Trust me, I freaked him out … totally freaked him out,” said the man who twenty minutes before had pretended to be Jeff Cashman. He was talking to his employer for the evening.
The employer laughed. “But he believed you?”
“Damn straight. You should have seen his face.”
“I wish I had … it must have been great.” He laughed again, vicariously enjoying the moment.
They were talking at a rest stop near exit 156 on the Garden State Parkway. They stood next to their cars, about fifty yards from the highway, close enough to hear the cars whizzing by them.
“Cashman” could see there was someone in the passenger seat of the employer’s car. It looked like a woman, but it was dark and hard to tell for sure. Other than that they were alone, because at that hour, and with the temperature down near fifteen degrees, nobody else seemed inclined to stop to rest.
“It was,” “Cashman” agreed, wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the cold. He wished he had actually been drunk, rather than faking it. He’d be a lot warmer now.
“Was he scared?” the employer asked. “Or annoyed?”
“Cashman” was freezing and not terribly in the mood to chat much more. This was supposed to be a fifteen-minute job. “Scared … freaked out. I don’t know what you have planned for him, but this part of it worked.”
“That’s great. Nice work.”
“It’ll be nice to get home and get this shit off my face,” he said.
“I can imagine.”
Cashman nodded, anxious to wrap this up. “Yeah. So if you’ll give me my money …”
“In the trunk.”
“What do you mean? Cash? You could have given me a check.”
“Sorry, I’m not being clear,” the employer said, seemingly amused over the misunderstanding. “There is no money. I want you to get in the trunk. Now.”
“What are you talking about?” Cashman asked.
This time the man’s voice took on a slightly harder edge. “That time I was clear, but you’re being difficult. I want you to get in the trunk.”
“Come on, what’s going on here?” asked Cashman, unable to keep fear from creeping into his voice. “Quit joking around.”
“In the time you’ve known me, have I ever joked around?” Not waiting for an answer, he continued, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, “Now, I want to kill you while you’re in the trunk. Otherwise I have to do it out here, and then lift you in. That shouldn’t be so hard for you to understand.”
“Cashman” started to respond, but panicked and turned to run. He made it about a foot and a half before what felt like a clamp grabbed his neck from behind.
The last thing he felt was not pain, but an overwhelming fear from the knowledge that what grabbed him was not a steel clamp, but an incredibly powerful hand.
And the last thing he heard was the snapping of his own neck.
Once the body was wrapped in plastic and put in the trunk, the man took out his cell phone. He would have preferred to make the call from the warmth of the car, but he didn’t want the woman to hear what he had to say. If she did, he’d have to kill her sooner than he planned.
He dialed the number he was given, fully aware that the man who answered could at that moment be anywhere in the world. Washington, London, Monte Carlo … there would be no way to tell.
“Talk to me,” was how the phone was answered.
“Our friend did what he was supposed to do. The message has been delivered.”
“Good. And where is our friend now?”
“We won’t be hearing from him again.”
“You are as good as advertised. Maintain your high standard.”
Click.
The man put away his cell phone and smiled to himself. It wouldn’t be long before he too was rich enough to be anywhere in the world, doing anything he wanted, at any time.
Not long at all.