The Job was simple. Wait until the target was home and make it quick and messy. A pain to be sure but often requested with these kinds of contract and as always, there were to be no witnesses. The target was the common kind. An obnoxious businessman who let his wealth go to his head and eventually crossed the wrong people. People who knew Deacon Gray.
Deacon’s services didn’t come cheap. He had the highest completion rate of any other worker in the Cincinnati, even Ohio. It was because of this he was offered the highest profile contracts, politicians and celebrities often found themselves the subject of Deacon’s attention. Contracts too hot for them to be botched were brought to him, he was a no fail kill and every underground organisation in Ohio knew it.
Currently Deacon sat in his car, far enough from the house as to not raise suspicion but close enough so he would be able to see when the target entered. It wasn’t a nice car, that would stand out too much given his surroundings. The target had built his home in the heart of the poorest neighbourhood in Cincinnati, a foolish decision for someone with so many enemies. The home was almost custom built to make the job as easy as possible for Deacon. the walls were made of window, with clear lines of sight from multiple surrounding buildings in the neighbourhood. He could easily follow the movements of the target from his car. The only room he couldn’t see into was the bedroom but seeing as the house was empty and the target would enter through the front door that shouldn’t pose an issue.
Deacon had searched the house multiple times since he was given the contract four days ago. He had learnt more about his target in that time than the public would ever know about the supposed ‘saviour of Cincinnati’. The target was a man called Franklin Johnson, he ran a casino chain across northern America and had moved to Cincinnati three years ago, promising to bring business and wealth to the poorer areas such as the one where he built his home.
It had started well enough. Franklin had built another casino in the richest section of Cincinnati, promising to use his profits from the business to renovate the poorer areas, only the funds never came and in time the promises were recognised as lies purported by the media. Of course, by that time it was too late to do anything about it. Franklin’s wealth made him untouchable. He had the police in his pocket and with the help of the media, who refused to paint him in any kind of criticising manor he had politic-ed his way into power. That was until he crossed one of Deacons old contacts.
The neighbourhood was one Deacon knew well, most of the homeless had migrated here when Frank had announced his plans for the area. Some still held out hope that the money would eventually come to the area. Others just stopped caring enough to find anyplace better. Either way Deacon would have plenty of time to carry out the job. There was no love for him to be found in the homeless and poor population.
Deacon had worked out his timeline meticulously; as he always did before a job. The target would arrive home in less than five minutes. Having returned from one of the most expensive restaurants in Cincinnati with a potential business partner, a partner whom Deacon had paid to make sure the target was just drunk enough not to become suspicious when he realised that the electrics in his house had been disconnected. Deacon would run to the house with his pistol once the target had entered, making sure to break the glass front doors even though they would still be open as he had broken the latch that morning when the target was still asleep.
The client wanted a break in gone wrong. Not Deacons favourite scenario but an easy one, all he had to do was make sure the target was killed at close range with a brutish pistol and trash the house afterwards. Deacon much preferred a stealthy contract. He would normally eliminate a target at a distance, a rifle allowed for a target to be killed when in a crowd and still give Deacon enough time to get away. Being forced to kill the target with a pistol meant that Deacon had little in the way of getaway time. Especially when the target had the police force in his pocket, they would make sure to get to his home as soon as reports of shots came in.
Deacon repeated the timescale of the job in his head as he waited for the targets car to arrive at the house. Not a moment later than Deacon had planned did the car arrive. An obscenely large black SUV with blacked out windows and chrome hub caps. The car swerving as it pulled up to the house told deacon that the target was sufficiently intoxicated.
Deacon exited his car as he placed his balaclava over his face and began to walk briskly towards the house.
Chana had gotten into the house with relative ease. The doors and windowed were supposed to be alarmed but for some reason none of the electrics in the house seemed to be working. Plus, Chana was small, easily small enough to sneak her way in through the bedroom window at the back of the building to her prize. The window in the upstairs bedroom had been left ajar when Franklin had gone out in the morning. It had been easy enough for Chana to climb the guttering into the room.
Her father had left her mother shortly after Chana was born. A mute since birth her mother had died from complications during birthing. Her father had then dumped her in a cardboard box on the sidewalk of the poorest area of Cincinnati, unofficially known as the homeless district She had been lucky enough to have been found by a local homeless woman who raised her in street life. That had lasted just over seven years until the women had died during the winter. Homeless tended to have short life spans in Cincinnati and when winter came around and the food stopped being thrown out the homeless population tended to plummet.
