enjoy c:
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The radio went grainy as I entered the Lincoln tunnel. There was always something nice about driving alone through an underwater tunnel… it was peaceful to say the least. After pushing the big button on the dashboard that put an end to the fuzzy noise that was the radio, I focused solely on the car ahead of me.
My tranquil moment of nothingness was rudely interrupted by a flashback of the idiot duo’s philosophical conversation. I hit the steering wheel, while trying to violently shake the thought from my mind. I took the next right out of the turnpike, still shaking my head like a lunatic.
Luckily I looked up just in time to see the ass of the car in front of me and not hit it. Well, almost. It was a gentle push, I swear. The red-faced driver escalated the situation by stepping out of his car yelling profanities.
Well, today’s not his lucky day.
Equally red faced (due to the ridiculous heat, mind you), I too stepped out my car. I slammed the door and placed my hands on my hips. Don’t get me wrong, I’d feel mad too if someone gently pushed my car… but I had run out of patience and to be honest, I just wanted to yell at someone. Anyone.
And this bloke just happened to get in my way.
***
Coughing up the water in a fine spray, I leaned forward as my hand slapped the desk.
“So you’re a prostitute?” I gasped.
The cold eyes didn’t flinch. “No.”
Bloody HQ had called me not long after my little, ah, confrontation with the gentleman earlier in the day saying they thought I needed support. I thought they meant psychological counselling so I naturally said yes. And they thought it would be funny to tell me they meant another partner after I drove all the way to the hotel hall in after work traffic. I didn’t want, or need, another Thames.
“Ahem.” I regained my composure with whatever dignity I had left over and picked up the professionalism I had thrown out the window 100 interviews ago. I straightened my back and shuffled the papers on the desk.
“So, what are you?”
“I doubt an assassin is hardly better than a who–“
“Yeah bitch, just skip the snide remarks” Whoops. “I mean, answer the question.”
The cold eyes remained cold. “Chartered Accountant.”
“HA, lame!” God help with my maturity. “I mean, that seems like a legitimate and stable job. Very good.”
She crossed her arms and slid down the chair a fraction.
“Are we done here?” She glanced at the digital clock on the wall. It read 21:00 hours.
“I thought I was the one asking questions here?”
I was joyfully met with another one of her hair-raising death stares. “Nina Henderson. 32. Chartered Accountant. 93 casualties within 10 years of service for an unnamed company. Orphan, no immediate or distant relatives. Proficient with knife, poison, and gun methods. Clean legal record. Official date of death, 21 March 2008. What more do you want?”
“Right,” Eff this. I may not like her attitude, but at least she’s qualified. I nodded towards the door. “Tattoo parlour now. You’re officially hired as of”-I glanced at the calendar- “Friday the 15th of August 2014. I expect to see you sharp at 8 on Monday in front of headquarters. If you get lost, just follow the cheese.”
Her cold, dark eyes turn a fraction lighter, or the moon finally decided to get its ass out from behind a cloud.
***
“Freezing, innit?”
I shivered as the chilling breeze swept over my face, but instead of coiling away I stuck my head further out and faced the breeze. The sensation was refreshing. Deciding I couldn’t be bothered driving through the city with all the drunken Friday night clubbers, I sat waiting for my bus next to an elderly lady.
“Sure is.” I replied. I motioned towards the newspaper she was staring intently at. “Anything interesting?”
She looked up at me briefly before glancing across the street at the group of teenagers yelling on the sidewalk. “Sometimes I think the Police are just as bad as the thugs around these days.”
My eyes drifted towards the article she was reading. It was titled ‘Police Officer Accused of Assault’. “I wouldn’t be surprised, we live in a twisted society” I smiled.
A laugh escaped her lips as wrinkles formed around her electric eyes. You could tell she was one of the prettier ones back in the day. “At least the police don’t kill.”
I watched as a one of the teenagers punched another in the jaw. “Mm.”
YOU ARE READING
Licensed Murder
ActionNew York is hiding something, something silent yet deadly. Iris Row has a license to kill. But alas, this is no scripted James Bond movie, this is reality. And in reality, we make mistakes. The bustling city and its fast-paced people continue with...
