The Hit, page 1
Other stories by Alex R Price
Secret to Life Series
Novels
Anger to Rage
Short Stories
Forgotten Dreams
Marbles
The Games People Play
T.B.E.D.
Frank’s Lesson
Other novels
The Scholarship
The Classroom
The Diploma
One More Thing
Other Short Stories
The Newlyweds
(a six-word short story)
En Pointe
Squaretop Mountain Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2024
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means―electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other―without the prior permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN – 13: 978-1-7332557-9-0
DEDICATION
To the parents whose children are far
keep being the parent and role model they need.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my editor, Tracy Locken, for stirring this manuscript into the cauldron of grammatical sense. I applaud my editor in the magic she does on my novels. Sometimes I think she is a wicked witch stirring punctuation into a cauldron and ripping unnecessary words out, creating an aftermath that looks like a war zone. But with a season of rain, the story blossoms into a beautiful world I am proud to get lost in over and over. It is at this time that I realize she is not a wicked witch, but a fairy godmother. I’m grateful for everything she does to help make this dream a reality.
I would like to thank my beta readers, Tammy and Angela, for their valuable insight into finding all the plot holes of my story. They’ve shown me how to analyze sentences and read them from a new reader’s perspective.
A shout-out to MiblArt for an amazing cover. I gave them a try and they pulled through with an amazing work of art.
I also want to thank every person who bought my previous books. You are the inspiration for me to keep writing and turning this into a full-time career.
Alex R Price
ALEX R PRICE
1
This was just another job, another death and another cash payment. Tracer moved the lever ever so gently and watched his foot touch down on the balcony. His fatigues and tactical gear blended into the night, and his pockets were filled with an assortment of ordinary tools for his mission. To anyone else, the map in his breast pocket would appear to be an electrical schematic, but it was coded with characters only he could interpret.
Taking a quick peek through the window, he saw a neatly made bed. He hadn’t seen the typical light-flipping of anyone moving from room to room. The only recent activity had been on the lower levels.
The tools he carried were typical of a communications repairman. He didn’t need any special tools—not for this job anyway. The utility clothing and tool belt he wore for this assignment were sufficient to complete his objective. Any tool he had within his tool belt could aid him in completing his task. His overall goal was a subtle hint if any at all, never an outright statement. The statements he did leave were reserved for the worst of the worst. He believed children should be allowed to grow unhindered, not forced into any type of adult situation.
The harness loosened as he brought the drone down then landed it on the roof high above. The long cable kept the whirl of spinning blades and their noise at a distance. He wanted to let himself in, not make an announcement of his arrival.
He unsnapped the cable from his harness and gathered it into a coil at the edge of the balcony. A large head suddenly appeared in the window. Tracer cracked the door and put some liver treats down for the fluffy dog, followed by a fist-size ball of peanut butter and rolled oats laced with sedatives. He scratched the large noggin as the dog’s attention diverted to the drool worthy snack. If he had to leave in a hurry, it was one latch and a spin of eight powerful motors—he didn’t need an extra hindrance from a dog.
Entering the master bedroom, he left the overfed Newfoundland and pulled a taser from a holster. Turning this way and that, he checked every corner carefully to prevent a surprise by the owner of the house. The man’s wife and children had gone away for the extended holiday weekend, leaving his target home alone. Tracer had watched them pack the large SUV and leave. By the amount of luggage they rolled out of the house, it looked as though they would be gone for several weeks and not just the weekend.
It didn’t matter if they would be back the following day. Tracer just needed this night to finish the job. A pronouncement of death from the authorities would precede a text from his contact’s burner phone, and Tracer would have the code to access the final payment he was owed. After that, he would disappear as if he were never there.
He swung the pistol into each room, ready to deliver a painful jolt to any occupant. Skirting the occasional light in the expansive house, he was careful not to silhouette himself against a window. The lights weren’t enough to see into every dark corner but were enough that he could step silently through the house without disturbing more than the air.
Checking each room, he found no other inhabitants on the top level. A personal elevator connected all three levels of the home. Peering down the glass tube, Tracer could see the top of the elevator car nestled just below the main floor. Its polished internal workings were meant to be viewed and not hidden as most elevators were.
But he wasn’t interested in the extravagant mechanics. He wanted to know where the sole occupant of the home was.
Bright light leaked into the tube from the basement. It wasn’t proof that his mark was in the lowest level, but the haunting quiet of the rest of the house suggested that he was. After thorough inspection of the upper levels he confirmed that his target was in the basement.
The faint noise of children laughing and shrieking made Tracer pause. He waited, straining his ears, hearing two distinct children’s voices. He had watched two children leave. Could the couple have more than two? Moving silently from room to room, he verified that no one else was on the subsurface level.
