Games of Madness: Drive

The story is written in the form of a journal, so you only know what the character writes, when he writes it. The story begins and ends on different levels, just as a person's life often does.

I don't know why I started doing it. The money I suppose. Not that it makes a difference now. I think that weighing pros and cons to anything you haven't done before is a waste of time. Say you weigh the pros and cons of wearing a helmet to a grocery store, and decide that embarrassment outweighs safety, and then someone buries an ice pick into your skull. In those last few seconds you have, you are probably going to disagree with your previous evaluation. I began my career because the money that was offered far outweighed any doubt that I could think of. Unfortunately I couldn't think of much.

December 12th, 1998 I was visited by a man named Verome, whom I had worked with in private security right out of college. He offered me a job, allegedly for the government. Of course I accepted. 175,000 dollars to take out some gang leader in Mexico, and it was government authorized. I'm not a sick person, I don't enjoy killing, but after the four years that I served in the marines to pay for college... well, after a while you just stop letting it bother you. 

The gang leader wasn't a problem. Beginning to end it was smooth, the only job that would be. My passport and plane ticket arrived in the mail, and I arrived at a small motel a week later where I found a gun hidden inside the broken air conditioner, as the instructions had said. From there all it took was my aim, and the distraction of the women he constantly surrounded himself with. Once home, I received my money. In cash. I wasn't about to let this go, I wasn't going to stop making money like that with so little effort on my part. Unfortunately I didn't realize that that was exactly how I was supposed to feel. 

My friend Verome let me in on a little tidbit he forgot to mention before. The organization that we worked for were ex government officials, and had no authority other than their knowledge and the nine millimeters they keep strapped to their sides. It was too late for me, I had felt the rush, and seen the money. On the next job, Verome joined me. He assured me of the ease of the job, as well as the convenience of it being in the States. The first job had gone so well that I didn't question anything else. 

Verome isn't a great looking guy, but not bad either. I hate using the word average, because all average means is insignificant. Verome is not insignificant; he changes people's lives with every bullet that leaves the chamber of his .45. I think a better word is plain: Brown hair, brown eyes, neither round nor pointed jaw, easily forgotten. I think that that's the type of person this organization attracts; people who aren't out of the ordinary with unique features to be described to FBI or any other official. I've never considered any of this till now, at the time all there was to consider was the money, and the plan.

The plan was to rid America of a small time bomb maker.  His name was unknown to me, as were all my targets. Verome and I took to calling him the Asian, though since then I have learned that he was Iranian. I never was good at racial profiling. I didn't know what the man was responsible for, who he worked for, or why he deserved to die, but I did know how it was going to happen. Our employers made it clear that the bomb maker must be killed with one of his own bombs, and all the other details were up to us. Verome isn't the brightest man, but he is a hell of a liar, and improviser; these skills got him the part of the infiltrator. The plan was simple, Verome would cut the phone lines, and then a few hours later go to the house explaining that he worked for the phone company and say there was a problem detected. After working painfully slow in hope that the Asian would leave him to work alone, Verome would arm a bomb and then leave, explaining that more equipment was required to fix the problem at hand. He would get out ahead of the explosion and meet me at our rally point. The whole time I would watch from my sniper scope in the event that some improvisation was needed.

This, however, is not how the day went. The Asian managed to bite into a turkey sandwich with a bone in it, and broke his tooth. He immediately headed to what we assumed was the dentist. Verome radioed me to inform me of what happened, and told me that in his haste, the Asian did not lock his door. Not that it would have stopped either one of us, but it did make breaking in more appealing. Verome entered the house, and less than two minutes later the Asian returned home. I radioed Verome immediately to get out, but he had yet to find the bombs. He requested radio silence, and through the window I saw him go into a coat closet to hide. Unfortunately the Asian came back for more than to lock his front door. Evidently, he forgot a coat. Verome would have gotten away with it if the Asian had not recognized the foreign shoes lying at the bottom of his closet. And then the legs attached to them, and body attached to those, I tried to warn Verome that he was found, but the Asian already had a gun out and appeared to be yelling at Verome to leave the closet and explain himself. I couldn't hear a thing, and I had to act. The window I was looking through shattered with such force that glass entered Verome's body in eighteen different places. More importantly, my bullet found itself deeply imbedded in the Asian's head, though I'm sure it found its way to the other side. Verome disappeared for a two more minutes, and then left the house sprinting in a roundabout way back to me. The house exploded with such force that what was left was not ruins of a house, but a pile of burning timber. Verome reached me as I started the car, and we didn't speak until we had ditched the car and jogged back to the hotel. The bomb was an attempt to salvage the one requirement that the organization gave us. Verome wasn't smart, but he had his moments.

