The Final Hit

The hotel room is cheap and plain. Just the essentials. I never understood why someone would indulge in an expensive hotel room. I’d rather indulge in things like the near empty glass of quality whiskey I’m holding or the cigar I’m about to light up after.

It’s not long now. Soon enough the job will be done. I check the suitcase. One-hundred grand. The price some pay to make an enemy pay the ultimate price. Whether they’ve witnessed the wrong thing or crossed the wrong person. I never cared. I didn’t get paid for asking questions.

Next, I check my gun, a .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver. Loud, brutal and simple. I don’t need any of that Hollywood play it quiet shit. Not for this. I’ll only have one shot, so I may as well bring as much power to the table as I can.

The phone rings but I don’t feel like talking. Everything I need to say I’ve already written down in a letter that sits on the table in front of me. I wasn’t going to have a chance to say everything I needed to say with my mouth anyway.

Will they even believe it? Can I right my wrongs with simple words? Who am I kidding, I’m just taking the coward’s way out. I’m not going to look a single one of my victims in the eye.

I pull back the curtains and look out the window. The SWAT team is outside, surely coming up with some sort of plan. They’ll have to do something soon. I haven’t answered the phone yet.

No point keeping them waiting. I’ve wasted enough time and taxpayer money as it is. I reach for the revolver as the window shatters. Figures. A sniper’s probably pulled the trigger. Obviously, he didn’t aim high enough. I don’t even feel it.

That’s when gas billows in the room. Of course, I didn’t feel a bullet. It wasn’t a bullet. It’s tear gas. I start coughing like a pack a day smoker. As my eyes begin to water, I hear the crack of the breaking door.

Before I can think I’m smacked across the face with a rifle stock. I fall down as someone proceeds to cuff me. I’d failed. My final hit had gone wrong, but then again maybe that’s what I deserve.




Published by

Jack Fretwell

I love violent shooters, crime movies starring Benicio Del Toro and happy sounding songs that read sad.

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