Today is not a good day to die.
No day is, not really. We humans are hard-wired to survive. By most standards, though, this morning is exceptional. The weather is balmy, even for May. The fierce winds that often pound the Welsh coastline have remained offshore. Purple heather blankets the emerald cliffs that encircle Bristol Bay. Small breakers gently lap the shoreline and wash the sand clean of debris. The water sparkles in the sunlight. Shades of azure and aquamarine yield to cyan and lapis further out. In the distance, the sea meets a cerulean sky just where the earth curves. No slate clouds gather at the horizon. All is calm.
Nothing suggested that today I would find myself on a bench in one of the most breathtaking spots in the world with a gun to my head, held by a predator who speaks just two words: “Don’t move.”
Not that the sea would have volunteered a warning. When it comes to human concerns, it can be a withholding bitch. That’s what Brian would have said. A sea-going man, he described the ocean as a kind of temptress: a teasing, unpredictable, mysterious, sexy, seductive sort, all surges and curves and hidden treasures. I’ve never looked at nature that way. To me, neither earth, sky, nor water are particularly interested in either our needs or our fears.
I sigh.
“I said, don’t move.”
To add emphasis to his orders, the demanding speaker pushes the barrel more firmly against my ear. No, two barrels, which tells me he’s holding an AF2011a1. I’m impressed. The pistol is new. The first double-barreled .45 ever made, it was released at the beginning of 2011, just a few months ago. As a deterrent, it’s overkill. Still, it’s an effective way to make a point. I should feel flattered my assailant thinks me worthy of such a weapon. Then again, the man he works for is prone to flamboyant gestures.
My eyes wander to my hands. Despite careful grooming, they look worn. These hands have stroked a loved one’s cheek, held a newborn, signed contracts, dug in the dirt, and caused the deaths of more people than I care to remember. That last thought makes me flinch. This in turn triggers a movement near my shoulder. I hold my breath, waiting for a reaction. Nothing. I exhale.
My gunman (I'm already feeling possessive) stands just out of my sightline. He’s alone; that much I can tell. The acrid smell of his sweat mixes with the salt air. I cut my eyes hard to the right and catch a glimpse of him. He’s young, perhaps twenty-two, average height but well-muscled. He's outfitted in the typical mercenary uniform of tight black leather jacket, worn jeans, and thick-soled shoes. He speaks with a heavy dialect, most likely Slavic. I can make myself understood in several Eastern European languages. I can’t tell if he speaks more than a few words of English. Not that we’ll be having a conversation.
It’s impossible to know how long we’ll be here. We seem to be waiting for something. I'm not going to be able to hold still for much longer. The gun barrel is giving me a headache. Something somewhere on my body itches. In order to even shift my weight, I’ll need to establish some sort of rapport with the triggerman. What simple gesture could I make, some small sign to communicate that, yes, we’re on the same page? A nod of the head or a thumb and forefinger pressed together (got it) might reassure him. A simple “okay” could convince him I know who’s calling the shots, so to speak.
I’m making jokes. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Humor in time of peril?
I settle for palms forward, the universal sign for “stop” or “I surrender.” Apparently, this doesn’t get the message across. The man with the gun thumps the side of my head.
“What did I tell you?”
Don’t move, I answer silently. I get it.
I project calm, although I am anything but. It takes everything I have not to curse him and his boss and, while I’m at it, my own past indiscretions. Everyone makes choices, and choices have consequences. Dwelling in the past is chancy, though. Regret makes you sloppy. There’s no room for error when life is at stake. I remind myself I’ve been in dire situations many times before.
The gunman comes to stand in front of me, blocking my view. His right hand lightly roams my body, searching for weapons he knows I don’t have. He’s already done this. I suspect he takes a perverse pleasure in reminding me I’m apparently defenseless. Or maybe he’s received his own set of instructions; he seems to be wearing an ear bud. I hold my tongue. He knows I’m unarmed. I know he’s left-handed, a useful piece of information I file near the front of my brain.
He concludes his search and looks me up and down as if I were past my expiration date. “So, you are Susan Smith,” he says with a faint note of wonderment. “The former assassin.” Perhaps he expected something other than a slender, blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman of a certain age dressed in Wellies and a shawl. I appear to be the wife of a prosperous country squire, not a notorious ex-employee.
Suzanne, I want to scream, my name is really Suzanne. And not Smith, either. It was all a charade, a subterfuge, a misunderstanding. What’s the use, though? I’ve lived so many lies wrapped inside other lies, I doubt I even know who I am anymore.