One year and seven jobs later, we found ourselves official members of the organization that we learned was called "The Keepers". It’s funny; we didn't even realize that we weren't official members, or that the organization had a name. It seems that with this group, you don't even know that you didn't know something, until you know it. The Keepers were named because the idea is that they keep order and peace. All I cared about was that they "keep" paying me. 

2.

It has come to my attention that I should explain myself. See, I was going to write a letter to explain this document, but then the contents of the letter and the contents of the document might not make as much sense, or be separated, so I decided to incorporate the letter of explanation into the document. That being said, I believe that someone, or some group, is attempting to kill me. I believe that this document will be of use if they catch up to me. I intend to give a copy of this to a close friend of mine whom, I will leave unnamed in case the document is found, will distribute this to both a publisher and the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the event of my death. That ought to make those who are following me think twice before killing me. I am not sure, but I think that the men after me are from the Keepers. The reasons for my suspicion will be clear enough, but for now it is only important that this information will be enough to wipe the Keepers off the map if released, so with any luck they will spare my life to protect their organization. My only fear is that I won't finish this document before they catch me. I move from hotel to hotel, never staying more than two days. They almost caught me this August in St. Lewis, but I managed to escape in a laundry cart about ten seconds before they entered the hall that I was in. 

The date is November 13th, 2010. I am staying in a privately owned hotel on the Oregon Coast. A little town called Lincoln. I arrived this morning in a semi-truck; some trucker was kind enough to give me a ride. I won't stay in Oregon for more than a week; I won't give my next destination until I am there, in case the document is compromised. In addition to leaving out future plans, I will also be leaving out my real name. If this document is found by authorities, they may be able to find me if they knew who I really was. The day I write my name in this journal is the day that I die. Enough about now, I need to sleep a few hours tonight, so I better pick up where I left off.


After becoming an official member of the Keepers, Verome and I found that we got certain benefits. Clean up teams, safe houses, informers, and about three times the payout. Sure these things made the jobs seem easier, but the jobs themselves got quite a bit more difficult. We weren't killing gang bangers and bomb makers anymore, we targeted philanthropists, politicians, CEOs, ambassadors, or anyone else that either our clients wanted dead, or who posed a threat to the Keepers. We no longer planned simply around someone's schedule, but the schedule of their guards' rounds, the location of their dogs, the position of security cameras, and the most difficult part, we had to know who else was watching them. Something always went wrong; there were almost always casualties in the form guards or watchdogs. As the jobs got harder, we thought faster and more creatively to solve problems, but no job ever went perfectly. The closest we came to a perfect job was in 2003 when we were asked to take out a Brazilian competitor. The job was so close to perfect that we actually managed not to kill a single other man...but his wife was another story. Killing those who aren't on the list is not the worst way you can screw up. The worst way is to not kill them, and leave a witness. In 2004 I was on a solo job in Dublin. I had just shot the vice president of the Bank of Ireland in a back alley after chasing him for eight blocks. When I walked forward to check the body, I saw on my right a small boy about seven years old who had been out of sight behind a dumpster. The kid was horrified; he had seen the whole thing, and now my face too. I stepped aside and let him run past me, and then I fired my silenced .44 right to the back of his head. I climbed up the fire escape and left through a second story apartment so that my boot prints wouldn't be found in the blood or brains now scattered about the alley. I had never shot a kid before, and I never intend to again. But like I said, leaving a witness is worse than leaving a body, even if that body is of a seven year old boy. I collected my $425,000 when I returned and haven't thought about the incident since.

