hands in mock surrender.
"Okay, you got me. I'll behave."
"Good. So let's go get you fixed up."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Henry Sweet sighed and impatiently drummed
his fingers on the steering wheel as he checked his watch. Six more
minutes. Six long, tedious minutes. God, he hated this job.
Killing people had lost its allure several
years ago. Oh, sure, when he got started in the business, there was
nothing like the feeling of slamming his knife into an innocent (or
not-so-innocent) target, but these days he just got annoyed when
they bled on his shirt.
He yawned. Then yawned again.
Henry had turned fifty last
week, and the sting had yet to wear off. Fifty . Five decades. Half a century.
That was just wrong. Turning fifty was for decrepit, toothless,
senile old men, not him.
At least he didn't feel half a century old.
He still turned female heads at the gym, and he could bench press
more than most guys half his age. His short brown hair didn't
require that much dye to hide the gray, and his vision was
absolutely perfect. Physically, he was in every bit as good of
shape as he was twenty years ago. He was just bored.
He checked his watch again. Five more
minutes. He should've brought a handheld video game.
The minutes passed in an excruciatingly slow
manner. When only one remained, he got out of the car and went
around to open the trunk. He took out a pistol with a silencer, a
roll of duct tape, a compact disc, and a hatchet.
He hid these items from sight (the pistol in
the outside pocket of his black leather jacket, the tape and
hatchet in the inside pocket) and then walked across the street to
the front porch of the white suburban home.
At exactly eight o'clock he rang the
doorbell.
The door opened, revealing an annoyed-looking
Mr. Kabot. "May I help you?"
"Hi. I'm here to murder you. May I come
in?"
Henry didn't wait for Mr.
Kabot to ask if this was some kind of joke. They always asked if this was
some kind of joke. Henry was tired of the question. Instead, he
whipped out his gun and pointed it at Mr. Kabot's chest to indicate
that no, this was certainly not some kind of joke.
Mr. Kabot blanched and his mouth dropped
open.
"Inside," said Henry. "Now."
As they stepped inside the house, Henry
immediately swung his gun toward Mrs. Kabot and their daughter
Trisha, who were seated on the sofa watching the asinine reality
television show that they never missed. "Not one noise!" he said,
closing the door behind him. "If I hear so much as a squeak I'll
kill all three of you."
To their immense credit, the women didn't
scream. Mrs. Kabot whimpered a bit, but he'd let it pass.
He took out the roll of duct tape and tossed
it to Mr. Kabot. "Tape their hands, feet, and mouths. If you want
to whisper some reassuring nonsense at the same time, that's fine,
but don't try anything. I've seen it all."
Mr. Kabot stood there helplessly.
"I'm not here because I want to admire your
new carpet," Henry told him. "Tape them up or I'll do it for you,
and I won't be gentle."
Mr. Kabot continued standing there long
enough that Henry thought he might actually have to use the gun,
but then he nodded and began to unspool the tape. He wrapped it
around his wife's hands while Henry watched impatiently.
He glanced over at Trisha. She was eighteen
years old, blonde, and incredibly hot despite a couple of pimples.
Hard to believe she was a virgin.
Once Mr. Kabot had finished taping up his
wife he went to work on his daughter. The guy was trembling, but at
least he wasn't bawling like a baby. The last one had blubbered
from beginning to end, and it made Henry want to gag.
With the two women sufficiently taped up,
Henry walked over to Mr. Kabot and pressed the gun to his nose.
"I'm going to tape you up," he said. "There is to be no kicking,
hitting, biting, or any other aggressive move. If you disobey, or
even look like you're going to disobey, I'll shoot your wife.
Understand?"
Mr. Kabot nodded.
"Good. Start the roll for me."
Mr.
"Okay, you got me. I'll behave."
"Good. So let's go get you fixed up."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Henry Sweet sighed and impatiently drummed
his fingers on the steering wheel as he checked his watch. Six more
minutes. Six long, tedious minutes. God, he hated this job.
Killing people had lost its allure several
years ago. Oh, sure, when he got started in the business, there was
nothing like the feeling of slamming his knife into an innocent (or
not-so-innocent) target, but these days he just got annoyed when
they bled on his shirt.
He yawned. Then yawned again.
Henry had turned fifty last
week, and the sting had yet to wear off. Fifty . Five decades. Half a century.
That was just wrong. Turning fifty was for decrepit, toothless,
senile old men, not him.
At least he didn't feel half a century old.
He still turned female heads at the gym, and he could bench press
more than most guys half his age. His short brown hair didn't
require that much dye to hide the gray, and his vision was
absolutely perfect. Physically, he was in every bit as good of
shape as he was twenty years ago. He was just bored.
He checked his watch again. Five more
minutes. He should've brought a handheld video game.
The minutes passed in an excruciatingly slow
manner. When only one remained, he got out of the car and went
around to open the trunk. He took out a pistol with a silencer, a
roll of duct tape, a compact disc, and a hatchet.
He hid these items from sight (the pistol in
the outside pocket of his black leather jacket, the tape and
hatchet in the inside pocket) and then walked across the street to
the front porch of the white suburban home.
At exactly eight o'clock he rang the
doorbell.
The door opened, revealing an annoyed-looking
Mr. Kabot. "May I help you?"
"Hi. I'm here to murder you. May I come
in?"
Henry didn't wait for Mr.
Kabot to ask if this was some kind of joke. They always asked if this was
some kind of joke. Henry was tired of the question. Instead, he
whipped out his gun and pointed it at Mr. Kabot's chest to indicate
that no, this was certainly not some kind of joke.
Mr. Kabot blanched and his mouth dropped
open.
"Inside," said Henry. "Now."
As they stepped inside the house, Henry
immediately swung his gun toward Mrs. Kabot and their daughter
Trisha, who were seated on the sofa watching the asinine reality
television show that they never missed. "Not one noise!" he said,
closing the door behind him. "If I hear so much as a squeak I'll
kill all three of you."
To their immense credit, the women didn't
scream. Mrs. Kabot whimpered a bit, but he'd let it pass.
He took out the roll of duct tape and tossed
it to Mr. Kabot. "Tape their hands, feet, and mouths. If you want
to whisper some reassuring nonsense at the same time, that's fine,
but don't try anything. I've seen it all."
Mr. Kabot stood there helplessly.
"I'm not here because I want to admire your
new carpet," Henry told him. "Tape them up or I'll do it for you,
and I won't be gentle."
Mr. Kabot continued standing there long
enough that Henry thought he might actually have to use the gun,
but then he nodded and began to unspool the tape. He wrapped it
around his wife's hands while Henry watched impatiently.
He glanced over at Trisha. She was eighteen
years old, blonde, and incredibly hot despite a couple of pimples.
Hard to believe she was a virgin.
Once Mr. Kabot had finished taping up his
wife he went to work on his daughter. The guy was trembling, but at
least he wasn't bawling like a baby. The last one had blubbered
from beginning to end, and it made Henry want to gag.
With the two women sufficiently taped up,
Henry walked over to Mr. Kabot and pressed the gun to his nose.
"I'm going to tape you up," he said. "There is to be no kicking,
hitting, biting, or any other aggressive move. If you disobey, or
even look like you're going to disobey, I'll shoot your wife.
Understand?"
Mr. Kabot nodded.
"Good. Start the roll for me."
Mr.
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