Last Hit: Reloaded

by Jessica Clare

  “I do this for leisure.” I wish my magazine was not empty. It would take at least thirty seconds to load the magazine with a bullet and then chamber a round. He could have shot me nine times by then.

  “I’m Oliver McFadden.” I take his proffered hand automatically. “Boxing is my recommendation. Nothing like hitting someone else to relieve the stress.”

  He may be correct. Shooting my imaginary self a million times will not eradicate the memory of last evening. A fist to my face and a return strike would be satisfying, but not under the eye of this watchful man.

  “Nick Anders.” The gun case and protective gear are stowed in the backpack resting against the back wall. In it is my wallet with several hundred dollars and my identification that declares I am Nick Anders from Ithaca, New York. I am an art student at the university. I live with my girlfriend. I am no one of importance.

  I shrug into the heavy leather jacket and slip the straps of the backpack over my shoulders. Stiffly I reply, “I am a new resident and am unfamiliar with the area. This place I find on the internet.”

  “Stop by the Warehouse. It’s a gym for serious folks, not the meat markets where women come in their Lululemon yoga pants and bro dudes try to flex in front of the mirror in hopes of getting their attention. It’s a real gym.”

  I open my mouth to release a denial but stop. “Do you have a girlfriend, Oliver McFadden?”

  He blinks and then cocks his head. “No, but women are definitely my preferred partners.”

  My interest in him wanes. If he had a girlfriend perhaps I would befriend him and then his lady would be friends with Daisy. That he is single makes him of no interest to me. I turn away and move toward the exit.

  “So wait, if I had a girlfriend then you’d be interested in visiting the gym? You’re a strange guy, Nick Anders. But a fucking amazing shot.”

  Outside, I climb onto my bike. It’s ferociously cold and while the helmet protects my face from the wind, it still bites in my vulnerable areas. The jeans are a poor barrier to the bitter chill but I welcome it, for it reminds me of home.

  Whipping out, I wend through traffic, conscious of the gaze that tracks my every movement. Knowing who is behind me, I take extra precautions to obey all traffic signals. It takes thirty minutes to arrive at my location. Hurriedly, I unlock the exterior door and then throw open the doors to the stairs. In less time than it takes a man to piss, I’m inside.

  Wasting no time, I run to the bedroom, shedding my backpack and my jacket in my wake. Inside the bedroom there is one mattress with an old green coverlet. I flip it over and with the knife from my pack, I rip the stitches on the side. The loose threading falls away. Pulling out the foam, I throw it to the floor and reach inside for the case.

  My heart is beating fast and adrenaline is kicking in. I glance at my watch. Three minutes since I left my bike on the street.

  I fall to my knees and flip the case open. It takes me less than a minute to assemble my rifle.

  “It has been a long time, friend,” I whisper and kiss the barrel. I pocket the shells and race to the bathroom. With a twist the vertical slats of the blinds open just enough so that I have a clear view of my target through the scope. I turn the laser off. No need to announce my presence.

  Through the magnified glass, I see him park his four-door sedan. I make a mental note of the front grille that has a large cross in the middle and the black license plate.

  He looks up, counting the stories. There are four of them. I am on the second floor. I’ve always liked second-floor apartments. They are high enough to provide some measure of distance between unexpected intruders but not so high that I cannot jump from a window to safety.

  He counts the windows that are lit and then turns to look at my bike. Oliver McFadden removes a glove from his hand and presses it on the still-warm engine. My finger moves to the trigger. I will have to break the glass with the first bullet and then shoot a split second later with the second, anticipating which way McFadden will duck at the first shot. He’s right-handed given that his gun is holstered on the right side. The odds will favor him moving to the right and down.

  I take a breath.

  He moves toward the door, trailing his hand along the seat and then across the handlebars.

  My finger tightens and . . . a buzzing sounds in my pocket. The noise in the still apartment startles me, and the end of the barrel knocks against the window. McFadden’s eyes jerk to my location. The phone buzzes again.