The trouble for me began in 2007 on a job in Amsterdam. Two targets, snipe through the window of their home from half a mile. I paid cash for my hotel room, carried a simple duffle bag, and my sniper rifle unassembled, in a camera case. I received a phone call that confirmed that I was to go ahead with the job on schedule, so I assembled my rifle and located the house. It was a large three story house with huge windows to overlook the city. Unfortunately for them, big windows made my job all the easier. I found the husband on the second floor in a Billiard room, and the wife was in what appeared to be a library on the third floor. In this business you quickly learn that the target who has the closest escape route is the first to kill, so I chose the husband who was closer to ground level. I set my sights on his temple, my gun rest made it extraordinarily easy to hold the gun steady, and with the lack of wind the shot would be a breeze; or, rather, it wouldn't be. I squeezed the trigger and watched for the body to fall, but all that happened was the window turned a strange white color. Bullet proof glass stopped the bullet, and only sent cracks through the glass. I quickly fired two more rounds in the same place and then moved my gun up to the wife. She was running toward one door to lock it before going back to leave through the second. I fired at her head three times, and the glass protected her each time. My plan called for me to escape though my window before anyone could respond to the shots that I fired, but with the targets still alive. I froze for several minutes, not sure of what to do. I grabbed their files, and my duffle bag and was about to leave, ditching the rifle as planned until I realized that I would be on my own till the job was finished. I barricaded the door to hold just long enough for me to disassemble the rifle and quickly put it back into the camera case, then I got a running start and leaped from my window onto the roof next to me. I ran to a clothing store and bought the most generic suit I could find, and a large brief case which I managed to fit both the files on my targets and the camera case that held my rifle. I left the duffle bag in a dumpster behind the store. I made my way to the house on foot, and when I arrived the police were already there searching the place. I overheard that the residents fled and their whereabouts were unknown, though there was a dark bloodstain found in the billiard room. Apparently the husband was wounded. I left the scene and headed for the red light district, hoping to find a knowledgeable scum bag to tell me where a private doctor would stitch up a bullet wound, no questions asked. I managed to find a private club that Verome had once told me of, called The Nest. It was supposed to be for the richer side of gang life in Amsterdam, so it sounded like the place I needed to be. The bouncer stopped me at the door, and before he lost consciousness from my knuckles finding their way to his face, he told me that I wasn't getting in. I really thought about that as I stepped over his body. I found the man I was looking for, Razul, who owned the club. After some convincing conversation, and a fountain pen that I put between his ribs, he agreed to tell me the name of the doctor that he thought the most likely. I thanked him with the underside of my boot, and the skull fracture I left him with would keep from coming for me, even if it is because he didn't survive the event. I walked three blocks and caught a cab, heading for a place near the doctor. I never travel directly from one place to another; it leaves a trail for the investigators. I arrived at a convenience store four streets down from the doctor's house. When I got to the house, all the lights were off but one, and the silhouettes suggested that the doctor was working on someone, with someone else standing behind him. I couldn't take the risk and just assume that I had found my targets, so I took out the silenced .44 that I always keep strapped to my side, and I put a hole in my right shoulder. I decided it smart to wait some time so that the doctor wouldn’t think that the wound happened on my up to his door, so I let the wound fill my shirt and suit jacket with blood to make it look like the injury was older than it was, then I took off my tie to wrap around the wound. I hid my briefcase under the grating of a sewer entrance, and I made my way up to the door looking as fatigued as possible. A woman answered the door, and I asked to see the doctor. She introduced herself as Annette, the doctor's wife, and then led me to a room on the second floor. Annette helped me to the bed, and began to look at my wound. She mentioned something along the lines of her surprise that there were two gunshot wound patients in less than two hours. I was relieved that I wouldn't have to ask any out of place questions to get this information, so I took advantage of and inquired as to what the story was on the other patients. She apologized, saying it was against the rules to share that, and that often the patients didn't even tell the doctor such information. She asked for payment in advance, and I handed her $1500 US dollars, asking if it was sufficient. She appeared to be satisfied and left the room to inform the doctor of my arrival. When the doctor came in, he asked me if I was armed, and I removed my .44 for him, and placed it on the counter next to my bed. He approached me to look at the wound, and gave me a very strange look. I didn't think much of it at the time, as he quickly changed pace to fixing me up so I could rest and be on my way. When he finished, he said goodnight and left my room. I stayed awake, waiting till all would be asleep, then silently stood up, retrieved my pistol from the counter, and went to the door. I listened for about ten minutes to ensure that everyone was asleep, and then I opened the door as quietly as I could. I stepped into the hall, and opened the door to the room across from mine, which was empty. I move onto the next door, and heard quiet breathing of what sounded like two people sleeping. I opened the door a few inches, and heard someone from behind me speak. "Do you know how I know that you shot yourself?" I turned around to see the doctor pointing a shotgun at me. "You gun is a silenced 44. Magnum, a unique weapon I might add. You Americans always use such high caliber weapons, but here in Europe we understand that a small caliber bullet and a large caliber bullet will do the same thing when entering a person's head. You wound is not only point blank, but it is also clearly very large caliber. So, unless an American shot you in a non-lethal place, at point blank range while you had your weapon on you, I believe that you shot yourself to gain access to this building. And now here you are snooping around at 1am with you gun. I am going to give you one chance to explain yourself, and don't think that I only know how to fix bullet wounds. I can cause them too." I asked if we could speak in my room, where we wouldn't disturb the other guests. I wasn't about to be held at gunpoint by a doctor, I was going to get out and get my job done without the permission of some nobody. I walked through the door, the doc was close behind, and I quickly grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and smashed it into his face. I relieved him of his weapon, raised my pistol and shot him between the eyes. I caught his body before it could hit the floor and make any noise. I stepped over him and continued to the door with the couple, but thought better of it. I had to be sure it was them, which meant turning the light on. If they yelled and alerted Annette I could be in another bad situation. So I went to Annette's room, went to her side where she was asleep, and put a bullet into her forehead. I thought about checking the one other room in the hall, but I decided to avoid killing anyone unnecessarily. I walked back to the couple's room, turned on the light, and found Razul with some skank. They awoke immediately, not that Razul could do anything given the state he was in, and the skank drew a very small pistol and pointed it at me, cursing in Dutch. The commotion woke the residents of the room I had not checked, and I heard them running down the stairs to the front door as I shot the skank and Razul. I went to the room of the couple that ran, and found the doctor's notes, which explained the gunshot wound to the left arm of the husband. I had never been so mad at myself for not searching more thoroughly. I sprinted down the stairs and out into the street where I saw a BMW skidding away into the night. I fired a few rounds, but it was hopeless. I went back up to the doctor's room and took all the money I could find and a suit from his closet. Then I went back to the street to retrieve my briefcase, and I left the scene before the police could arrive. 


