Contract

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Synopsis:

Donald ‘The Blade’ Cody, a professional killer, has neglected his contract with The Company. A contract that is unbreakable and now he will be hunted for the rest of his life by the best to fulfill that contract.

The Company picks the best because they need the best, and Jackson ‘The Bear’ Beck is the best hitter they have. He’s brought in to find and eliminate Cody and satisfy the obligation.

Cody has many friends in The Company that owe him favors. He will use those favors to do anything to keep himself alive, even if it means destroying Beck from the inside out…through his family

Beck will travel anywhere to find Cody and complete the contract and protect his family.

Trekking around the world, through many twists, turns, revelations and heartbreak, they will clash in an endgame that only one can walk away from.



Prologue:

 

The silence is what kills you. You know, that point while
you’re lying there on your belly, pronated, breathing, and the only thing that
you hear is…you. In those two seconds it takes to line up the crosshairs on
the center mass, check your wind, hear th ewords “send it” from my spotter,
and pull the trigger.


Yep, those two seconds of silence is more like a week. Control the breathing, control the heart rate,
make sure you don’t have a tickle in your throat, ignore the fact that you’ve
got to pee and have needed to for the last three hours, then…squeeze that
trigger. There are times I miss having that spotter,
though.

When you hear that sharp crack, see the flash from the
barrel and then, sometimes even the look of surprise on the Target’s face, then
they collapse like a wet dishrag, it quickly brings you back to reality. It’s
time to move after the shot. Have to get your gear, and yourself, out of there,
but not too quickly. Too much movement will give away your position. Not enough
will get you caught only a few yards from where you started.

Methodical movement with purpose my instructor called it. How
would the enemy take it if a bunch of weeds just jumped up and took off
running? Not well it seems. They like to put as many bullet holes in those
“running weeds” as they can.

But the days of the Target shooting back are over for the
most part. When I joined and became a
Marine, I took a battery of tests that showed that I had a high aptitude for
retaining information, great eyesight, excellent hearing and something in my
psyche that would allow me to…not care
about the things I had done.

Something that would make me not regret anybody that I maimed or killed. I was then taken aside,
trained differently after boot camp and loaned out to any number of agencies
that may need some clandestine mission completed. I was trained to shoot,
long-range, short-range and with anything from a sling-shot to a .50 caliber
rifle. I was trained in close quarters combat, hand-to-hand, or knife or ink
pen or shoe string, it didn’t matter if it has an edge or a point I can use
it to cut or stab. My fists, elbows, feet, knees,
and shins were beaten and abused so much they became like iron. I was taught to
use poisons, gases, and liquids, all to
my advantage. Chemistry was a huge part of the training. Psychological warfare
was always fun too, but that’s not
something I get to do much anymore. I never was one for the torture, though, I was trained in it, yes, but the screaming was unbearable, I
just wanted them to be quiet and would finish them before I got the information
I needed.

Now, I get the phone call or text message on a secure
phone, kiss the wife and kids goodbye for the night and drive to meet my
Handler wherever he has been instructed to fly out of from. It works out so
well- I don’t miss work, nobody ever suspects what I do, and if there is some type of trouble,
there’s a trained team of men to come get me and lay waste to the “other guys.” They aren’t precision marksmen or precision killers. They take care
of the bulk stuff, but only, and it’s a
rare only if needed.No, they’re not always bad guys that I kill, just the
person that has a contract on them.

And no, I’m not a sadist. I’m not some serial killer either. Sadists’ kill
indiscriminately and serials kill because mommy didn’t change their diapers
often enough. I do it for the money and because I’m damn good at it. I have no
emotional attachment to the “Targs” and I
don’t take away any keepsakes from the mission. That’s what gets them caught.
That’s stupid.

The way it works is this: somebody gets a call “Hey, I
need this guy gone from my life” or
something like that. Enough money is placed on the table then the plan goes
into effect. The Targ is placed under surveillance for a few days by a crew of
three to five men until a pattern can be distinguished and that’s when my
Handler gets a call. He calls me and we meet and fly out to where I’m to
perform my duties.

Sometimes it’s supposed to be messy so it looks like a
crime scene, sometimes it’s a hunting accident, sometimes it’s supposed to be
an animal attack (harder to pull off than you’d think too), natural causes
where I’d use poisons or medications that are extremely hard to trace. Then, I
pack up, come home and go about my day as I normally would. I never take down a
Targ in my hometown, I never go to the same place twice in a month. Those are a
partial list of the way this works and believe me, it’s a long list of rules.