  With a sigh, I flip the gun upward, place the stock between my legs, and glance at the text.

  Daisy: What time do you think you’ll be home? I made homemade pasta from a recipe I found on the Internet!

  I type out a response. Soon kitten. My practice is near completion.

  Boo. You don’t need your guns anymore. You’re retired, remember?

  Yes. Still, it is safe before sorry.

  Better safe than sorry is the saying. Love you.

  I will be home soon. XOXO.

  Outside, McFadden is pulling away. He has lost interest or he is waiting for me to lead him to my Daisy. I’m afraid again. I killed two men in this city, a former accountant from the Petrovich Bratva and a drug dealer. Both were barely human and I feel no remorse at the loss of their lives, but McFadden, the man who wears a police-issue handgun holstered in plain sight, may feel differently.

  But how can he have made the connection between an expert marksman and the two deaths? The accountant’s body was treated with acid, leaving only bones behind. The skull shot would not have revealed anything about me. The other man? He was not shot by my hand but by Daisy’s father.

  If I am taken into custody, what would happen to Daisy?

  In the bedroom, I dismantle the rifle and place it back in its case. With thread and needle, I close up the mattress and then return the room to its former order. I exhale heavily and check the kitchen. Pushing the refrigerator aside, I loosen a baseboard. Right where I left it is a brick of cash and one passport. The picture is of me and the identity reads Niall Hemley, hailing from Leeds, England, UK.

  The phone rings again, this time signaling a call and not a text. The caller ID reads Unknown.

  “Yes,” I answer tersely.

  “Nick old man, sorry I didn’t call you back sooner. Regan and I were riding the fences this week. We were out of cell-phone range.”

  It is Daniel. I had called for advice but he had not reached me in time. Resentment stirs but I push it down. It is not Daniel’s fault Daisy and I are inept.

  “You and Regan are doing well?” I ask, leaning back against the cabinets.

  “Yeah, it’s great. How about you and Daisy? Did you have a good party?”

  “Nyet. It was no good.” It also seems unimportant now that there is Oliver McFadden noting my gun prowess and following me through the busy streets of Minneapolis. “Do you sometimes think you should not be in Regan’s life? That there is too much danger and . . . unsavory parts of your past that could bring harm to her?”

  He’s silent for a moment and then replies, “Maybe, but then I think that there’s no one who can protect her better than me. Where are you, by the way?”

  “A safe place.”

  “But a place that Daisy doesn’t know about?”

  “Da, it is a spotter house. I used it to gather information about the accountant.”

  “Shit, man, you can’t keep secrets from your woman. She knows what you did and accepted it. Hell, she shot old Sergei for you. If you don’t come clean about these places, the next time she holds a gun, you’ll be on the other end of it.”

  “Perhaps that would be for the best.”

  “Fuck your Russian fatalism. You really think Daisy is better off fucking some other guy? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you take a walk about.”

  “Nyet. Never.” I shove the cash and passport back into the hiding place and replace the refrigerator. “No man will touch Daisy while I breathe.”

  “Then get your fuckin
g act together and go home. Apparently you are having homemade spaghetti according to what Daisy texted Regan.”

  “Da. I am leaving now.”

  “Nick, do you need help? I can be on the first plane.”

  “Stay in Texas with Regan,” I order. “I will handle this.”

  I do not see Oliver McFadden’s vehicle when I exit nor on my drive home. It is unlikely he has forgotten about me, but there is no purpose in hiding my residence. The public records identify my home address as the three-story brick apartment complex within walking distance of the university campus.

  When I arrive home, Daisy greets me with a smile. Her day has turned sunny as it always does. She refuses to allow external forces to affect her adversely. Unlike me. I need her like the summer needs sun. I could never walk away from her.

  “I found this recipe for homemade pasta. It was really easy and actually kind of fun.” There is a dusting of flour on her nose, forehead, and cheeks.

  “Do we need to eat it now?” I ask.

  “No, why?”

  I sweep her into my arms. “Because I am a dour Ukrainian who cannot function without a taste of you on my mouth.”