The laughter drew him closer to a door with glowing light around its edge. There was activity inside, as he saw a shadow move across the door. This was the last room. He’d checked all the others. But the additional voices of children gave him pause, challenging his decision to complete his job this night.
The flush-mount door was hidden by a sliding bookcase, displaying the skill of a master carpenter. Quality lumber with a pristine fit and finish covered nearly every inch of the house. Tracer didn’t have to guess that the bookshelf, once slid back to its home, would look as if it were built into the wall, completely concealing the hidden room.
Moving to the side of the entrance, he peeked through the cracked door. Sheets of polished stainless were glued to the concrete wall, giving the room an industrial feel. Flashes of pink and black from the projected image refracted onto the stainless wall, and a blurry, warped reflection of a figure showed movement in the room.
The laughter and excited play from the children continued. Sounds from a squeaking swing and stomps from little feet pounding against a slide drifted out of the sterile-looking room.
The blurred figure seemed to be turned away from the door, so Tracer inched it open a little further.
The movement stopped.
Tracer stopped also. He couldn’t tell what the person was doing. He had to wait.
He wouldn’t force his hand if he didn’t have to. He had patience. He could stand there for an hour, or two, if need be. Much of his skill required him to wait for the opportune time to make his move. He patiently watched the blurry pink reflection as the figure moved equipment from one place to another.
The video ended, and the resulting silence would expose any sound Tracer might make.
He saw movement again. This time the figure moved toward the door. Tracer didn’t know if the person had heard him or not, but they were coming out of the room and he was standing directly in their path. He took a few quick steps and flattened himself against the wall, using the sliding bookshelf as cover.
Bright light flooded out the door. The figure walked out and stood just outside the entrance to the hidden room. Tracer caught himself holding his breath, then cautiously eased it out. Several seconds passed and the man still hadn’t moved.
Drawing in a breath ever so slowly, he waited for his target to go one direction or the other.
He watched the man’s shadow against the far wall lean to one side and turn as if to listen for the slightest sound. Tracer continued his controlled breathing—listening, watching and waiting to be discovered.
The man disappeared back into the room.
Tracer stepped behind a large plush chair and crouched out of sight. Music began playing. The noise gave him a chance to catch his breath. But when the light escaping the room dimmed again, he could only guess that his target had returned to fill the door. Seconds ticked into minutes as he waited.
Footsteps returned to the inside of the room, followed by a clink of glass and a gurgle of liquid. Tracer thought he could hear grumbling, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.
It didn’t matter―he had a job to do.
Tracer watched from his h
The man moaned, then with a drunken crash, he fell back into his chair. Slurred cuss words echoed through the shooting range and back out the door. A few minutes later, Tracer heard the sound of heavy snoring.
As soon as the breathing became consistent, Tracer walked through the hidden door. The elongated room housed a collection of guns and a short firing range ideal for shooting handguns. Several safes were anchored against one wall, while a workbench stood adjacent to it.
With his target in a diminished state, it was too easy. His phone was filled with an unsent text message admonishing his soon-to-be ex-wife that her affairs would be brought to light and that his onetime activity was after learning of her multiple escapades.
Without moving the phone, Tracer pulled a stylus out of his pocket and erased the text. In its place, he typed out a message telling the wife and the world goodbye and left it unsent.
Tracer stood in front of his target, watching him snore away the alcohol in his system. With slow and gentle movements, he placed the gun left on the table back in the man’s hand, wrapped his finger around the trigger and placed the muzzle to the man’s temple. The man was oblivious to anything Tracer did to him.
The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air. It was done.
He watched as the last muscle flinches subsided from the father of two who would have been a good husband and father had he only picked a spouse who wasn’t so greedy.
Retracing his steps, Tracer gave one last treat to the big fluffy dog before attaching the rigging to the harness and picking himself up off the balcony. He sailed through the air, avoiding the cameras that looked for intruders coming across the grounds but not from the sky.
The night air whisked around him as he glided through the darkness to await his next job.
2
Halen Kettleman woke to her mother pounding on the door of her lavish pink room. She moaned as she pulled a fluffy pink pillow over her head. The insistent pounding continued.
Dragging her feet from under the covers, she sunk her toes into the thick pink faux fur rugs that adorned the cream-colored carpet. With a push off the bed and eyes barely open, she stumbled across the expansive room. The extra-thick rugs made walking from the bed to the toilet feel as if she were walking on the softest of clouds.
