Accidental Encounter

Previous Chapter: Fair Haired Interrogation

Once again the client is asking for the job to look accidental. It’s a fairly common request, and, if done correctly, there’s never any hint it’s anything but. This time there are complications: the target has a family and I don’t want any collateral damage. I take longer to investigate. Gas leaks, poisoned food, fires, etc., these things are not easily kept under control, so I cross them off the list. I’ve arranged car accidents before, but it’s a pain and I often need to drive one of the vehicles which, naturally, means I’m putting myself at some risk. There aren’t any good places to arrange for a car accident anyway, so I cross that off the list. After about a week of studying, I come up with a plan that could work, but need to square it with the client since it might not be what they’re looking for.

The client gives the OK to proceed. I get the funds transferred and go back to the target’s location to begin preparation.

The target has a really good period for an accident: he walks back and forth to work past a rather sketchy neighborhood. He occasionally works late, and doesn’t seem to appreciate the character of the route changes dramatically as the sun goes down. I think he’s been lucky nothing’s happened so far. Since he doesn’t use this route every day at the same time, I have to prep myself to be there for a while before he happens by. I need to stake out a section of the target’s route. No doubt someone already “owns” it.

I settle on a disguise of a bulky black guy who recently drifted into town from elsewhere. Though rare, transients are not so unheard of that they’ll merit special attention. I’m hoping, by looking extra bulky, somewhat modeling myself after Jeff, except with hair, that I won’t be bothered. The extra padding on the shoulders also acts as a small amount of armor in case I need it, though it’s beastly hot. I need to “season” the disguise, so do some late evening exercises, with lots of running and tumbling, to get the proper patina and “fragrance.” After I’m ready, I wander into the neighborhood from a nearby bus depot and start to evaluate where’s the best place to lay in wait. I’m getting checked out by pimps and prostitutes alike. It seems like the former consider me a potential adversary; the latter as either a customer or alternative pimp. I settle on the section of the target’s route I think will be best and move in.

The air is brisk and the winds can be biting, particularly after the sun goes down. My padded disguise is helping to insulate me, so my threadbare jacket is more than enough to keep me warm.

The current “owners” are clearly not intimidated by my bulk. Two are skinny, as well as being young. Maybe eighteen or nineteen. The third is a bit older than the two, a fat guy who gives the impression he’s more or less in charge of the trio. I choose my spot and lean against the wall. Since they watched me walk all the way down the street, it’s just seconds before they approach me.

“Hey man, you got no bidness here!” the shorter of the skinny guys says.

“Yeah, this be our street corner!” the taller skinny one adds.

The fat guy is following up. I suppose they present a very intimidating sight to ordinary people, but to me they’re just irritating clowns I need to deal with. The shorter skinny one pulls out a knife and brandishes it.

In as gravely and basso a voice as I can muster, “You gonna get hurt, and hurt bad, if you don’t leave me alone!”

There’s a slight pause. I’m guessing they were expecting they could intimidate me despite my bulky appearance. “Give it to him” says the fat one and the one with the knife lunges at me. My body reacts: I turn to the side, grasp the lunger’s arm, break it over my knee and take the knife, as if it were one rehearsed motion. Now I hold the knife and it’s clear in their eyes they misjudged me and will be more cautious. The lunger gasps in agony, cradling his arm, and moves away. The remaining skinny guy moves to my right. The fat guy to my left. My back is towards the wall.

The fat guy makes a move. The skinny one dives at my waist. I ignore fatty and slither around the skinny one, wrapping my arm around his neck and letting his momentum twist him around so his head slams in the wall. I’m not sure which causes him to pass out, the blow to his head or my pressure on his neck arteries, but he’s out like a busted light. I drop him like a sack of rice and do a lunge of my own, grabbing fatty by his collar. I put the knife to his throat, pressing just hard enough to break the skin.

I tell him very clearly, but quietly so only he would hear, “I’m only here for a short while. I’ll be moving on in a week or so. Do you really want to risk death to have a chance at that extra time?”

Fatty shakes his head. My impression is he’ll probably leave me be, at least for the week I need. I use my foot to roll the unconscious one away, toss the knife back to the one with the broken arm, he clumsily grabs it, and fatty picks up the one I knocked out. Our little drama was observed by several groups so I feel, as long as I’m out in a week, I won’t be bothered by anyone here. Now that things are calm, I’m able to let part of my attention wander…

Isabel and I had interesting conversations back in Venezuela; memories of them keep popping up in my mind at odd intervals. Sometimes on my long travels. Sometimes in situations like now, where I don’t need my full attention to monitor the environment. It’s a conundrum: having careers so mutually exclusive. I like my job specifically because it _isn’t_ part of any organization; my impression is Isabel likes hers specifically because it _is_. Tessa is subtle, but relentless, in her efforts to keep Isabel and me thinking about each other. Sort of like a rising tide, she keeps on keepin’ on. Several times I’ve been on the edge of asking why it’s so important to her, but I enjoy our communication so much I don’t want to risk asking something that might change things for the worse.

