The Hit

I sat in driver's seat, and thumbed through the folder Aleksander had given me. It felt like the thousandth time I'd seen this stuff. Photos, home and work addresses, phone numbers, vehicle plates, even a schedule of the target's daily routine. The Russians had really done their homework on this one. Everything that was needed to make the hit was in there. They just needed a trigger man. Someone deniable in case of blowback. A synapse, committing their impulse into one swift, bloody action. Somehow, this had come to be me. If I screwed this one up, I knew I'd be on my own, but that was always the way with this job; Rely on no one but yourself. Trust only your own instincts.

My mind raced back to the conversation I'd had with Aleksander two weeks prior. We'd sat in his opulent study, watched over all the while by a huge portrait of his grandfather Vitaly, and discussed his job offer.

"We want him taken out clean. None of that fucking mess like you made last time. You are lucky that we have chosen to give you another chance." Aleksander fixed me with his cold black eyes.

"Me, lucky?" I snorted. "Not when I'm dealing with you lot."

The expression on his face darkened. I knew it was dangerous to bait these guys, but I also knew that they needed me to do the job.

"This time we don't want it looking like an accident. We have decided that it is time we send a message," Aleksander grinned. "You will find all of the information that you will be needing in this case. Same pay as before."

The Russian slid a black briefcase across his desk towards me. I popped the clips open. It was packed with green hundred Euro notes. There was a beige A4 envelope sitting on top.


"Half now. Half on elimination of the target. Simples." He gave out a little squeak. They always seemed to make that sound when they felt things were going their way. I got up and left without another word being said.

That had been a fortnight ago.

Since then I had been doing my research, scoping out the target and plotting his daily movements. I was determined not to screw this one up like I had with the Jones hit. I still don't know what went wrong with that one, but at least the job had been done and I'd got out without being identified.

Now here I was, sitting in the car, with the engine off, preparing to kill a man who didn't even know I existed. I always found that this was the moment the job got to me. A man was about to die and he didn't even know it.

But fuck it, if I didn't do it, someone else would. At least I was a professional. I'd make it quick. This guy had only been on the scene for a short time and already he'd made a lot of enemies. Many people would consider me a hero for what I was about to do this night. Hell, most of them would probably claim they'd like to pull the trigger themselves.

I had no such illusions.

It was a rainy, moonless night, and I didn't expect there to be anyone about, but I checked my mirrors and stepped out of the car. You can never be too careful in this line of work. Quickly and purposefully I strode up the long drive to the target's house. My pulse quickened as I reached the front door. A few lights were still on, both upstairs and down. This was it. I clenched the gun in my hand. My palms were sweaty, but I knew what had to come next. I rang the doorbell and heard the chorus from George M Cohan's "Over There" reverberate out across the house.

Seconds passed, each one feeling like a lifetime. I could hear his footsteps approaching.

Finally, the door opened, and there on the threshold stood Gio Compario. I pulled out the gun and fired three shots. The opera singer slumped to the floor without making a sound. For once he was silent.

"Go compare this, motherfucker."

I turned back into the cold wet night and hurried towards the car. My hands were shaking as I reached for my phone and fired off a text to the Russians.

"It's done."

I turned the key in the ignition and headed off into the night. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed into life. A new message. It was Aleksander.

"We have some more work for you. Check out the picture below. Find him. Wack him. Simples."

Attached to the text message was a picture of a bald man sporting a cheeky grin. I recognized him immediately. It was Omid Djalili.


I let out a sigh.

Goddamn those fucking meerkats.