Abraham pressed the button to illuminate his watch—10:14 p.m. John would be arriving home any minute. Already stationed against the outer garage wall, Abraham was well hidden by the shrubbery. When he’d stopped by late that afternoon, he’d made sure the bushes would conceal him. At that time of day, most people were likely eating supper and not staring out their front windows or mowing their lawns. He hadn’t noticed any doorbell or wall-mounted cameras directly across from John’s house, where it counted, either.
All Abraham needed was for John to arrive. He would do the deed, take pictures as proof, deliver them via his dark web account, and move on to Brandon Ellis. After that, he planned to learn more about Mitch Cannon. So far, he knew Cannon was a homicide detective and a worthy adversary, and that was why he needed to find out if anyone other than Cannon lived at his home. His police biography didn’t mention a family, yet a woman answered the door. Abraham would have to tread lightly or commit the murder somewhere else. A police detective should have commanded a larger payout, but since Abraham’s client had ordered a half-dozen killings, he decided to let it slide—maybe.
He checked the time again—10:19.
He must have left work late or hit red lights.
Another minute passed, then Abraham saw headlights coming down the street. The car slowed. It had to be John. Pressing tightly against the wall so the headlights wouldn’t catch his body, Abraham stretched black gloves over his hands as he waited for the garage door to open. The car drove in, then he made his move. He slipped under the door before John lowered it with the remote. He crept around to the driver’s side and waited for John to open the car door. Choking him would be boring, but the pay was the same whether or not he used a creative method. That night, Abraham wouldn’t feel that adrenaline rush that he craved. Besides murder being a well-paid occupation, it was the excitement of doing it and getting away with it that fed his desire to kill. The least he could do was give John a second to beg for his life before taking it.
The car door opened. As John climbed out, Abraham sprang up and sucker punched him in the nose. Abraham needed a few seconds to disorient John long enough to get behind him and wrap his arm around his neck. John swung back and caught his surprised attacker in the jaw. Abraham had underestimated his prey, and a one-on-one fight ensued. Fists met and missed their targets. John’s elbow smashed through the driver’s-side window, and as he darted left, Abraham’s knee dented the door, sending him into a fury. He connected with John’s mouth, knocking out a tooth and causing blood spatter to coat the car’s roof.
“Time to die!” Abraham yelled. He intended to choke John out and leave no blood evidence. It was too late for that, so he would enjoy the kill. He knocked John to the floor, straddled him, and beat his face until no shape was left. Once he was sure John was dead, he took a breath, snapped the obligatory pictures, and pocketed his phone. Abraham was covered in blood, and the scene told the story. The cops would know that John hadn’t died mysteriously. Instead, he’d been beaten to death and pulverized by an unknown assailant who slipped into the night and disappeared.
“Damn it! That wasn’t how it was supposed to go down.”
Once in the car, Abraham pulled off his gloves and checked his knuckles. No blood. He lifted his pant leg and checked his knee—clean. He lowered the visor, looked in the mirror, and saw that there weren’t any cuts on his face. He was relieved.
I wasn’t expecting that. The guy is half my size, yet he was able to get in a few punches. Note to self—don’t underestimate anyone unless I’m holding a gun to their head.
He pressed the start button, drove away, and hoped he could get to his motel room without meeting anyone outside.