3
I had never called in help before, but this time I didn't have much of a choice. I took a cab back to the red light district and found a phone booth. I made an international call to Verome, who was in Venice finishing a job. He picked up the phone, and I told him I was in pretty deep s**t. I told him he can come, and then I would explain, or he can leave me to rot, but I said I would explain nothing over unsecured phone lines. I waited four days, switching hotels daily. He arrived and met me on the fifth day as planned at a small bar owned by a friend of his. I told him everything, and he was quiet for a long time. He stood up and asked me to follow him, and we arrived at our hotel room before either of us spoke again. I sat on the edge of my bed, and he explained the situation to me. "You can't go back until both of them are dead. I can either go all in and help you, and be in the same s**t storm you are in, or I can leave now and save myself. You know I would help you with anything, but I'm not sure what we can do. What do you know of these people? Their address, what they look like, and the car they drive. They will never go back to that home again, that lead is dead. The best we can do is follow their trail by finding the sale of a BMW with bullet holes in the back of their car, but who knows, that lead could die too. We don't know what these people do, who they know or work for, or what they are capable of. You have two choices: try to find these people and finish the job you started and then return to the Keepers, or you can run. If you do run, you need to do so before the Keepers find out that you failed. I can get you a plane ticket, and wire your funds into an offshore account. You can live the remainder of your life in Fiji, or Greece or somewhere. I'm not sure what else I cou-"

What happened in the next four minutes was something I will never forget. Verome fell to his knees with blood trickling from his forehead, and lost look in his eyes. Glass was scattered all over the floor around us. He fell over dead, and despite everything that I felt for my friend, there was nothing that I could do but run. I made it out with my briefcase and money, and I didn't stop running till I got to the Amsterdam Central Train Station. I went into the nearest bathroom and vomited for several minutes, and after collecting myself and cleaning up a bit, I left to check the train schedules, but they had all been cancelled. I looked outside, and weather looked perfectly fine. I asked a worker why the trains were cancelled, and the worker made several excuses and didn't answer. I immediately realized that whoever was after me had very strong connections, because they undoubtedly had the trains cancelled to keep me from leaving the country. I left casually and walked a couple blocks to a w***e house. I was sure that whoever was looking for me would be searching hotels, train stations, and airports, but I doubted that they would check somewhere like a w***e house. So I entered the establishment and said I would pay for the whole night if I could sleep there, and I explained that my presence was to be secret because I was an esteemed businessman who couldn't tarnish his reputation. The owner assured me that they accommodated people like me all the time and it wouldn't be a problem. That night I stuck to my cover story, playing every bit of the role; I won't get into the activities of the night because they are irrelevant. The next morning I turned on the news in the room I was in, and the previous day's events were all over it. They didn't have a single shred of information about me; perks of killing the witnesses. I did see one useful thing, a BMW with three bullet holes in the back of the car was found fifty miles outside the city. It was found with a flat tire and small amounts of blood in the passenger seat. I assume it was the husband's wound that must have reopened with an increased heart rate. I was about to go after them, when I realized that my enemies had this information too. They would be watching for me, expecting me to follow the trail, which meant that their gaze would be off the borders. I decided to wait another day at the brothel and then make my way to Rome. I would finish this job, but now was not the time. Playing by the rules of the people trying to kill you is how you find yourself tied and gagged in a bathtub full of battery acid. I decided to disappear, and follow the trail from afar by researching my targets. I didn't even know their names, but I had their previous address and their pictures, and that would be enough. I flew to Rome, and once there I decided that I needed to entirely change the ways I do things. My enemy knew me, so I had to act erratically, and begin doing things differently than I ever had before. I generally stayed in cheap hotels, never staying more than one night. If my enemy is resourceful enough to have found Verome and I in the hotel back in Amsterdam less than twenty minutes after we arrived, they would be resourceful enough to find a pattern of one night stays in cheap motels around Rome. I expected them to know that I was in Rome; I used my passport after all. But once there I disappeared into thin air. I became a whole new man: new haircut, clothes, and life style. I had my funds transferred into a private worldwide bank that couldn't be touched by whoever was following me. I rented a house right on the Tiber River, and I paid for the first six months. I bought a fake ID and had a passport and birth certificate forged. I became Daniel LeTrice from British Columbia, Canada. I bought expensive clothing, joined a country club, a private night club, and consistently threw parties at my house. I also quickly became known to have women at my home at all hours. I became a new man, it was more than an act; it was a whole new life.

