The Most Dangerous

A hitman is forced to confront past and present mistakes. Originally intended as a microfiction of 800 words.

The first time I met Faith Hoskins, her brains were painting the crosswalk at 53^rd Street a sparkling ruby red color, exploding from her head like a firework.  However, something wasn’t right. This was her office, though. 

I’m kneeling over her blood-soaked body. My wool trench coat is black and heavy with weight, and the hem at the bottom is brushing against her slender fingers, lifeless and red. 

Another dry cleaning bill. 

As I watch, Faith’s fingers appear to shrink into the shape of an eight-year-old boy’s. 

Drop it, X. No. I blink, Faith's hands reappear, and I'm okay.  

I reach behind Faith’s head, pulling the bloody orb up so I can see the part in her dark burgundy locks. Sure enough, I clipped her with a .33 caliber shot�"just one. But that’s why I am who I am. 

I scan the ground for the demon that stole the life from her. It’s shining. I pick up the bullet and roll it over in my hand. 

But it’s still not right. 

“She’s the one. She’s the head�"cut her off, and the limbs will follow.” The Firm’s quote was attached to a small picture of Faith Hoskins, 29 years old, 5 foot 6, 139 pounds, dark burgundy hair, southern American accent, fond of makeup. Her office, I was told, was perpendicular to the intersection where Adams Street dead-ended into 53^rd. 

“She works late.” The greatest words a hitman can ever hear. “That’s your assignment, X.” 

Instead of my usual satisfaction, I pull my phone out of my jacket pocket and open it, pressing the number 6. 

“Monitor.” Tersely, I hang up, without waiting for a reply. 

My legs push my body up, and my frame starts to cast a shadow over the young boy below me. His innocent, pale face is coated in rough, black grime from the asphalt. Blond hair spilling onto the pavement behind him, tiny T-shirt printed with some sort of cartoon turtle with a pair of swords and a blue bandana. So tiny, so young�" 

I said STOP, X. Keep focused. 

I start walking, though my footsteps away from Faith are different. I have to play this one up. I’m just a passer-by, one who happened to find a dead body. 

Something’s still not right, though. The Faith Hoskins that I had shot, even from my rooftop view, looked too different. I still pulled the trigger, yeah, because I’m a heartless b*****d. The Firm doesn’t care about collateral damage�"just stay out of sight. 

My fears were confirmed when I looked at this Faith Hoskins. She was precisely 5 foot 7 and one half inches tall, and she weighed about 150 pounds. 

Twenty-nine-year-old women do not grow an inch and a half. 

So my pace is quickened, because there has to be some mistake. And--oh yeah--I’m an innocent man, on his way home from work. 

As I round the corner of 49^th and Michaels, doubt is a bear trap locked around my ankle, bleeding me dry. 

Yes. Faith is dead. 

And before you ask, that one was an accident. He wandered into my scope, chasing a ball, just playing and being childish. Bad timing. I swear. 

After it happened, they had to brainwash it all out of me. The aftermath, that is�"they wanted me to remember that I killed a kid and lived to shoot again another day. 

It was the remorse that was axed from my cranium.  At least, that was the idea. 

I finally get far enough away. Ducking into an alley, I decide to sit, and my legs fold up as I slide down the hard brick wall behind me. 

And that’s when I feel something I’ve never felt before�"cold, hard steel, pushed toward my temple. 

I freeze. 

“Get up. On your feet. Face the wall.” 

Such a delicate voice. Such a smart, pretty voice. She sounds like the type of girl who knows to run up behind you when you are also running, in order to disguise her footsteps. 

As I slowly stood, still unable to see my assassin, I noticed the gun move from my temple as my height outgrew it. When the gun greets my back again, it’s precisely where someone who is 5 foot 6 inches tall would hold a gun, straight out from their waist. 

“God, you’re stupid. I watched you the entire time, and you never knew that I knew. 

“You have failed.” 

And now I see--I’m just wondering why I never saw it before. Sixty-seven percent of the time, there are two targets, one hired simply for their looks.  I know this. 

Then, all I can feel is a searing burn at my back. 

Author's Note

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