[ WP ] An assassin receives an unusual contract : a man on death row already slated for execution .

I'd be the first to admit that I'm a man of few talents, but what I do, I do well. In my line of work it goes without saying that the more famous you are the less useful anyone with half a brain would find you. Nobody knows my name, and very few know my face, so if someone has a problem that falls within my area of expertise, I deal with it. I leave no trace, and I go on living comfortably until it's time to top up my bank account. I've never considered doing anything else. I had a clean conscience, as far as I could tell. Or maybe no conscience – I suppose I wouldn ’ t really be the best judge, though I do have a strict no children or animals rule, so I guess that's something. 
 
 I take four contracts a year, and I've been doing this for a long time. The people who can afford me tend to run in some fairly unique circles, so I've found myself involved in some odd shenanigans. As a matter of fact this wasn ’ t even the first time I've been paid to deal with someone in prison, though in that case it was more of an “ If he stays in there he'll talk ” situation. Nothing like this. 
 
 I was just finishing breakfast when I met the client. Most mornings I ate on the balcony of the house I was renting, overlooking Surfrider beach, because it felt like something that someone who had a balcony overlooking a beach would do. There were two ways onto that balcony, through the house, and up a flight of creaky old wooden stairs that led straight to the beach. He could only have come up the stairs since the front door was locked, though anyone approaching the house should have had the dog barking either way. But the first thing I heard was his introduction. 
 
 “ Beautiful morning. ” 
 
 I didn ’ t react right away, although hearing his voice out of nowhere came as something of a surprise. Still, whoever he was he obviously intended to catch me off guard, so I would do my best to throw him off his. 
 
 “ Sure is. ” 
 
 I let my gaze linger on the ocean for a moment before turning to him with my best approximation of a friendly grin. He was clean shaven, with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and a white suit that made me think of Colonel Sanders, and he was smirking in a way that did nothing to set me at ease. “ Can I help you with something? ” 
 
 “ I suspect that you can my friend, though whether or not you will is another story. ” 
 
 He strode over and leaned up against the railing in front of me, dropping a manilla folder onto the table as he passed. “ I know it's your off-season and all, but I have a project kicking around and I thought – well, I was hoping really that you might be interested. ” 
 
 That was when I started to become agitated. This was not how I conducted my business. I do n't take cold calls. When I'm ready to start looking for a job, I put feelers out. I may not know people, but I know types of people, I know who to look for to find a job when I'm good and ready and I give a different name each time. I do n't have references. My last job is always at least five states away from my next one. And another thing, he was right about this being my off season. I take four contracts a year, no more no less. One every three months. The first eight weeks are me-time, after which I start looking for my next contract. I complete the job as quickly as possible, just in case anybody gets cold feet, but it's nice to have that month in there for a buffer in case things are slow or I need more prep time. If there's any time left over I usually blow some money on a trip somewhere. Been on a few cruises. Even went on safari once, but by the first of the month I'm always in my new rental ( paid in cash ), five states away from the last job and with eight weeks of me-time to look forward to. 
 
 Colonel Sanders showed up in the middle of week five before I'd even begun to think about the next job, and he should have had no inkling of how I ran my schedule. I doubted that he was a Fed, but that didn ’ t mean he wouldn ’ t cause problems, so I reached for the folder and did my best to maintain the neighbourly persona I already regretted adopting. At least until I could figure out what his game was. 
 
 “ Interested in what? ” I leafed through the contents of the folder with what I intended as a quizzical expression on my face until I came upon a photograph of a man in a prison jumpsuit. I held it up to him. “ Who's this? ” 
 
 Colonel Sanders smiled. “ That's the man I want you to kill. ” 
 
 I stopped smiling, stopped looking confused. “ And why would I do that? ” My intention was to leave an opening for him to offer up payment, but it would seem that my intentions were more or less irrelevant that day. 
 