Of course I continued to quietly research the targets that eluded me twice. It turns out that they are married, from Sweden, and named Jack and Diane Wildrough. I'm sure Wildrough isn't the name isn't the one Jack was born with; it just seems to scream bullshit. Jack and Diane were biologists who did research for someone with quite a bit of power. Unfortunately I couldn't find much more than that without extensive research, which is what led me to believe that their employers were powerful. I needed to call in a favor, unfortunately there was no one left in the world that I could trust. I decided to test my luck with a call to Verome's brother, Joshua. It was Joshua who got Verome to join the Keepers, as he was a member himself. Joshua and I never really like each other very much, and that wasn't about to change when he knew that his brother was helping me when he died. I went to a cheap motel and used a pay phone. His brother knew who it was before I spoke. He cursed at me and then began to cry, I wasn't going to get any help from him. Just before he hung up he said with unrelenting anger, "No one fails and gets away with it."

4
I announced to my friends, and women, that I had caught a sever flu, and would have to sit out on the festivities for the next few weeks. The next morning I packed my bags and moved to Longboat Key, Sarasota, Florida. I bought a condo and assumed the name Albert Grisham. I had all new papers forged, and began a new life yet again. It soon became clear that my mission to survive would be more important than my mission to finish the Amsterdam Job. My condo overlooked the Gulf of Mexico from the eighth story of a ten story building. Out of all the places I have been in my life that is the one that I miss the most. It was my home for nearly two years, but then I came across some information that changed everything. In late 2009 I met a man named Jon Ricktor, who used to work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He retired to Florida about ten years before I met him. We became good friends fairly fast, and he was soon asking me questions about what I did for a living. I explained that my wealth came from inheritance, and that I never really found a career that suited me. He didn't seem to buy it though, but it didn't seem to bother him anyways. He began telling me of things that I'm sure he shouldn't have been talking about. He had over done it a bit with the rum that night, and he told me that the FBI had been after a group of hitmen known as the Keepers for about twenty five years. He said he still had contacts back in the FBI and they told him that they were closer than ever to shutting down the Keepers permanently. He said it was all thanks to one of the hitmen failing a job in Amsterdam. He passed out shortly after, and in the morning he didn't seem to have any recollection of the night's conversation.

I didn't know what to do. Who was after me? The Keepers? The FBI? Both? All I knew was that I needed to leave Longboat Key, and I had to do so without alerting my new friend, Jon Ricktor. I waited two weeks, and heard of an incoming hurricane, Hurricane Earl. It was the perfect excuse (though the hurricane ended up not even coming close to us, it missed Florida entirely), I told Jon that I wouldn't risk staying, and that I wanted to relocate somewhere safer, permanently. It wasn't easy to leave, Jon was the first real friend I had since Verome, and the future was looking pretty lonely. In August of 2010 I packed up and flew to St. Lewis, where I would stay for a week before flying to Los Angeles, and then New Zealand. On the last day in St. Lewis, I walked into my hotel and past a man in a suit who was at the front desk. As I passed him I heard him asking for a man named Albert Grisham. It took everything I had to continue walking, and not turn my head back to look. As soon as I was out of the man's sight I ran to my room where I grabbed my papers, money, and some clothing and stuffed them into a briefcase and headed into the hall. I heard heavy footsteps rushing in my direction, but I was cornered. I looked to my right and saw the housekeeping cart, and I jumped into the laundry basket full of dirty sheets and wet towels. I heard the man run by me into my room and curse. I could hear him rummaging through my things, doing a thorough search of the room, but before he finished the housekeeper began pushing me to the elevator. Once in the laundry room I jumped out and ran. I boarded my plane three hours later and once in LA I had yet another set of papers draw up, this time under the name of Chris Johnson. I didn't leave for New Zealand, I knew that continuing to live a certain way for an extended period of time was as dangerous as keeping the same name. I rented a car and drove up just outside Lincoln, Oregon, then got a ride from a trucker the rest of the way into town. It was strange to stay in a cheap motel again; I had lived so many different life styles that returning to old ones was like constant deja vu. I stayed the night at the privately owned hotel, and the next morning I went to an RV dealership, and bought a used, top of the line, RV. I needed to keep moving, and how much more mobile can you get?

