Taken By The Hitman by Amber Adams

Chapter 3: Jason

 

"That's right, ya fuckin' wallopers!"

I chuckle into my glass of single-malt Scotch whisky, as my "mentor," Murdock, continues launching verbal missiles at his television. I’m not much of a sports guy, but it’s entertaining enough to watch the barrel-chested, salt-and-pepper-haired Scotsman react to every swing of the scoreboard like a preteen girl at a boy-band concert.

Who would have thought that a retired hitman would be so entertaining.

As Celtic line up for a penalty kick, I lean forward, Murdock practically vibrating with anticipation. The instant the ball blows by the keeper and into the net, the older fellow explodes out of his leather chair, howling with excitement as I casually clap in commiseration.

“Jason, my boy,” he laughs, stopping to grab ahold of the whiskey bottle.

“That’s another one for my lads! Time for a drink!”

I chuckle. “It’s always time for a drink.”

He holds the bottle out and I shake my head, earning another chuckle from him.

"You always were a slow drinker," he said mockingly.

Considering that the Scot has at least fifty pounds on me, I know he can hold his whisky better than I can, even on a bad day.

“And maybe you should slow down,” I offer back in retort.

He waves a hand at me as he eases back down onto the couch, balancing his drink in his hand.

“Something has to kill me, and since a bullet hasn’t done the job yet, I might as well let the whiskey do it nice n’ slow.”

I shake my head and take another sip of the potent liquid, enjoying the way it slides down my throat.

"So, how's the job going?"

I nearly snort, before catching myself. 

In our line of work, the first and best line two lines of defense are keeping your mouth shut and steadfast denial. If we are caught, there are all sorts of excuses that we are trained to create and give.

I’m a hell of a good killer and a liar as well. I’m the shadow that you think you see, the person blending into the background who knows more about you than you know about yourself. And it’s all because I want to kill you. That’s my job.

Stealth is the name of the game and chatting about work is never a good idea, even if it’s with another assassin like Murdock. It gets you too comfortable talking about ‘work’. And you never want to go there.

In this line of work there is no such thing as water cooler talk. But the piece of work that Murdock is he’s at once testing me and goading me at the same time.

I shrug. "Just finished a project, so now I'm waiting to hear if it met the requirement or not."

Murdock just nods before taking a long swig of his drink. “That’s good.”

"And what about you?" I press him in return.

"How's the 'retired' life going? Started climbing up the walls yet?"

Murdock barks in laughter, shaking his head.

I knew his story well. At the height of his career, he could demand any price. An expert sharpshooter from his military days, Murdock went through contracts like they were going out of style.

It was a contract in Eastern Europe that had left him with a limp and a distinct lack of hearing in his left ear, robbing him of his stealth and quickness.

So, at thirty-nine, Murdock had decided to pass along his knowledge to the next crop of hitmen and I was the lucky bastard he decided to take under his wing.

I shift in my seat as I think about the early days, how I was shit at holding a gun and being quiet. If it hadn’t been for the Scot, I would have died many more times over than I had killed, but I had grown my skills slowly. Murdock not only had taught me how to shoot, but also hand-to-hand combat. He taught me how to be effective but more importantly how to stay alive.

How to be suave, well, that wasn’t something Murdock was known for. He killed from afar when he could, and I like to track my marks close, sometimes even gaining their trust when needed.

We worked a few gigs together in the early days until I broke out on my own, using my fast-accumulating fortune to open a company catering to the wealthy and elite who like to play the markets.

The company is just a front for my real work as an assassin, but I have done a decent job with investments. I employ a handful of smart-ass people who can help anyone make a quick buck in the stocks, catering to those who have a lot of money to play with. They look after all the client and regulatory stuff, and I get a great cover. So far, it’s worked well for me.

For Murdock, he was a bit more practical and decided in his retirement to function as a tour guide of sorts.

"Tae be honest, I have been getting a bit bored of it all,” he finally says, his gaze focusing on the large bay window in his living room.

“Without tha' sense of real, physical danger, it's hard tae stay interested, ye know?” He grins.

“So, I've been passing off more and more tours tae tha’ juniors. Still, the money's grand. Na to mention, it lets mah fund Samantha's expeditions."

I shake my head, a smile playing on my lips as I think of the archeology professor that Murdock married shortly after he met her. Now he’s a stepfather to Samantha’s fifteen-year-old daughter and carts her around to her punk band gigs when her mother is out of town.

It’s hard to picture him as the badass hitman now that he sports a fairly good dad belly and walks around in middle-aged dad shoes.

"Is that where she is now?" I ask, knowing that Murdock’s favorite subject is his wife.

He shakes his head. "Nae, her and Alice've gone off to a wedding in California. Speaking of…how's the love life coming along?"

I nearly spit out my drink, to Murdock's obvious delight. I hate when he tries to pry into my personal life, well, more like the personal life I don’t have.

"It's fine.”

"Just fine?" he questions.

When I don't respond, he continues.

"We've known each other for quite some time now—you're not too far off from where I was when I hung it up, yeah?"

I scoff. "I'm not that close at all, I—"

Murdock cuts me off with the wave of his hand.

"Right, but you're not that far off, is what I'm telling ye. Seeing the light at the end of the tunnel? You and I might not have had the exact same career, but you're getting older, no denying. It happens to the best of us—literally only the best of us. You’re smart to think now about what is next and about when you’re gonna call it a day."

I don’t like to think I’m getting fucking old, but I guess I am. It’s the one thing I can’t control, can’t stop from happening. But I still can’t picture the day that I don’t take a job, that I don’t spend my time researching a mark and executing my plan.

But hell, I can feel it in my bones. My knees hurt every morning and my shoulder regularly aches due to an old injury from when I fell off a building during a fight. Granted it wasn’t a long fall but fixing the dislocation hadn’t eased the pain.

“I’ve got a shitload of money,” I finally say. “I will be fine.”

“I’m not talking about financially,” Murdock replies.

“I’m talking about someone tae spend the rest of yer life with, boy. I wasna expecting mah Samantha, but hell, I canna imagine mah life without her and Alice too.”

He leans forward, his bushy eyebrows narrowing.

“And don’t tell mah ye don’t need someone. Everybody needs someone.”

I digest his words before I eventually answer.

"Your advice is...noted."

Murdock rolls his eyes, clearly expecting my snarky answer.

"Now, what kind of dry bullshite answer—"

Suddenly his attention is drawn back to the television as a green-and-white-striped blur peels down the field.

"Come on, Griffiths, that's it, punch it in...gah! So close!"

I sip at my whiskey, Murdock’s words tumbling about in my mind. How can I think about a love life, a future, when my life is always balancing on the edge of the cliff?

Murdock is lucky, having been able to have found Samantha and create a family for himself with her and her daughter, but I’m not sure I want the same. Coming out of our line of work, where we’ve been trained to be lone wolves, it’s a lot of pressure to care for and protect a family.

I’m happy for Murdock but I don’t know if that’s for me.