At thirty-five years old, tall, dark, and reasonably handsome, Lenny Watts took pride in his high-powered rifle—the shine, the smell, and the feel of it. Ah yes, the feel of it as he took aim, sighting his target—squeezing the trigger—blowing whoever was unfortunate enough to be in his sites off the face of the earth.
He deeply appreciated that his superior precision with this prized possession qualified him as a hit man, an exceptionally well paying career and an excellent profession for him since he took great satisfaction in his work. Lenny embraced this job because he hated the human race, well half of the human race anyway, men mostly. Therefore, being a hit man served a dual purpose, money and pleasure. He could turn his rifle on any man with ease, any woman, too, for the pay, but he took the greatest pleasure when his target was male, women had their virtues.
He formed his opinion of the human race, men mostly, at a young age. Being raised in one foster home after another since his mother kicked the bucket when he was six, and his no-account dad deserted him, was that given a chance, all humans would screw you over, men by and large.
In his estimation most men were drunks and druggies, wife beaters, and if you're a kid stay out of the way. That his first kill had been the latest foster dad gladdened his heart, even though it had been messy.
It happened in the month of May, a month before his eighteenth birthday, right after graduation. Of course there was no celebration. He graduated with decent grades but no one cared.
At the time he didn't own a gun, but a deep enough slash across the carotid artery did the deed. He had felt nothing as he stood watching the jerk bleed out, well, maybe a little gladness, but mostly nothing.
The murder happened without a plan, a spontaneous reaction to Foster Dad telling him he had to get the hell out next month; no money for support meant no roof over his head, and no food for his belly.
They would receive his last check this month, so he'd have to make it on his own now, like Foster Dad did when he graduated. There was a big 'ha! ha!' Lenny thought, doubting if Foster Dad had ever done anything to earn a penny.
It wasn't necessarily what he said, either, just something about the way he said it, something about having a knife in his hand slicing left over meatloaf for a sandwich, something about him standing too close for comfort. Something snapped.
After setting up the death to look like a botched robbery, he hurried on over to his girl's house to secure an alibi. They could only approximate the time of death. From the moment he slit Foster Dad's throat to the moment he kissed Shelly 'hello', gave him the alibi he needed, close enough.
He took only the most expensive pieces of jewelry, Foster Dad's wallet, the silver, and the five thousand dollars hidden in a locked desk along with a valuable coin collection.
Watching foster kids paid well when you bought their clothes at the Salvation Army and forgot about birthdays and Christmas. He fit it all into a large backpack, and when he left his girl's, house he stashed the backpack in a storage unit he had rented under an assumed name. Someday, he would return and retrieve.
There were four younger foster kids living in this house, that seriously, could not be called a home, but they were at school. Grade school didn't let out for summer vacation 'til the first week of June. Foster Mom was at work. Something Foster Dad didn't do. Someone would find him, one of the kids or his wife. He felt fairly certain that none of them would mourn the death of Foster Dad/abusive hubby.
So he checked himself for blood, ransacked the place a bit, and arrived at Shelly's house feeling calm and confident. She poured a couple of glasses of iced tea, and since her parents weren't home, they sat in her room listening to rock 'n roll on their favorite radio station, eventually having hot, passionate sex--as hot and passionate as any two teenagers could get, which was pretty damn hot and passionate.
He stayed a couple hours at Shelly's house, so he didn't have long to wait in hiding, out of sight, until two cop cars pulled up in front of the two-story home in the suburbs, waited until the wagon came for the body, and then made an appearance, bewildered, not mourning, if he mourned Foster Family would recognize the act.
He pulled it off without a hitch. No fingerprints on the murder weapon. They figured whoever broke in wiped it clean. Robbery, weapon of convenience, and the investigation cleared him.
He walked out, joined the army, got the training and then became a sharp shooter. Once out of the army, he retrieved his stolen goods, enough to set himself up in a decent place.
Having discovered he didn't mind killing people, that he actually enjoyed it, Lenny decided to cash in on what he happened to be so very well equipped both mentally and skillfully to do. He became a hit man for the mob.
Lenny received two contracts. One of them was on Kevin Gilmore, the ten-year-old son of Joseph Gilmore, the prosecutor that has been giving the mob a hard time for years. Half payment for the jobs had already been deposited in his account.
The bosses have had enough, again, and have decided to teach Gilmore a lesson, again.
Killing Joseph Gilmore would have been easy, but killing a ten-year-old boy is not a problem either, because the boy would grow up to be a man. And if the little boy had been a little girl? Not a biggie, a job is a job, that's all. He likes his work, and he is, after all, a professional.
