Never Forgotten
Page 5
Then, the heavyset man moved from easy view and stayed away from any of the windows for more than half an hour.
It was now time for the plan.
The killer had to move quickly; otherwise, he would risk someone seeing him in the neighborhood. This contract was to be fulfilled immediately and with strict instructions – no questions, no mistakes, or easy clues for the cops to piece together. Forensics my ass, he thought as he quickly broke down the rifle and left the property.
The street remained quiet and deserted. It was not the typical suburban road, each home had a minimum of an acre, and many houses could not see all of their surrounding neighbors. One home in particular was in bank foreclosure and provided a perfect hiding place.
The methodical assassin casually took his time returning his rifle into the trunk of his four-door sedan that he conveniently borrowed from a nearby dealership. Nothing would ever be traced back to him and, even if they saw his face.
The cops would not be able to identify him from fingerprints due to years of excessive cutting and peeling of the skin on his hands. His fingerprints were probably on file somewhere in the big uncoordinated database called the government melting pot. It really did not bother him. He had joined the Army at seventeen after running away from his foster home, too many years ago to count, but that was where they had found him.
As he quietly made his way back to the home of his target with an untraceable handgun, a familiar twinge within his gut greeted him again. This time, it was anticipation. He slipped on a pair of snug fitting gloves just for comfort from the cold.
He was excited like the old days and the eagerness of the kill filled him with joy. He stood at the side door to the garage where it was impossible for anyone to spot him or hear his movements. A long row of unkempt hedges further helped to block him from any potential collateral complications.
The side door was locked.
A basic tumbler deadbolt proved only a slight distraction and a loss of a minute or two. He could kick the door in, but did not want to leave any more clues than necessary. Within seconds, the assassin inserted the slim tension tool into the bottom of the keyhole, while he used another apparatus with an uneven tip. It only took a little bit of pressure with an in and out motion, and he easily unlocked the door.
The garage interior was warmer than outside, but smelled of old, dirty clothes and mothballs. A few boxes were stacked chaotically at the far corner. He walked to the door leading into the house, which was unlocked. He slowly opened the door, the heat from inside brushed past him with a sickly stagnation of filth and garbage. He could see through the darkened kitchen into the messy living room.
A faint sound originated from a television somewhere else in the house.
With purpose and a relaxed ease, the assassin walked toward the hallway. He continued forward as the sounds became louder.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar. A flash of light flickered around the doorframe and down the hallway at an odd angle from the TV. It became clear that a homemade movie played on the television of a crudely taken video of the molestation of a young child.
The killer stood for a moment at the doorway – the horror of the video did not elicit any reaction as he then looked to the child predator. The heavyset man, now stripped of his baggy sweats and underwear, slept like a baby on top of his bed with the yellow snack bowl at his side. Eyes closed, softly snoring, and a barely audible whimper from some pleasing dream was the only aspect that represented any human identity.
Walking to the bed and standing over the sleeping man, the assassin retrieved his gun from under his jacket. There was no silencer because this hit was to look like a suicide. The cops would not look any farther into the case of a registered sex offender and a three-time acquitted child molester that decided to take his own life.
A few seconds passed before the assassin shoved the pistol into the man’s mouth slightly at an upward position. He looked into the wide-open, shocked eyes of the bastard, and easily pulled the trigger.
Brain and bone matter spoiled the pillow, linens, and headboard. Blood slowly pooled around his head and almost instantly seeped into the mattress. His eyes open, glazed, as the life ran out of them.
Carefully taking the pedophile’s right hand, the killer slipped the man’s index finger through the trigger and his palm around the grip. He stepped back and let both the gun and hand fall limply to the side.
The scene looked perfect, just like a suicide. The one gunshot sound would not alert anyone in the neighborhood. He took a small digital camera out of his top pocket and snapped two frames, one portrait angle and the second a landscape view.
It was the proof of death.
He knew the cops would never take the extra time to have the fat man’s hand tested for gunshot residue.
Forensics… what a useless crock of shit.
The hit man mindfully backed up from the bedroom and retraced his steps to the hallway, watchful not to disturb or leave anything behind. His energy drained and the killer suddenly felt tired because his newest assignment did not evoke any inspiration.
He walked slowly down the hallway when he heard a low guttural growl.
He stopped.
The snarl grew louder with a bark in between heavy breaths.
The assassin turned and saw a brown and black stout dog at the end of the hallway. The canine’s eyes flashed an amber glow. It was difficult to tell the exact breed, most likely mixed, but the dog weighed at least fifty pounds, and meant business.
This was the exact reason why he painstakingly surveyed all of his targets for any potential complications, before he completed any contract to prevent needless problems.
The dog inched his way closer, hackles pronounced, and spine low to the floor.
It was either, run or stand firm; either way, the assassin was not going to make it safely out of the home before the animal sunk its teeth into his body. The only weapon he had to protect himself was lying in the bedroom next to the dead pervert.
The dog gave one last growl before it charged.
To Purchase DEAD BURN:
US Amazon
UK Amazon
More books by Jennifer Chase:
Emily Stone Series:
Compulsion
Dead Game
Dark Mind
Dead Burn
Novels:
Silent Partner
Non Fiction:
How to Write a Screenplay
Short Stories:
First Watch
Connect with Jennifer Chase:
Website/Blog
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