That brings me to the present. The date is November 15th, 2010 and I have been driving for two days now. I don't know my destination or how long I will take to get there, or even what I am going to do when I arrive. I just know that unless I keep moving, I am going to die. I don't know who on the list of dozens of people that I have pissed off are trying to kill me, but I know that I don't intend to stick around to find out. I have pulled off into a truck stop outside Ellensburg, Washington for the night, and now that I'm all caught up to the present, I'm going to indulge in ten hours of sleep.


5
November 30th, 2010. I haven't written in over two weeks, because until now there wasn't much to write. I have been driving up into Canada, trying to make my way to Edmonton. I never drive for more than three hours at a time, in case they know that I am traveling in an RV. Actually I think that it is about time to ditch this thing anyways. Maybe I'll pick up a Camaro or something. Anyways, I'm less than an hour from Edmonton, but because I am going to try beginning a new life again, I can't keep anything that I have used since Los Angeles. So I am currently trying to find someone to forge papers for me, but all these damn Canadians are either hunters, lumberjacks, or potheads. I might have to go to Edmonton to find anyone, seeing as I already past Calgary, and turning back is not on my agenda. So I guess I don't have much choice but to go in and lay low till I can get new papers. At least I can get a new car before I go though, that idea of getting a Camaro is really growing on me...well, off to the dealership.

March 5th, 2011. I'm sure that you are confused as to why it took me three months to write anything. Well, let me begin with my present situation. I am sitting on the roof of the ten story building that is the only place I was ever truly happy since the death of my dearest friend. I returned to Longboat Key for reasons that will be clear soon enough. But first, the dealership was a trap. The men had been following me since LA and they knew where I was and what I planned. They killed the owner of the dealership just before I arrived, and one of the men pretended to be him. I had no idea until I noticed something in the reflection of one of the car windows. I saw a man in a pool of blood behind the counter. I didn't wait, my gun was in the b*****d's mouth, and the bullet through his head almost instantly. I grabbed the keys to the car and left through a hole that I put in the front of the building. If authorities weren't after me before, they sure as hell were after me once they saw my face on the security tape, blowing some guy's brains out and stealing a $30,000 car. I stopped writing because I could not risk this being found. This document no longer threatened the Keepers, and even if it did I would be taken to prison for the number of crimes that I admitted to in this document. I hid it in a secret compartment in my briefcase and I drove as far as I could before ditching the car and hitch hiking. Maybe it wasn't the safest thing to do, considering men were out to kill me, but I couldn't continue on in a stolen car. I managed to hitch hike all the way to Niagara Falls, and in that several thousand mile trek across Canada, I slept for a total of about eight hours. Riding in a stranger's car was dangerous enough, but falling asleep in it too would have been suicide. When I reached the falls I found a motel and slept for more than two days. When I awoke I wasn't entirely sure of where I was, or how I got there. All I knew was that for two days I had been extremely vulnerable, and I had no idea who knew where I was, or even who had been in my room. I searched my room for all the ways that I might have killed a man in my position. I checked under the bed for a pressure activated bomb, behind all the doors for a trip wire explosive, a gas leak in the stove, a carbon monoxide capsule in the air conditioner, and dozens of other places. By the time I finished my search I was exhausted again, and my room was torn apart. I was tired, malnourished, and frantic with fear of forgetting just a single thing that might kill me. I looked at the ceiling fan directly over my bed, and that was too much for me. I took my pillows and blankets and made a bed on the floor in the corner of the room that was close to nothing. No cabinet to fall on me, appliance to explode, or window to be sniped through. I thought of everything, and if I didn't, I wouldn't wake up the next morning.

I did wake up the next morning. And the days seemed to follow the same pattern as I made my way south. I would travel by day, taking buses, trains, and renting cars occasionally. Nothing long term, I wanted to leave the smallest trail that I could. I stopped hitch hiking altogether, even if it meant walking twenty miles or more. I also stopped trusting people all together. If I couldn't buy a car without risk of dying, who is to say I could go into a grocery store, department store, or pharmacy? No, I stuck to restaurants with Togo options, or drive through. I didn't like the lifestyle, but what choice did I have? Every hotel room was searched as thoroughly as the first was, and on some nights when I couldn't sleep for fear of missing something, I tore out the drywall to check for listening devices or explosives. There is a point you reach, when after learning all the ways there are to kill a man, all you can think of are all the ways there are to die.