Since then Chana had been on her own. Scrounging and stealing for food while trying desperately not to be caught by the cops. This would work fine during the summer but as the weather turned cold and the snow started to fall food had once again become increasingly scarce and Chana had become increasingly desperate. In her desperation she had decided on her current course of action. Break into rich man Franklin’s house and steal any food he may have in there.
Chana crept through the house silently. Slowly making her way to the kitchen she opened the fridge delicately, wondering briefly why the fridges light didn’t turn on with the opening of the unit’s door. Quickly Chana searched for a bag, settling on a roll of bin bags sat on the counter top. She was filling one of these bags with the food when she heard a car pull up to the front door. Silently cursing her luck, she quickly scrambled her way underneath the large oak dining room table.
For once she was thankful of being unable to make more than the slightest noise as she heard the door open and close. Mumbling to himself the owner of the house he stumbled into the kitchen. Chana could tell immediately that the man was drunk, he was swaying as he walked and even tripped into the kitchens island counter on his way to the now raided fridge.
Chana gasped, one of the few noises she was able to make as she heard Franklin yell obscenities. He may have been drunk but clearly not enough to not recognise the lack of food in his fridge.
“Motherfucker! I’ve been robbed!” he yelled as he attempted to charge towards the phone attached to the dining room wall. Tripping over half way there resulting in yet more curse words spewing from his drunken mouth. He had just picked up the phone when there was a monstrously loud crash from the hallway that led to the front door. Chana, startled from the noise jumped backwards. Knocking over one of the dining room chairs as she did so.
Chana stilled. Paralysed from fear as the drunk man turned his gaze towards the now upturned chair. He moved angrily towards her hiding place. Causing Chana’s fear to multiple tenfold. She didn’t want to go to prison, no matter how harsh homeless life is it was still better than jail. Just as Franklin saw Chana curled in fear under the table there was a deafeningly loud gunshot as Franklin’s head exploded like an overripe tomato.
Opening her mouth in a silent scream Chana ran from her hiding place. Desperately trying to get away from the house. She saw a large man standing in the entrance to the dining room, a large silver pistol in hand as she ran She began to weep as another gunshot rang out, this one screaming past her ear and penetrating into the wall behind her small body.
She was paralysed by fear as the man approached her with the gun pointed towards her face. A large revolver held in his hand with a confidence that made the girl all the more terrified. Tears streamed down her face as he came to stand in front of her. Close enough to let her know that she couldn’t run. He stared at her through a balaclava as she trembled and wept against the wall.
‘Please don’t kill me’ thought Chana ‘I just needed some food’ with a sense of hopelessness she realised she couldn’t even beg the man not to shoot. Chana heard the cocking of the guns hammer and closed her eyes, more tears leaking down her face as she waited for the bullet to decimate her skull as it did the home owners.
“Sorry kid” said the man, in the back of her mind Chana wondered why he had an English accent. “The client wants no witnesses” The man did seem genuinely apologetic. If Chana had opened her eyes she would have seen the gun shaking in the man’s hand. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else in the home for the hit!
Chana slid down the wall to sit on the floor as she waited for the inevitable. Making little moaning noises in her throat as she thought of all the injustices done to her throughout her life. Not the least of all being born mute, that had always made life nearly impossible on the street and now it even stopped her from asking to be spared.
“Goddamit kid!” yelled the man. Making Chana jump sharply “The house was empty! How the hell did you get in?” The man had begun to pace around the room, causing Chana to relax a little as the gun was now pointed towards the floor and not her head.
She even braved to open her now red eyes. Actually getting a thorough look at the man, he wore all black, well as thorough a look as you can get when the man was wearing a balaclava. He wore black cargo pants over black work boats and a black long sleeve shirt. His hands were encased in black leather gloves and a black balaclava covered his face. Chana was smart enough to know that this man was not here by any kind of coincidence.
“I want an answer her girl” snapped the man causing Chana’s eyes to widen in fear, once again cursing her inability to speak. “Well?” the man had approached her again, causing her to press her body against the wall in a subconscious attempt to retreat from the murderer.
Chana desperately attempted to communicate that she couldn’t talk to the gunman. Holding her hand to her throat and shaking her head. ‘Please’ she thought ‘Please understand’
As if by miracle the man’s head cocked to the side and he spoke words that spread hope throughout Chana’s nine-year-old body “You mute?” asked the man
Chana nodded her head furiously. Only stopping when the man spoke again. The words sending all hope out of her body. "Well kid" said the man "You've got two choices, either you come with me or I kill you"
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