Discount Assassin (flash fiction)

I hear that familiar snap as Ramone Zorilla's trachea breaks. His lifeless body slumps down in the cheap leather booth, and I walk out of the V.I.P room with some hustle. I have about two minutes to get out of the club before someone notices. As I nudge my way through the crowded dance floor, I stuff the garrote into the back pocket of some guy. He's either too drunk to notice or thinks he's getting lucky. I exit the loud club. When I'm about halfway to my car I hear screaming. "Guess they found him," I say to myself. I unlock my car and drive off. Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at my destination, Horace's apartment block. Somebody buzzes me through the door. The level of noise I hear throughout the building makes it seem like there's a party going on. I walk up to the reinforced door leading to his den. Someone, Ty I think, opens the eye slit and looks at me. A few locks clink, and he welcomes me in. It's a scene so cliché I swear I'm in a rap video. Dudes playing pool and dominoes to my right, counting money and weighing drugs to my left. "Ayo, Ace! Rev here for you!" Ty announced through cupped hands, before returning to his pool game. My name isn't Rev. Not even close. Ty misheard me when I first said it. Not that I care enough to correct him. I kinda like it anyway. Horace, or "Ace" as everyone else called him, materialized from somewhere. 5'11, shoulder-length dreadlocks, dark skin, and blue and green heterochromia. Horace was like many thugs living here in Saxend: ambitious. The only difference is that he thinks about what he needs to do to achieve his goals. That's why he hires me. I don't know if he knows I'm former Special Forces. And I don't know why he approached me in the bar that night, saying he needed my help. But he pays in cash, and the jobs are easy enough. Even if he didn't do research on me, I did some on him. He doesn't deal drugs to kids, doesn’t do human trafficking, and makes sure bystanders don't get shot. Still, even he knows that if he wants control of Saxend, a few more coffins gotta be filled. That's where I come in. With my set of skills and the police being poorly funded and corrupt, there’s little chance of me being caught. “Ramone is dead,” I tell him. When we first started working together, he'd asked for proof, now he knows better. He nods his head. “That fucker had beef with Vic over on Saron Street. He had kids in the school over there stabbing each other and dealing drugs. Now, no more kid funerals.” He walks over to a pile of money. He picks up a small stack, puts it in an envelope, and tosses it at me. It has my usual fee of $3,000 in it. When we first started, I considered demanding more money, but Horace is pretty smart: he told me he knew these jobs were easy for me, and he’d have to be a fool to pay me full price. Can’t say I disagree. Plus I don’t need that much money, just enough to live on. “Yo, if you want, I got another job for you.” He lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. “I ain’t walking to the door yet,” I say tucking the envelope in my back pocket. He chuckles. “You heard of Minerva Cordero?” he asks while he started playing idly with his lighter. I’d heard the name around town. She has hands in prostitution and drugs, but that’s all I know. “Owns all the hoes in this city. She runs her whole operation outta her club, Toque. She stays there too. Instead of paying them a decent wage, she gets them hooked on smack. Also has girls in there, 13 years old selling themselves for her,” he explains to me. He walks over to a table and writes something down. “Cordero’s club is a fortress, but she’s going to a barbecue at Teto Park on Friday. It’s the best shot we have at her and it’s still not much. Think you can do something?” he asks. I’d already started to form a plan in my head. “Yeah, I got it,” I say. No need to elaborate further. “Aiight then, here’s the address and a picture of her. It’s coupla years old tho.” He hands me the papers. “I’ll manage,” I simply say before leaving. Come Friday morning, I head to the address. Across the street was an old building. I park my car underneath the fire escape and go to the roof. Opening my case, I pull out the SR-25. I put it together, load it, and wait. Around 10:27 p.m., the barbecue is in full swing and Minerva arrives. I look at her through the scope, following her around the party. It’s crowded; I’m not getting any windows for a shot. Damn, it’s so hot, I can actually see the sweat spilling down her nape. ‘God, these people never let her have a second’s peace,’ I think to myself. She talks to several people, exchanging items with others. There! She takes a plate and goes to serve herself. It’s clear since most of the guests already had food. “Here we go,” I say to myself. I ready my trigger finger. The man at the grill steps aside to let her pick her own kebab. As I pull the trigger, that familiar sound blasted out. The bullet rushes through her temple. Her body goes slack, and her plate drops as she falls. She crashes into the grill, knocking it and the food to the ground. The grill-master looks on in shock as Minerva’s body then catches on fire. Panic ensues, nobody is sure what to do. “Easy money,” I say to myself. The End