I made my way south with relative ease, until I reached Philadelphia. I went slightly out of my way to go to Philadelphia so I could visit the grave of Verome. Not only was it an incredible risk, but it also would take time to find it. I switched hotels daily for a week while researching online, trying to find his resting place. I knew it would be Philadelphia, he always told me that he felt it was right for him to return to his birthplace. He never was religious or anything, so I don't know how he expected to know that he was there, but it was important to him nonetheless. I finally found him listed in a cemetery called Laurel Hill Cemetery, so I packed up and headed out. I knew the risk that I was taking, it about drove me crazy actually, but if there was one thing that I had to do before I died, that was it. I found the grave, and once there I wasn't sure what I needed to do. A few tears left me, I acknowledged being responsible for his death, and apologized, and then I turned to leave. I didn't get more than two steps before I saw Joshua. 
"The Keepers are done. The trail you left by screwing up and getting Verome killed was more than enough for the Feds to find us and shut us down. I don't know how you managed to elude them, but you never lost us. We may have been busy dealing with the FBI and killing the targets that you let get away, but we have been following you since day one. And when you had the audacity to call me after what happened to my brother...I took on this last job. You are the last target that the Keepers will ever have. And I'll be the one to kill you." He raised his gun, and a tear left his eye. Not for me, he felt nothing for me but hatred; it was for his brother.
I was about to let him do it. What else did I have to live for? I would only be running the rest of my life, even if I escaped this time. I closed my eyes and waited for the gunshot, but when I heard it, I opened my eyes and found my own gun pointed at him. The bullet went right through his stomach, a non-lethal shot. I was appalled by what I had done but remaining stationary in surprise wasn't going to get me anywhere. I ran to my rental car and began to drive. I stopped only to fill my gas tank, and headed south. I think that I knew where I was going, and why, but I wasn't sure until I reached the palm trees and humidity of what could only be Florida.

6. 

So again I find myself caught up to the present. Here I sit on the edge of a ten story building in Longboat Key, Sarasota, Florida. I thought to say goodbye to my friend Jon Ricktor, but it turns out he was murdered four days after I moved. Interrogated and killed by the Keepers, no doubt. He was the friend that I was going to entrust this document to, and with him dead I'm not sure why I am still writing. It is a comfort I guess, to know that I will leave something behind other than a few bullets and a lot of dead bodies.
I'm sure that the Keepers are right behind me. Whether it is Joshua, if he has recovered, or a replacement, I am not sure, but I know they are here. I entered the building taking none of the precautions that I usually do, what was the point? I could feel several sets of eyes on me as I passed through the lobby. No doubt there were dead bodies stacked behind the counters, as were in the car dealership back in Canada. All I took with me was my .44, this journal, and a pen. I made my way to Jon's room, and I saw the for-sale sign along with a small memorial cross and sign. I immediately went to the roof, where I now sit. I locked the roof access door from the outside, but I can hear them trying to get through. A life to live in fear is worse than no life at all. So I here I sit, and as I said months ago, the day I tell you my name is the day I die. 

My name is Dane Vallenger.

Author's Note

The story specifically lacks a few things, detail primarily. It has just enough to paint a picture because the character is writing this in a journal as he is constantly running for his life. He isn't interested in describing how the glistening bead of sweat ran from his temple to chin like the seemingly eternal motion of a glacier in those long, slowed seconds while he awaited his killer's knife to find his throat.

Reviews

[w2de35657u687y4324rf]

1:
The intro is fairly interesting, but it sounds more like an interview than a journal entry there. What allows me to further support that is the lack of a heading and title. This leads me to belive that the narrator has somehow come to regret his actions or that he is facing the consequences of them. I enjoy the level of secrecy employed with identites. Your lack of directness creates the feel of an individual. For instance, you never write "I joined an assassination guild". The pieces are built slowly throughout the prose. Also, I must congradulate you on your succeeding the fundamentals of a cliche story. You lack the painful "I was born here, grew up this way, am now this age, work here and love x person". Many thanks. However, I was taken slightly by surprise with how direct the entrys are in their specifications. I would think, having been studying stream of consciousness for a while, that there would be more sly, imbedded thoughts, emotions and allusions. However, I think an interesting question for both the writer and the reader is "Who is the audience of the narrator's journals?" rather than "Who is the auidence of this book written about a man's journals?" So I'm complementing your inclination to immersion there, I suppose, but also I'm wanting to see more from you in that regard.

[w2de35657u687y4324rf]

6:
I would say that there is a very noble end, a catharsis of sorts. Dane Vallenger realizes his inevitable mortality, good play with the idea of a name there, and accepts his upcoming fate. Though, he also becomes an artist in those last few minutes-- Writing because he desires to out of passion, and not out of petty greed (as he began). It seemed that he was never entirely concrete about his life, and he admits that. He was never fully secure with why he was doing something, what changed is his temperament towards that complacent ignorance. 
Your limited perspective rendered a wonderful view of "what's important". The values of man and the life lived by the individual, for the individual, and not in concern of the meddling of outside forces. For instance, we never find our why the FBI as able to take out the Keepers or why the Kwepers failed. The progression and spiritual evolution of Dane is all that is realized, and that's powerful. 
A man's dying words always are, but you're writing every moment as to ensure an acceptable end in the event of demise, which is also neat. I think you were able to play into the character pretty well. A restriction, however, was the character's involvement with the reader. That's what gives it a touch of realism, though. 
You talk about not having a bunch of exploded, dramatic scenes, but I would say you played a very fertile and dynamic world here. There are so many sets in this story it's difficult not to admire them. 
And I must add that I love how you cut the ending. No final battle scene, no knife in the heart, only a name. As it should be. More of that realism, but honestly great writing choices. If you've got any questions concerning interpretation, aid, etc, my mail box is always open. 