Photos of Halen with various celebrities decorated one section of her expansive room. On another wall, more pictures of Hollywood celebrities, mostly from various red-carpet events, hung in matching frames organized in order of favoritism and were rearranged on the occasional whim. They surrounded an enlarged poster of her first major film, The Golden Gate Slasher, where she was a little girl and the sole survivor in the film.
The film hadn’t landed her nationwide recognition. Her third film did, however. Twilight the Sky, a film about a young teen stranded on an island and nearly going crazy finding her way back home, had elevated her career. Three more films brought her worldwide recognition, but it was far from the megastar status she sought.
She placed her thumb on the integrated bathroom computer. A small beep of acceptance launched the lavatory into a life of its own. Perfect 103.6-degree water blazed out of the massaging showerhead. Music rose from the silence with the sound of songbirds chirping out a favorite melody. A polished stainless steel lazy Susan spun out of the corner next to the white marble sink, with nearly every conceivable shade of organic makeup ready to paint any mood.
Halen didn’t acknowledge her reflection in the mirror, as the smeared makeup and after-party dishevelment that her face now bore would soon disappear down the shower drain, saving her from the truth of what her life actually was. The preprogrammed LED lights remained barely lit, allowing Halen to navigate the bath before being coaxed to meet the day.
“Halen. Are you up?” Halen’s mother, Kimberly Rossi, beat on the locked door. Her insistence on being punctual only drove Halen to be more defiant and less caring of what the clock said. “Come on. You have an appointment with the director to go over your next script.”
Halen slammed a fist against the wall, spouting unintelligible cuss words at her mother. She had been Halen’s manager since she was little. Now she was an annoying nuisance who held her money in trust, only allowing her a couple thousand each week.
Steam fogged the mirror, preventing Halen from seeing her drooping, hungover face. Her makeup was smeared across one side of her mouth, and a bit of vomit had dried on her chin. Sifting through her makeup bag, she pulled out a tiny vial. After twisting the top off, she sprinkled a small bit of white powder on her hand and quickly stuffed it under her nose. Sniffing deep, she closed her eyes and waited for the jitters to go away.
A moment later, she relaxed and stumbled into the marble tub and let the water cascade over her. Her blond hair turned a dark brown as the water soaked it through, washing away the guilt of overindulgence from the night before.
Prancing down the stairs in her parents’ mini-mansion, Halen felt a rejuvenation from the shower and the white powder.
She entered the kitchen to find her mother staring at a scandalous news article. Halen met her mother’s eyes across the polished white and lavender kitchen.
Kimberly pushed the tablet across the counter. “What the hell are you doing, Halen?”
“I’m having a great time.” Halen looked down at the digital newspaper. “Aww. They got my bad side,” she said, spinning the tabloid around and around until the picture of her falling out of a limo and planting her face in a puddle of water turned into a circular blur.
“You’re embarrassing yourself and everyone around you.” Kimberly huffed in disapproval. “When are you going to grow up? You have an appointment in thirty minutes and you’re not even ready.”
“Duh, Mom. I am ready.” Halen popped the gum she had doubled up on to help mask her morning breath. She grabbed an apple and a Mountain Dew out of the refrigerator and stumbled out the door with her mother on her heels.
A car waited in the small circular driveway in front of the house. The short palms and tall block wall surrounding the yard hid much of the building from the street. Taller trees to either side of the property discouraged random fans from taking a quick snapshot of the celebrity home.
“When will you be back?” Kimberly called as Halen sank into the back seat of the rented car.
The door shut without a response from Halen.
Kimberly stared after Halen for a moment following the car’s disappearance around the corner. Then, shaking with frustration, she walked back inside. She couldn’t discipline her. If she did, Halen would remove her as her financial manager.
She had to come up with a solution, but feared the potential consequences of any action. She reached for her phone and selected a contact, then hesitated. Her hand was hovering over the send button when her thoughts turned to her husband. Kelson Rossi was a brilliant and seasoned lawyer. Maybe he would have an idea.
Kelson, Halen’s stepfather, had been a lawyer in his father’s Georgia law firm, but a falling-out sent him west to California, where he met Kimberly. She was a young college junior at the university. He had bought her a cup of coffee and began kindling a relationship of convenience. After Halen’s birth, Kimberly graduated from the university, and they moved east to Miami, where Kelson began his career at Sterling and Beckman.
He’d helped many clients out of sticky situations, and he’d written all the contracts they used in their personal endeavors. Maybe he could come up with a contract to hold Halen accountable or she would lose her money and lifestyle.
Kimberly still needed somebody to talk to. She couldn’t face the day knowing that the world would be laughing at her parenting skills. She pressed the button on her phone. “Hey, Tabs. It’s Kim. Could you come over?”