In my everyday life, I’m a computer repair specialist for a university. Yeah, I’m the IT guy, the
computer geek, the one that you don’t know is an IT guy till your computer
crashes, then I’m your hero for a few minutes. Otherwise,
I just blend into the background. While I was in the Marines, I learned to shoot, fight and take apart computers from inside the
programming.

I have a wife and two kids. I sleep very well at night
too. I’m not any different from anybody else during the time the public can see
me. When the sun goes down, I pack up and head out if the call comes. And the
calls do come in.

Usually about two or three a week; I’ll bet you never thought there were that many people
that died that often by another person’s hand, much less the same persons hand.
I’m paid very well for my services. There may be a hundred or so of us out
there, were not all active at the same time either. About half at a time. I
have gone as long as three months without killing anybody.

I can take it or leave it. I’m contracted to do this for
ten years. If I do it longer I get more money, there’s not a shorter time
period. I have been trained by the best, military and CIA. I do my part in
training others too. After ten years we can “retire” and take our money and
walk away, some stay and double the money. We can recognize each other by our
signet rings with a distinguishing color and symbol on them. I’ve met a few
retirees.

There are dire consequences to messing up too. One and
you’re told not to do it again. Two and you’re reprimanded. Three and you’re
made an example of. I’ve been at this for eight years and have seen two
examples be made. Messy business that; always comes from internally too. We
have to kill one of our own. Of course, the families never know that it was us
and they are always well compensated. The Company isn’t as cold hearted at they
may sound. Sometimes it’s even quick and painless.

Our Handlers range from doctors to lawyers to businessmen. They take excellent care of us and
deserve whatever they get as compensation too. My name is Jackson by the way.
Jackson Beck. Friends (the few I let in) call me Jack. I have a nickname like
all killers. I am The Bear. Yeah, that’s
right, Jack “The Bear” Beck. Don’t make fun, I’m two-hundred-fifty pounds of
scary sonofabitch…when I want to be. The times that make me want to be are
paid for, though.


CHAPTER 1 : 

 

 
The day he decided that he would cross the bank and steal money from an account was the first day of the last of his life. The account was on hold for a teenager that wasn’t old enough to get it. A trust that was set up by his grandfather many years ago. All he needed was a measly million for a small time and he could put it back. That is if he hadn’t had the market fall out after he invested it. Then, two more million to keep him afloat. It might have worked too, if the kid hadn’t turned twenty-one before he could get it back in the account.
Getting fired and threatened with prison wasn’t enough. He still had a little over a hundred grand that he hadn’t blown on some “next big thing.” He could go to Mexico and live like a
king for the rest of his life. Hell, he was only thirty-two, if he lived to be seventy he would still have money the day he died.
And those were the thoughts he laughed about while he packed his bags. Then he heard the creaky floorboard in the kitchen. That sound shouldn’t have happened. He didn’t have a dog or acat. He reached around his bedroom door and grabbed the aluminum softball bat he’d used every spring when he played ball with the banks team.
He starts down the hall slowly. Checking around every corner. Poking his head around the door frame of the kitchen he readied the bat for a strong swing and stepped in…to
find nothing. The room was lit by the quad lights from the ceiling fan and was completely empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, he rested the bat on his shoulder. Went to the fridge and pulled out a cold beer,twisted the lid, took a long draw off of it, then started back down the hall to the bedroom to finish packing.
As he pulled the zipper shut, he spun and grabbed for his beer that he’d set on the dresser. It wasn’t there. The sweat ring a cold bottle that’s sat too long was there, but no bottle.Sitting on the edge of the bed and looking around the room wondering where he’d placed the bottle he kept thinking that he knew he’d left that bottle on the dresser. Oh well, he thought, it’s almost empty anyway, I’ll just go get another one on my way to the cab.As he pulled the bag off the bed and started through the doorway, he got a creepy feeling that somebody was watching him. He stopped in his tracks, looked down the hall, nothing. He shrugged and started down the hall stopping in the living room to deposit the bag. Grabbed his blazer, checked the inner pocket for the one-way ticket to Mexico, there it is; touching it he knows this is his literal ticket to freedom.Two steps later he was staring at a large person with no face. So close he could feel the breath coming from the nostrils of the unknown “person” all over his face.

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Author

James Purkey

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