Friday night
It was late—the middle of the night, actually. He sat in his car at the end of the block and stared down the street, looking for lights on at the neighboring homes, but he didn’t see any. Erring on the side of caution, he parked and took to the sidewalk in case people had wall-mounted or doorbell cameras. Every time he neared a streetlamp, he ducked into the landscape to pass.
Her home, a row house, was at the center of the block, and he already had the spare key. Getting in would be a breeze—no forced entry. He would take her by surprise while she slept, disable her, and end her life.
Killing was his job, and he was paid well for it. That was thanks to the dark web, where murder for hire was a robust occupation, and the requests were plentiful. Her murder had been planned weeks earlier, and he’d been paid half his fee in advance. He would show the client proof that the deed had been taken care of, collect the rest of his payment, then move on. Soon, he’d have a new client whose problem needed to be resolved.
Pressing his ear against her door, he listened. There was nothing but silence, and he already knew she didn’t have a dog. He’d studied the layout of her home, a two-story with two bedrooms upstairs and the master downstairs. Her room was to the left and down the hall beyond the family room. She was single and lived alone, making the assignment a cakewalk. I’ll be in and out in under fifteen minutes.
After twisting the silencer onto his gun, he slid the key into the doorknob and gave it a gentle turn. The door didn’t make a peep when he pushed it open. He’d been there earlier that day, removed the spare key from under the fake rock in the tiny flower bed near her porch, and oiled the door hinges too.
Once inside, he closed the door, turned the dead bolt, and waited. He listened for noises—a voice, the creak of the bed, or footsteps. Not a single sound gave him pause, so he continued to her room.
At her door, he watched her sleep. She sounded relaxed, with slow in-and-out breaths. She wasn’t aware of his presence, and with the units in the row house so close, he couldn’t afford to wake the neighbors. His moves had to be quick and efficient.
He leapt onto the bed, stretched tape over her mouth, flipped her over, ripped off her nightgown, then secured her wrists behind her back. He taped her ankles then grabbed her hair and dragged her out of the room. He had to complete the job without a single slipup.
He sat her on the dining room chair that he’d placed against an interior wall, then just as fast, tied her to it with paracord so she wouldn’t slip down or try to get away. Backing up to assess how she looked, he was satisfied. It was time to finish the job.
He pulled the gun from his waistband and took aim. As she tried to beg for her life through the tape, he riddled her with bullets. The gun was empty. She was dead, and his job was complete. Smoke swirled and hung in the air. The scent of gunpowder lingered throughout the room. With his gloved fingers, he gathered the still-hot casings, took several pictures with his phone, then walked out, making sure to lock the door behind him.