Tessa seems a lot less committed to her job, at least emotionally. I get the impression that Isabel lives for her job while for Tessa it’s just something that allows her to do interesting things and get paid for it. I’m reminded of a line in the movie “G.I. Jane” where Demi Moore’s character responds to the question of why she’s doing the crazy training, “Cause I get to blow shit up.” That seems to fit Tessa to a “T.” I also enjoyed the crazy training when I was in the military, particularly blowing shit up.

Besides, how would we form some sort of business partnership? Incorporate “Death Inc.?” Form “Rent a Whacker?” Tessa might work well as a field operative, though I’ve been warned she isn’t a cold-blooded killer, which could detrimentally impact the sort of jobs I might take. Though Isabel is acceptable at field craft, she’s clearly better suited for management. What would she do? Order bullets, arrange plane tickets, prioritize jobs? Though I can see a point in having someone manning the home fort, like Joan Cusack in “Grosse Pointe Blank” (a great flick; though one of my favorites, it’s not terribly realistic) I think the constant communication with a fixed home base would be problematic and lead to exploitable weaknesses.

I’m not sure this line of thought is going anywhere; I switch back to my more normal modes of thought and work on various what-if scenarios. Such as, what if fatty brings more cronies to take back his section of the block.

I think this will be the day. My bugs indicate he’ll be working late. Though the extra time has given me the chance to blend in better with the locals, I’m ready to move on. This job has lost its charm. Because of the bugs, I get an early warning that he’s on his way and ready myself by glaring down the people at the edge of my territory. The target approaches. I work to blend in with the shadows until he passes. I step out behind him and raise my cosh to strike. He turns and ducks and my blow glances off his shoulder. This isn’t part of the plan! My earlier estimation of him as a dummy for taking this risk clearly needs reevaluation. He spins around and assumes a combat stance. I can tell his shoulder is painful and probably damaged by the way he’s holding it. However, his body language otherwise is yelling I seriously underestimated him. There was no evidence in any of my research that he had spent any time on self-defense. I’ll need to try and figure out (later!) what went wrong.

As I’m no slouch at hand-to-hand combat, I’m not too worried about managing this. However, I want this to look like a mugging gone wrong. I can’t use any of my sophisticated tricks, that would reveal too much. Since the target has unknown abilities, I don’t want to get close enough to grapple with him. I rapidly think through options. I’m sure this is starting to look awkward to my “peers” from whom I “won” this location. My normally fertile imagination is coming up dry. Since I’m hesitating so long, the target slowly sidles away. I remain trapped in analysis paralysis. The target decides I’m not going to go after him and quickly walks away. I return to my earlier position in the shadows to contemplate what to do next. After the target is out of sight, fatty comments that he could have told me this guy was a waste of time. He’d badly beaten several muggers. Nice to know that now!

I get back to my safe house and fire up the computer. I start running more in-depth background checks. An interesting pattern evolves; his background is just a little bit spotty, as if it were created. I’m starting to think this guy is deliberately hiding, perhaps in witness protection or something. I wonder what his training is, it’s as if he used to be a combat Marine. That kind of thing sure would’ve been useful knowledge to get from my client. I’m half a mind to renegotiate the contract. Well, at least I know. I’ll just have to modify my approach. I no longer think the “tragically botched mugging” angle is going to work and need to come up with something else. Fortunately, the idea of the botched mugging will likely sit well with the target. Had I gone on the attack and revealed my training and he got away, he would no doubt disappear. This may have been a time where analysis paralysis was actually the ideal response.

It seems I broke a bone on the target’s shoulder with my attack. I see him the next day with his arm in a sling and his shoulder wrapped with padding. I get someone to hack his medical records and find that is indeed the case. When I notice he’s prescribed strong pain meds, I think I might have a way to take him out that will have my desired low risk of collateral damage. A little research refreshes my memory: his drugs have an unfortunate side effect. At a high dose they depress the autonomous nervous systems and people stop breathing, usually when asleep. And the difference between a therapeutic dose and a lethal dose is quite small. Because people get adapted to the drug, there are single-pill doses that are more than enough to kill someone not used to it. This depends, though, on him actually using the meds. Some people don’t care for high strength pain meds, because they tend to cloud the mind. While he’s at work, I break into his house and switch out his meds. By counting the pills, I see he has so far avoided taking any. That’s good. Since I’m exchanging them for much higher doses, likely he won’t notice the difference. All I need to do now is figure a way to ensure he takes them.

I circle back to the car accident idea, but a low speed version. I think this will be just the thing: get him on his way home when he’s already tired from the pain stress, give him a nice jolt, then he should need to take the meds just to get to sleep.

The next morning I observe his teary-eyed wife meeting an ambulance at the door. I note a lack of energy on everyone’s part. It looks like my ploy was successful. I relax when I see a medic has taken the meds out of the house in a zip locked bag, along with the clearly deceased target. I’m sure it will cause consternation at the pharmacy, but I expect this will eventually be laid to rest, as intended, as a tragic accident.