“You are very important to Mr. Kemp,” he continues with a shrug. “I wonder why that is. No matter.” He makes no attempt to disguise his disdain, yet his interest is palpable.
What would I tell him? “I am important to Victor Kemp. He forced me to work for him for decades. Then I went against his orders, and he decided to have my family murdered. I left, but not without taking back something he’d tried to steal from me. That didn’t sit well with him, and here we are.”
I might also add that although I blame Victor Kemp for many of my life's heartaches, I bear some responsibility. One impulsive decision and he owned me. Until the day I quit, I answered only to him. I worked only for him. I killed only for him.
I doubt my guard would be shocked at the notion of a female assassin, even a former one. Women nowadays fly drones, drop bombs, hack into intelligence programs, and pummel assailants twice their size and half their age. We have more opportunities than ever to prove we can be as amoral as men, assuming we want to quibble about the morality of killing.
After all these years, I wonder how I managed. I must have murdered more than a hundred people over twenty-five years. I suppose I compartmentalized, just as any CIA operative or drone operator might. When it comes to thinking about either the person who hired you or the person you’ve been hired to kill, you don’t. You employ a kind of tunnel vision. You just do the job. I recognize that as being the transparent excuse of brutal enforcers everywhere. It’s not personal; it’s professional.
One of Brian’s friends, Bill Poplar, was a profiler for the FBI. He described contract killers as high functioning, analytical types, capable of the most elaborate sort of pigeonholing. They’re likely to be living a socially acceptable life complete with homes, partners, pets, and even children. Overall, they’re pretty much indistinguishable from the rest of the population, except they’re of above-average intelligence. That, and they kill for a living.
Bill especially wanted me to understand most contract killers aren’t responding to a need to murder. “They aren’t necessarily narcissists,” he insisted. “Nor are they crazy. They're efficient workers. What most people don’t realize is that killers for hire view themselves as people with tasks to do. Morality doesn’t factor into their performance.”
“So, contract killers aren’t really immoral?” I asked.
“You might say they’re amoral, although contemporary thinking doesn’t see it quite that way. We tend to throw around the word “psychopath” quite a bit. Professional killers likely live by their own version of a moral code. We know they can still function as loving parents or loyal spouses. They might even view lying as unacceptable or cheating as unconscionable.”
“They must be hard to profile,” I suggested.
“They are.” He looked at me, his eyes assessing. “Did you know that a number of profilers now suspect more women might be working as assassins than previously thought? Many psychologists tell us the fairer sex is calmer in stressful situations and steadier under pressure. Unfortunately, there’s little in the way of substantive data to support that particular theory.”
“Really?” I murmured. “Fascinating.”
Calm. Unflinching. Less prone to stress. These are the characteristics profilers and psychologists have ascribed to people like me or the version of me I used to be. It’s easy to imagine I’m exactly as cold and unfeeling as those words imply, nothing more than an emotional cypher. Victor might have believed as much. For all I know, the gunman believes it as well.
I sigh again.
“Don't worry,” says my captor with ill-concealed pleasure. “It will be over soon enough.” I expect him to remind me once again to stay still, but he doesn’t bother. And where would I go? I’m pressed into this bench, held down by the weight of the choices I made and the choices that were never mine to make.
I suspect my gunman is bored, but he remains alert. I doubt he expects me to try anything. He nonetheless keeps the gun trained on my right temple, perhaps in deference to my reputation. I admire his discipline.
“Tell me,” I begin. “How long have you been working for Victor Kemp?”
“Shut up,” he replies, not unkindly. He doesn’t seem invested in making conversation as a way to pass the time. He could study his phone, apart from stealing furtive glances, but that would mean he has to take his eyes off me. Something must be telling him it’s not a good idea.
“Three years,” he says suddenly. “You?”
I answer without moving my head, “I was in his employ for twenty-five years.”
“Long time,” he says.
That seems to be the end of it. Too bad. I was ready to tell him how Victor and I crossed paths. Serendipity, one might say. I was at the time newly out of the Army, a twenty-two-year-old engineering major at Vanderbilt. I was having a good time, having survived negligent Haight-Ashbury parents and my own brief time on the streets.
Would my story impress the young gunman? Probably not. These Eastern Europeans are a hard lot.
Curiosity gets the best of my captor. “How did you meet Mr. Kemp?”
“I shot someone who worked for him.”
He moves just within my line of sight, eyebrows raised. I’ve impressed him.