  She rubs her flour covered face against mine. “You’re insatiable.”

  “Da, this is true. My cock is always hungry for you.”

  Chapter 5

  Daisy

  The next time I go to the commons for lunch, I’m unsure what to think when I see Christine sitting at her normal table. She didn’t come to the disaster of the party, so I’m not sure how to categorize our friendship or if we even have one. Then again, the party was a nightmare, so maybe it’s a blessing she wasn’t there to see my utter humiliation. I sit down at a nearby empty table and pull out my iPad so I can study. I’m in Christine’s line of sight¸ so if she wants to talk to me, she can. I’m just not sure I’m ready to be the one to initiate a conversation again.

  To my surprise—and vast relief—Christine waves at me, a timid smile on her face. “Hi, Daisy! Come sit with me.”

  A return smile etches itself on my face, and I’m so happy that she’s being normal and friendly that I gather my things and hurry over to her table, plopping down ungracefully. “Hi, Christine,” I say, feeling shy and gauche. “You look nice today.” Her hair is tucked into a modest braid, and she’s wearing a pale fluffy sweater over her jeans. The entire look is a soft, welcoming one.

  She makes a face. “My boyfriend told me this sweater makes me look like a fat snowman.”

  “Oh.” I . . . don’t know what to say to that. I think I’d be hurt if Nick told me I looked like a fat snowman. I’m a little appalled that her boyfriend would be so casually cruel, but I don’t know what to think about people anymore. I’m starting to think I’m way more sheltered than I ever suspected.

  But she doesn’t wait for more of a response from me. Instead, she ducks her head and gives me a hesitant look. “I don’t suppose you have your notes from last class, do you? For the homework?”

  “I do.” I pull out my books, and my homework pages are on top of my notes. At the sight of my completed homework, Christine brightens. “Oh, could I just copy you?”

  I hesitate, but only for a second. I know I’m being used, but I don’t even care. Someone’s talking to me and not laughing in my face, and it feels better than it should. If bribes of homework are what it takes to have a friend, then at least I’ll have one person who will talk to me.

  “You’re a lifesaver, Daisy,” she exclaims and begins to rapidly copy down my work.

  I smile wryly to myself. Am I really? Or just a sucker who is desperately lonely? I pull out my lunch and begin to set it up. I made chocolate chip muffins last night, and I see Nick has put three of them in my lunch, along with the usual assortment. I’d swear the man is trying to fatten me up, but it’s just like Nick to think that if one muffin is good, three will make me extra happy. The thought makes me feel warm inside. “Want a muffin?” I ask Christine.

  She murmurs her thanks and takes one. She crams the muffin into her mouth, glances around the commons, and then continues working. I pick at it, my appetite not exactly stellar lately.

  A few minutes later, I’ve picked all of the chocolate chips off of my muffin, and Christine hands my homework back with a happy smile. “Thank you so much. Really.”

  “No problem.”

  She licks her lips and looks awkward for a moment. “I’m really sorry I didn’t come to your party Saturday night. My boyfriend . . .”

  I wave aside her excuse. “Please. You don’t have to apologize.”

  “I feel bad,” Christine says. “A-are you going to eat all of your sandwich today?”

  I pull it apart and offer her half, and she immediately wolfs it down. Maybe Christine’s used to eating fast and that’s why she scarfs her food. It makes sense if she never does her homework until she sits down before class. She doesn’t have time to eat.

  “So,” she asks between bites. “How was your party? Did you have fun?”

  The one bite of sandwich in my mouth goes dry, and I force myself to swallow. I hate thinking about that party. “It was awful.”

  Christine gives me a sympathetic look. “Didn’t turn out like you expected?”

  She has no idea. Awful is the only word that springs to mind, but it doesn’t seem to encompass the emotions surrounding that night. I worked for days to get everything lined up for the party, printing up invites for Nick to hand out to his classmates, picking out my party dress, arranging decorations, and everything else I could possibly think of. It was my first chance to be a hostess, and I was excited.

