Attempted Assassination(2)

The flowered bedspreads had seen better days, as had the yellowing walls and the shit-brown carpet. He placed the furniture and decorations somewhere in the seventies, and had no doubt this place hadn't been updated since. 

Nicholas motioned for him to use the bathroom. A hot shower quickly warmed him, and he slipped into the sweatpants and sweatshirt that had been left on the sink for him.

He emerged from the bathroom, and his handler asked him to lie down on the bed. As he stretched out, he took some deep breaths and found a comfortable position. Nicholas came over and stood above him. In his forties, he kept his tall build fit, his black hair only showing slight bits of greying. The man never smiled, and they never talked except for the few words exchanged about a mission.

"Ready?' the man asked.

He nodded and closed his eyes, prepared for his debriefing.

Nicholas placed a finger on his forehead, his voice calm and soothing. "Take a few more deep breaths for me, Jordan."

After Jordan had done as he'd been told, the man spoke again.

"As I speak, you will continue to go deeper. Just allow your mind to wander. When you're ready to go fully under, simply lift your right forefinger."

He didn't know how much time had passed before he felt certain that he could abide by the Nicholas' wishes, but with great effort, he lifted his finger.

"Very good, Jordan. Now, I'm going to say our word-the word that will take you down to the deepest level possible. Then, we'll do our debriefing. If you understand, please lift your finger again."

His limbs resembled heavy logs, his breathing slow and deep. Now feeling as though his body had become encased in cement, he couldn't move. He didn't find it unpleasant, nor did he panic. In fact, he found the state incredibly relaxing.

"Very good."

He hadn't realized he'd lifted his finger.

"Assassino."





2





Ava Callahan powered down her computer and leaned back in her chair with a sigh while rubbing her tired eyes. As an accountant, she'd just finished her last tax return that had been on extension for the year, and now, she could take some much-needed time off. She'd spent the last month working seven days a week, ten hours a day. Exhaustion and tension gripped her shoulders as she stretched her arms over her head. When she bent her neck forward to try to stretch her rigid muscles, she realized she still wore her pajamas.

She stood and walked from her home office to the kitchen, where she popped the cork on a large bottle of Chardonnay. After she'd poured a glass, a shower seemed to beckon, calling her name. She'd do that and then curl up in bed with her dog, Grunt, and watch some television. She hadn't managed to do any bathing today, but it could be that way for someone working from home, especially an accountant on deadline during tax season.

Glancing down at the dog, she couldn't help but smile. He had the face of a pug, but somewhere in there, it looked as if he had some schnauzer mixed in. Weighing in at about twenty pounds, with untamable scruffs of long, blond hair mixed in with patches of white, he'd never win any awards for the cutest dog on the block, but he may qualify for the ugliest. However, he definitely was the sweetest, and he belonged to her.

"Are you hungry, Grunt?"

The dog made a noise that sounded nothing like a bark, but more of a  …  well, a grunt, hence his name. Three years ago, her now-dead husband had gone to the pet store for some fish food and found the dog at an adoption event. He came home with the strange little mutt, but no fish food. The four-legged creature had quickly wormed is ugly little face into their hearts.

"Well, then let's get you fed. After that, I need a shower, dude. I haven't even brushed my teeth yet today. And what time is it? Closing in on seven at night, my little friend. That's pretty disgusting, if you ask me. But then again, you lick your butt, so maybe my lack of hygiene doesn't offend you."



       
         
       
        

The dog trailed her around the small kitchen as she retrieved a scoop of dry food, then mixed it in with a bit of wet. Topping it off with a vitamin pill, she set the masterpiece down and watched him inhale his dinner. Then, he sat down and lifted his paw to her, begging for more.

"Absolutely not. You're already getting pudgy around the middle."

Leaving him with a smile, she walked through the three-bedroom house to the master bedroom. As she stared at the big bed covered in the thick, white duvet, she knew she should look into selling the house and moving on, because her husband's ghost haunted every nook and cranny.

But she didn't want to, nor was she ready. Would she ever be?

