The Ties that Bind

I tighten the strings on my hoodie to hide my face as I round the corner. I pick up my step and slide by with my back to the traffic camera until I know I'm out of range. It sounds like I'm crab-walking down the street with a bag over my face, but I've done it so many times it looks normal. No one notices. I keep walking.

All the client gave me was an address and a time-and a dollar figure, of course-written a piece of grimy paper, shoved into my hand with sweaty fingers. The lack of info doesn't bother me. I prefer to have as few details about the mark as possible. Makes it easier to close. Names and faces muddle up into feelings, and feelings run into money. Hard to whack a guy when you know he's got a baby on the way. All I need is where and when and how much. The essentials.

It's embarrassing how easy it is to get into the mark's building. People think an intercom or a doorman makes you safe. They don't count on the kindness of strangers. I dial numbers on the apartment listing until someone believes I left my keys on the coffee table and buzzes me in. Ninth floor, first door on the left. I let myself in the charming wooden door via credit card. God bless the architectural preservation movement.

I've got about fifteen minutes before the mark gets home for lunch, so I toss my tool bag on the futon and make myself comfortable. Working during the day is tricky-no guns, no screams, no loud noises to draw attention-but it's sort of my specialty. That's why this client came to me despite the hefty price tag. Because I don't get close, I don't mind getting close.

It's hard not to snoop, though. The apartment is an overstuffed studio; I can see every piece of this person's life from where I'm sitting.

A guy definitely lives here. You can tell by the smell. Not that it's bad, just that there is one-musty and musky, thrift store clothes sprayed with cheap cologne. There's a brand-new TV and the latest console, but all the furniture is second-hand or made from milk crates. The walls are decorated with unframed posters, the cinderblock bookshelf overflows with paperbacks and DVDs, clothes cover most of the floor, and the coffee table is littered with fast food receipts.

I smirk. It looks exactly like my first apartment. I kinda like this guy.

But I rein that thought in sharp. Too close.

I skim the important details from the environment-the mark's approximate age (early twenties), build (medium), and fitness level (sedentary)-and dump the rest, then run through the plan as I wait.

At the first scrape of a key in the lock, I'm on my feet, tucked into the corner behind the door, hands full. Showtime.

A swift ballet of arms and legs follows. His back is to me when he shuts the door, so cramming the ball gag into his mouth is easy. It's secured and I'm kicking the back of his knees before he can react. He's not very tall, so his fall-cushioned by a nest of t-shirts-barely registers a sound. I grab his hands as he goes down and whip an extra-long zip tie around both wrists, pulling until the skin turns white, then I push him over and do his ankles.