Indimeco

[w2de35657u687y4324rf]

5:
The paranoia here is very present. I felt that the reasoning for not writing is a bit over the top. The main character has undergone substantial change, but I'm not sure if they could have plausibly have changed SO drastically (paranoia) in such a little time. Wouldn't be much different plot-wise if you went and just said 5 years instead of three months.  So far, anyway. 
The graveyard scene was something entirely respectable. It needed to happen and you pulled through with grace. You have also developed the narrator as this wonderful escapist. Quite the character now. I am not entirely sure if this plays in so well with Verome's sudden death, but by now he has subconsciously developed as a crucial element here. The time between the murder and the grave scene was much needed. It had a really nice effect here, too. 
I'm enjoying this odd obsession with Florida. It's got a little flare of freedom to it. 
There's definitely more clarity with what's being written and when, and on what is entirely happening in the story. That's a falling action for you, though. Well done. 

[w2de35657u687y4324rf]

4: 
And now the FBI. I suppose here is where we really see the problem. It has been an interesting ride thus far. There doesn't seem to be a whole lot left in the story so I'm interested to see how you pull it all together. Therefore, your story has been successful in peaking my interest by a long-shot. 
On a related note, it begs the question of who the shooter is, as you touched on I believe. I am attempting to consider who's motives are strongest, but it's all a bit fuzzy. It seems each organization is just emotionally bound by anger or "justice". I don't know if there are dozens of hitmen, though, because the narrators survival rate just plummets there. I'd assume he would've died in a week if that was the case. 
I enjoyed the bit about having to go back to living in cheap motels. I can imagine how unnerving that must be. 

[w2de35657u687y4324rf]

3:
You've stacked the deck well here. Now you've got yet another body on our narrator's hands. I mean, it could be possible to pin the murder of Verome on him. Forensically, it may not make sense considering the shot was fired through the window, but if the room was under the narrator's name, who's got a bad case going for him already, and suddenly he disappears, well, problems arise in the eye of "justice".  It was clever to give Verome an emotional bit there, so the reader begins to connect and then it all just cuts short like the pull of a trigger. I was more shocked than upset, though. 
The most interesting part about that whole set-up, though, is that the narrator is being hunted... By himself. What I mean by that is that there is a parallel plot line between the narrator, who has failed to execute his targets and now must pursue them, and the being who has mistaken Verome for the narrator and now must also be in pursuit. This may open up to a grand theme statement, perhaps having to do with the likeness beteeen all hitmen. 
On another note, the transition explaining the narrator's new way of life is quite seamless and beautiful. It really gave me the image of an arrogant white collar with a blaze attitude, but an odd remoteness. Like J Gatsby, almost. 
I have a feeling that Joshua is going to play the catalyst antagonist, meaning he will be the voice that persuades the Keepers to seek out the narrator. Vengeance does that kind of thing to a man.

[w2de35657u687y4324rf]

2:
I feel that the characterization is much stronger in this part. We get a heavy sense of the importance of the narrator's job, his massive inclination to money, but mostly his fear for his own life. Seeing as the entire journal is written in paranoia, and the narrator only continued to work out of fear (I'm assuming, it's unspecified) of being considered "superfluous", I would like to see this be a bit more prevalent as it is a major theme. Furthermore, we get a sense of moral soundness in the guy, which I didn't really expect. With these murder types we don't usually see them regretting the death of children. Because all other moral characteristics are so unstressed, it seems to me like you've created a kind of Holden Caufield. Anyhow, I, as a reader, am definitely more inclined to continue reading because of this passage than because of the previous one. Your clarifications upon the intent of the writing were well placed and needed. One note, however, is that you may want to clarify on what's being written in terms of when. So far I get the impression that it is just one massive journal entry written in a single day. The lack of dates, times, etc, surrounding the interruptions give it that impression. That is, however, without me looking back upon the text to be sure. There is the bit about him migrating every two days, but I'm not sure how that plays out as there is no guideline for time or anything to begin with. A last note on this section is that there are increasing amounts of typos. If this is a publication draft you may want a friend, who's read it before, to just sit down and proof read. The story is definitely picking up in a good way, though.