 Colonel Sanders laughed. “ Well now that is an interesting question, and I do n't think that the answer is going to be quite what you're expecting. I want you to kill that man because it's the right thing to do. ” 
 
 I stared at him. “ The right thing to do? ” 
 
 He nodded. “ The whole sob story is there in the folder, but I'll give you the cliff notes version. Twelve years ago the man in the photograph was part of a street gang. Pretty small time stuff for the most part, but he and four others were part of a botched mugging involving a Senators Daughter and her boyfriend. Long story short the boyfriend tried to fight back and got a bullet in the stomach for his trouble, at which point the girl gets excited and gets beaten to death for hers. Our man there has his prints on the gun and a broken toe from all the kicking, so he goes down for both. Meanwhile the Senator starts a crusade against this gang in particular and has it wiped out within a year, at which point he turns his attention to the family of our patsy here, who coincidentally find themselves being either financially ruined or simply... eliminated through the use of certain proxies- ” 
 
 “ What is your point? ” I break in, unsure of why I'm still humouring this guy. I typically do n't bother with back-story. Why people need me is none of my business, I'm just a means to an end. 
 
 He raised his hands in apology. “ I get carried away. But my point is, this man has nothing left to live for. No hope of getting out, no hope for a normal life, no one left to care about and no one left who cares about him. Regardless of whether or not he passed the gun to one of his buddies who shot the kid, or did the shooting himself. Or whether he broke his toe on the girls skull or stubbed it on a rock running away from the scene. He regrets it. He's a shell, broken, guilt ridden and irreparable. He's an example of a life wasted, and he just wants it to end. ” 
 
 I skim over some of the files in the folder while he's jabbering. “ He's already on Death Row. Seems like he'll get his wish sooner or later. ” 
 
 The Colonels smile fades and his expression grows dark. “ That's the problem. He's in agony right now. He ca n't wait until they let him die. He's on suicide watch already. ” 
 
 “ If he did what he's been convicted of maybe he's exactly where he should be. ” 
 
 I do n't know what made me say it, maybe I was just trying to brush him off, but it was obvious from the bemused look on his face that I'd had the exact opposite effect. 
 
 “ Was that a moral proclamation? ” he asked wryly. “ I had no idea that someone with your mindset was capable of such a line of thinking. ” 
 
 “ And what mindset is that? ” 
 
 “ You think of yourself as a tool ” he said. “ A means to an end, so to speak. You provide a service and others utilize it as they see fit. ” 
 
 “ And if I do, ” I interjected. “ Does that preclude me from making morale judgements? ” 
 
 He nodded in concession. “ I suppose it doesn ’ t, but I do find it interesting that our subject here, whether he killed the boy or the girl or both of them or neither, is overcome by guilt and shame for inadvertently affecting so many lives with those two deaths. ” He looked me in the eye. “ You've killed four people every year for over a decade. How many lives do you think you've affected? ” 
 
 I stand up. It's time to cut the shit. He knows who I am and what I do and I'm finished playing games. 
 
 “ I would like for you to answer two questions. ” I say, as calmly as I can. “ How do you know what you know about me. ” I snatch up the folder on the table and wave it in his face. “ And is this a real contract or just some fucked up guilt-trip attempt you cooked up? ” 
 
 Colonel Sanders stands up and walks around to the side of the table, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a second manilla folder. 
 
 “ To answer your first question it would be best to say that I'm very keen to keep track of opportunities, and leave it at that. ” 
 
 He smiles and hands me the second folder. “ As for your second question you could say it's a bit of both, if you like, although the guilt-trip is really more of a counter-incentive. ” 
 
 “ A counter-incentive for what? ” I ask, through clenched teeth. 
 
 “ For my second contract. ” He says, gesturing to the new folder in my hand. “ Details inside, but suffice it to say that subject isn ’ t nearly as interesting as the first one. I do n't know much about him at all to be honest. He's a Guard at San Quentin, where Subject 1 resides. ” 
 
 “ And what, after all of this makes you think that I would take one contract from you, let alone two? ” 
 
 “ Well I never said anything about having you complete two contracts. You will complete one, or the other. ” 
 
 “ Oh will I? ” 
 
 His face once again grew serious. “ If you complete the contract on Subject 1, there will be no payment. ” 
 
 I almost laughed at that. “ Well sorry, but I do n't usually work pro-Bono. ” I said dryly. 
 
 He continued as if I hadn ’ t spoken. “ If you complete the contract on subject 1, you will be releasing a tormented man from a torturous existence. He can rest. His victims can rest. All those affected by his actions can hopefully gain some measure of peace. But you will not be paid for the job. ” 
 
 * ( continued in reply ) *
