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The Reaper read the report on his phone. This whole situation was spiraling, if not completely out of control, then certainly wider and wilder than desired. This had seemed like a simple matter. Someone needed an angel of death. A specter who needed cash to fund political activism. It was a win-win.
And to be fair, the first operations had gone swimmingly. Until they didn’t. That woman. And now these two legal lunkheads, doing everything wrong and pinning a target on their backs the size of the Great Wall of China.
And yet, they were still alive, threatening to destroy everything. Which meant payment might not be forthcoming.
The Reaper tried to think clearly. What was paramount at the moment was not what was happening in Roswell, interesting though it was. What mattered most was the list.
She looked happy, poor woman. Must’ve had a good meet with her doc. She was probably seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. An end to the pain and suffering.
Well, there was going to be an end to her suffering. Just not the end she expected.
She was Number 3 and he was working from the bottom up. After this, one more little problem in San Diego and he should be home-free. Assuming LA went as expected.
The Reaper watched as the woman walked to a green Mini-Cooper and pulled out of the parking lot. She headed downtown.
Shopping? Lunch? This was another undesirable complication. She lived alone. Eliminating her at home would be a cinch. Wouldn’t attract attention or inspire anyone to connect it to the other killings.
She didn’t stop until she reached a strip mall. This one had a coffeeshop, appropriately named Twitchy. Lunch, or just a quick jolt? Didn’t much matter. The place appeared empty or darn close. Probably one of the many Mom and Pop coffeeshops that sprang up after Starbucks saturated the nation and made it look easy. If you can create a thriving business by brewing coffee—which a child can do at home in five minutes at a cost of about ten cents—this was an easy way to make a living. Maybe.
The Reaper needed to take care of her as efficiently as possible. But busting in and shooting up the place would escalate the attention this received, and that was exactly what the employer did not want.
Maybe poison was the answer. Slow-acting dose of fentanyl would do the trick. She wouldn’t die immediately. About ten minutes would pass before she felt sick, maybe twelve before she was dead. Just enough time to finish her coffee and get into traffic. With luck, she’d lose consciousness, cause a traffic accident, and everyone would assume she’d died from her pre-existing illness—without bothering to perform an autopsy.
After removing the costume, the Reaper entered the coffeeshop and stared at the menu. Didn’t take much study. They were all the same, one coffeeshop to the next. Only the names changed. The Howling Howell. The Smithson Slider. Named for regulars.
The barista took an order for a small chocolate mocha.
He caught the eye of the woman he’d followed from the hospital, which was not difficult since she was the only other customer in this boutique java shop.
He nodded her way. “Need a jolt. Just to get to naptime.”
“Naptime? I wish.”
“People function better when they take naps. Studies have proven it.”
“Great. Now if someone would just add two or three hours to the day, I might be able to fit that in.”
“A twenty-minute nap is enough.”
“I’d rather have three hours.” She tilted her coffee cup in a mock salute.
She had not removed the lid or the zarf—the corrugated cardboard that allowed her to hold the hot cup without misery. She had not unfolded her laptop and she was not staring at a phone. She did not plan to be here long.
“I had to get up early this morning for a doctor’s appointment,” she added.
“Sorry to hear that. Everything ok?”
“Yes. I got some great news. Things are starting to look up for me.”
The irony was too thick.
She finished her drink. “If you’ll excuse me. I have several more stops to make. Now that I’m properly energized. Have a blessed day.”
“Of course.”
The poison idea was not going to work. She was leaving.
When did everything get so complicated?
The woman left the coffeeshop and started toward her car. She slid into the driver’s seat, put on a pair of sunglasses, snapped on her seatbelt, then grabbed her keys from her purse.
“Wait a minute!” the Reaper shouted, stepping out of the coffeeshop, drink in hand.
She looked up. “What?” She spoke through her still-open car door.
“I think you forgot something.”
She seemed puzzled. “I didn’t have much...”
The street was clear. “Isn’t this yours?”
A split second later the coffee hit the pavement and she felt piano wire around her neck. One of the most useful tools in the world. Easy to carry, simple to deploy. Didn’t even require that much strength.
Within seconds, a ring of blood arose around her throat as the wire cut into tender flesh.
Her hands flew to the wire, but she couldn’t get a grip on it, and she couldn’t have pulled it away even if she had. She was helpless.
Or so it seemed. Until, the woman leaned on the horn.
All at once, the street was split by the piercing noise. Damn! The Reaper yanked her away and then punched her on the side of the face. To her credit, she did not give up immediately. But eventually, after three more blows to the face, she did.
And a few moments later, her eyelids fluttered shut.
No one had come out of the coffeeshop or appeared on the street.
Tough break for her. You get some good news from the doc, then someone kills you on the way home. She would never know who had killed her, much less why.
The Reaper pushed the body down to the floor of the car, locked and closed the door and walked away, ripping off his gloves.
A job smoothly executed. The employer should be pleased.