  When the night came, though, it was clear that my ideas of a party were as outdated as the television I watch. My prim pink party dress with the lace vest and swirly skirt was gorgeous in the store, but when girls show up in jeans and skimpy tops—like they wear in clubs—I realize I’m completely overdressed. I have been to a club, but I didn’t realize a party was the same thing. I thought parties were different. More formal.

  And I made Nick overdress as well. He didn’t say anything, but he looked out of place in his tailored black suit. Handsomer than anyone else in the room, but compared to the T-shirts and jeans of the other guys, he looked as out of place as I did.

  I felt terrible to see it, too. It’s as if I can handle my own awkwardness, but to bring Nick down with me? I felt loathsome and incompetent. Nick desires nothing more than to blend, to hide in plain sight, and every attempt I make seems to only make him stand out more.

  To make matters worse, the girls in their tiny, backless tops flirted with him relentlessly. It didn’t matter that I was at his side, or that Nick told them we are together. They took one look at me, hiked their spangly tops down a little lower, and leaned a little closer to him.

  Which makes me feel worse. Why is Nick with me—so clueless and naïve—when he could have one of those gorgeous, flirty women who ooze confidence? He could blend with them so much easier than with me. I know it’s my own lack of self-esteem whispering this in my ear. Nick loves me, and I love him beyond all reason.

  There will always be flirty, too-forward girls. I will just have to learn to deal with them. Grimly, I think of the gun I had in Russia for a short period of time, and the bullet I put through Sergei’s brain. That problem had been easy to solve. Here back at home, I can’t put bullets into other women’s brains simply for looking at my man.

  I decided that night that I need other weapons. So, on my phone, I have an episode of Real Housewives, purchased through iTunes. I’m going to watch it and study it, and learn how to be like these other girls.

  I wonder if I need to head to the mall and find myself a spangly, backless top of my own. To blend, I tell myself, but it’s also because I want to see how Nick reacts if I wear one. I don’t want to change for anyone but my Nick, my Kolya.

  “This is really good,” Christine tells me, startling me out of my thoughts.

  I look over at her and notice she’s procured another one
of my muffins and has taken a bite out of it. I smile, pleased. “Thank you. I’m learning how to bake. It’s a challenge sometimes, but I like it.”

  “You were homeschooled and you don’t know how to bake?”

  I shake my head. How to explain that the only food that went into our house on a regular basis was food that could last on a shelf for months or years? That I grew up eating canned tuna and Spam because at any time, my father might deem going to the grocery store “unsafe” and then not let me out of the house for a month? Pleasure in baking didn’t exist in my old world.

  But I’m not that Daisy anymore, I keep reminding myself. I’m a new one.

  “Maybe you should take a class on cooking,” Christine says. “If you enjoy it.”

  “We’ll see,” I say absently, and wonder if I can sneak away during class to go buy a spangly top and surprise Nick. I want to show him that I’m trying, too. He’s been so very stressed lately, and the failed party has done nothing to help.

  I’m the one who’s failing him, too. He looks to me for what a normal American couple should be like, and the fact that I don’t know, either? I feel responsible. It’s time I change who I am, maybe. I think of the movie Grease, and Sandy’s transformation to someone Danny can be proud of, and I brighten. If all it takes is clothing and attitude, I can do that.

  I look over at Christine. “Where in the mall could I buy something to wear to the club, do you suppose?”

  She considers for a moment. “Bebe?”

  I nod. I haven’t been there before, but maybe it’s time that I check it out. If Nick needs to blend, so do I. I’m going to take the initiative for once.

  ***

  Nick’s unusually tense after classes, so I suggest he go to the gun range to unwind, and I’ll visit father and walk Peanut. We kiss and part, both of us absent and distracted with our thoughts. Instead, though, I head to the mall, find the bebe store, and walk out an hour later with a dozen new, trendy tops. No more cardigans and demure sweaters for Daisy. I’m pleased at my purchases. Nick will like them, I think. They all show a lot of skin.