and the other mothers are off in the distance. I parked by the tennis courts, which are several hundred feet from the playground.

I take my gun out as I approach the area where I saw him, but now I can’t find him. I scan left and right, and when I look forward again, I see him. He’s right in front of me, wearing a red jacket, crouched down behind the bushes and facing the playground. There’s a rifle in his hand. If he shot it from here, he likely wouldn’t hit Rachel. He’s too far away, unless he has perfect aim. But he could easily hit one of the other mothers, who are standing closer to us.

I lift up my gun, aiming it at the center of his back. I secure my other hand around the base of the gun, and without hesitation, I depress the trigger. The silencer hides the noise. He collapses forward. I shoot him again. And then once more.

He’s dead. And I feel nothing. No remorse. Not even anger. Either I’m too shocked to feel anything, or my dark side has taken over and I’m someone else right now.