She liked remembering the passionate and fun times they'd had in that bed, as well as the garden tub they'd installed during the remodeling. Or the times they'd curled up and watched movies on the sofa. The kitchen reminded her of the amazing meals he used to cook, the scents fermenting the whole house.

His tools still remained in the garage, just as they had since the day he'd left for that damn mission in Guatemala, and she hadn't bothered to remove any of his clothing from their closet.

He was everywhere, and she simply didn't want to erase him from her existence. Perhaps in the future that would change, but for now, she experienced a strange contentment having his things and their memories surrounding her.

She didn't have any tears left to cry for his death, and as she got undressed and stepped under the warm stream of water, she pushed the thoughts out of her mind. After six months of therapy, she wouldn't allow herself to wallow in the depression that had consumed her. She needed to look forward, but as her therapist had pointed out, moving forward also meant letting go of him, and she just couldn't do that.

After brushing out her long, blonde hair and slipping on her robe, she walked into the kitchen and grabbed her bottle of wine, then went into the living room and curled up on the couch. Just as she reached for the remote, the doorbell rang.

Grunt made his little noise, his ears standing straight up, his head tilted to the side. He glanced from the door back to her, as if he wondered if she would answer it. As she debated that herself, it rang again, followed by a light knock.

Sighing, she got up and went to the door, then looked through the peep hole. A man in a wheel chair stared up at her with a grin on his face, while another man stood behind him wearing a tracksuit and no smile.

She had no idea who they could be, so she decided to ignore them.

"Mrs. Callahan, my name's Joe Smith, and I have some information on your husband, Jordan. I'd appreciate just a few moments of your time."

Her heart thudded in her chest as she listened to the muffled voice through the door and stared at them. 

Information on her husband? There couldn't be anything to say except that he'd been dead a year. What type of sick joke was this?

"He's dead," she called, loud enough for them to hear.

A brief pause ensued, then the man in the wheelchair spoke again. "I understand that's the consensus, but I have proof your husband is alive, Mrs. Callahan."

She leaned her forehead against the door and bit her lip as her breath sawed in and out of her lungs. Jordan was alive? How? How had that happened? His whole unit had been killed in that explosion. There had been funerals-she'd attended every single one.

Yet, this stranger's words brought a spark of hope. She'd never been allowed to see her husband's body-they said the damage had been too great. A very small part of her had never believed he had died; that small belief she clung to had been a point of contention between her and her therapist. As he pointed out many times, how was she to move on with her life if she didn't accept his death?

Now what if this guy told the truth?

She shouldn't let strange men into her house, but as she stood there, she really considered the idea.

"Can you see this picture, Mrs. Callahan?"

She looked back through the security hole at the printed image the man in the wheelchair held up. Jordan walked down a city street wrapped in a trench coat. It seemed to be nighttime, but he glared out from under the black umbrella he carried, his face plain as day.

Gasping, she reached up, as if she could touch it. Tears came to her eyes as she stared at the photo, her heart now thundering in her chest and her knees weak.

"As you can see from the timestamp, this was taken last night."

Yes, she saw the date and time at the bottom. She didn't know much about computers, but she did realize that stuff like that could be faked.

"I just want a few moments of your time, Mrs. Callahan. I promise not to keep you very long."

The picture disappeared from her view, and she wanted to bolt through the door to hold it, to caress the outline of his strong jaw, to run her fingers through his thick, black-as-night hair.

Tears spilled down her face, and Grunt whined at her feet. Gazing down at him, she didn't know what to do. What if these men came into her home and wanted to hurt her for some reason? The perfect way to get her to open the door would be to show her a picture of Jordan.

But, what if what he said held true? What if Jordan lived? If that were the case, she had so many questions.

She turned her attention back to the door as the man spoke again.

"I'll tell you what. I'm going to leave this picture and some papers here on the doorstep. Please go through them tonight, and if you decide you'd like to talk to me, you can reach me at the phone number I've written on the first page. Feel free to call me anytime, day or night."