MurderMax: Part 4

Everytime I start writing a new section it begins to get progressively worse. At least, that's what the writing feels like. I'm hoping that this is typical in NaNoWriMo because I'm getting constantly more ashamed of letting people read this.

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David stood outside the restaurant, peering into the windows, looking for the men in suits. So far he saw no trace of them but he was a little bit early. He scanned the throngs of people milling about on the streets. It then dawned on him that he did not know what these men looked like. His memory of their faces was blurry and he could only remember them as looking identical to each other. It was then that two men walked up to him.

“Ah, Mr. Avery, there you are.” said one.

“Who are you?” replied David.

“You don't remember us?” Said the second, “we recruited you at the bar yesterday.”

“Huh,” said David.

Something was amiss. He recalled seeing two men who looked exactly the same but here, standing in front of him, was a white man and a black man.

“Are you sure that you are the exact exact two I talked to yesterday?” He asked.

“Yes,” said the black man. “I'm Mr. White.”

“And you are?” Asked David turning to the other man.

“Mr. Black,” he replied.

“Of course you are.”

“Well, shall we eat?” Said Mr. White.

They entered the restaurant, took a seat in one of the more secluded spaces, and ordered their food. David took in the decorations of the room while they waited, not wanting to initiate conversation. He had no idea what to say to them, another part of him did not even want to know what they had to say.

“Well Mr. Avery, we have our first job for you,” said Mr. Black.

“Uh yeah, about that, I have no idea what's going on,” said David. “You take me home and then tell my wife that I got a promotion and that we'll be making way more money now. How am I going to explain to my wife that not only am I not making more money but that I'm actually not making any money at all. I mean, thank you and everything for taking me home even though, now that I think about it, you shouldn't know where I live but you've really made a mess of things.”

The conversation paused. David waited for a reply but the looks on the faces of Mr. White and Mr. Black were not encouraging.

“So,” said Mr. White, disrupting the silence. “He doesn't remember.”

“I told you he wouldn't,” said Mr. Black. “He was way gone.”

“Regardless,” said Mr. White. “I'm going to say simply and quickly. You signed a document that basically says that you'll be a hired killer for us and if you try to disobey our orders, or quick before we decide to let you go, say no, or run away and all that then we will hunt you down and kill you.”

“What?” Exclaimed David, “Also, I'm pretty sure that that document wouldn't hold up in a court of law.”

“But we will still kill you,” insisted Mr. Black.

“This,” said David, unable to find words. “This is retarded. I'm out of here.”

He began to stand.

“Not so fast,” they said simultaneously, pulling pistols from their jackets.

David froze, he had never had a gun pointed at him before. His mood quickly deteriorated from annoyance into terror.

“We are serious people,” said Mr. White. “You're going to work for us, or you and your family are going to die.”

“Yes sirs,” said said a dejected and afraid David.

“Here's your first target,” said Mr. Black, sliding a folder towards him.

David opened it and perused the pages. Most of it was complete gibberish, jargon of a another profession. He looked at the name.

Frederick Hoffmeyer

“Frederick Hoffmeyer,” David muttered. “Should I know him?”

“Not likely,” said Mr. White. “Most of our targets are fairly unknown to the general public. However, they aren't your average person. Our targets are powerful influential people. People you typically wouldn't want to mess with.”

“So why are you making me mess with them?” Asked David.

“Because we don't want to,” said Mr. Black.

“Mr. Hoffmeyer is going to be at the A.G.O., the Ontario Art Gallery tomorrow for a special exhibit, said Mr. White. “The exhibit starts around seven at night, be sure to get there early so that you don't miss him. He's only going to be outside for a small period of time. Roughly twenty steps from his car to the doors of the building. We'll be placing a rifle on top of the building across from the A.G.O., all you need to do is gain access to the roof. Grab the weapon in the suitcase, and shoot him while he's between the car and building. He might have bodyguards but the gun could probably shoot through them or something, probably.

“What do you mean by probably?” Exclaimed David.

“Well, these things can be fickle, “said Mr. Black. “They almost never go as planned. You'll figure it out.”

“I apologize for not actually staying for lunch but we've got to go,” said Mr. White. “We are busy and serious people.”

They stood up and dropped a one hundred dollars bill on the table each.

“Wait, is that all the information you're going to give me?” Said David.

“It's all you need,” said Mr. Black. “Good bye Mr. Avery.”

Just as the exited the building a plate of food was placed in front of David.

“Where are your friends?” Asked the waiter.

“Gone, apparently,” replied David. “Could I also have a tea?”

He was left alone with his food and his thoughts. He was not sure if he could accept everything that had happened to him lately. He was going to have to kill someone. Kill someone. He imagined putting his finger on the cold, hard trigger of the gun. He pointed the barrel at his target. Mr. Hoffmeyer's head was in his cross hairs. He tried to pull the trigger. The gun would not shoot. There was no way for him to do it. He wanted to ignore it, but he had seen guns pointed at him now, his family could be in danger. It seemed like there was little other choice. He had to pull the trigger. An image of his family arrived in his head, he knew what they were doing. He imagined the gun again but this time there was an extra set of fingers on the trigger, helping him do the deed. They were making him pull the trigger.