L. Sellers - The Gauntlet Assassin

His iCom beeped, but Paul didn’t recognize the number. Maybe it was his mother’s lawyer. “Hello?”

“This is Liz Jung, from George Howard Hospital’s business office. I’d like to talk to you about Isabel Turner’s hospital bill. I understand you are her only relative.”

So now the hospital considered him a relative . Paul fumed at the hypocrisy. “She has a sister in Florida.”

“The nursing home says she has dementia and is unable to communicate.”

“What do you want?” This woman seemed to bring out the worst in him.

“We’d like to know how you plan to take care of the invoice. Her insurance company has already been billed, so what’s left is her responsibility.”

“How much is it?”

“The total is $23, 658.” She didn’t even pause.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t pay that. Also, Isabel was my foster mother. We’re not technically related, as her doctor pointed out to me.” Paul hung up, surprised by his assertiveness. It was unlike him. He attributed it to his new self-esteem, and maybe the diet pills too. They made him feel energetic and confident.

His euphoria suddenly vanished. Isabel would not have wanted to leave a debt. She would find it shameful and be disappointed in him. Paul decided he would make small payments to the hospital when he could.

After work when the office had cleared out, Paul opened Robert Morales’ file and his list of replacements, two men and one woman. Paul wondered if the C–Level employees had been under any pressure to be gender-neutral in their lists. He read through the personal information for each replacement and didn’t find anything that made one candidate seem like a better target than the others. Yet the position at the Department of Energy was prime. It not only came with a high-end med card, it also held power. Energy companies vied for the attention and favor of the department inspectors. That’s how Morales had ended up under investigation. Those who could walk the fine line between lobbying and accepting bribes benefitted greatly from working at the DOE.

Paul considered contacting all three replacements. He could present the offer as though it were an auction to see who would pay the most. Maybe he could bring in enough cash to pay for the chin implant and Isabel’s hospital bill.

With their names, personal history, and contact information locked into his memory, Paul turned off his NetCom and headed out. He bought another cheap prepaid iCom from a street vendor and caught a bus.

At home, he warmed a large can of soup, took another MetaboSlim, and sat down at the NetCom. He was too worked up to read and felt eager to start his second mission. He’d become obsessed with getting a chin implant as soon as possible. Having a sex life some day depended on it. Paul composed his thoughts first, then keyed his message into a text file, so he could read it out loud and make modifications.

After ten minutes and several cuts, he’d refined the message to say: I thought you would be interested to know that an important C–Level position may come open soon in the Department of Energy. If you could be guaranteed the job, what would it be worth to you? For the right price, I can arrange it.

Paul grabbed the prepaid device and pulled on a heavy coat. Lilly ran up to him, excited to go out.

“It’s too cold, sweetie. You don’t like the snow, remember?”

She whined when he left and Paul felt guilty. Dark clouds covered the sky and threatened more snow. Eight inches had piled up the night before, but at least it hadn’t frozen over yet. Not wanting to conduct the arrangements from his apartment, he walked a mile to an empty park and sat on a bench. He was fairly certain law enforcement could track approximate locations of where messages were sent from, so he shivered in the cold wind to be safe.

He keyed in the number for his first target, James Olbert, and spoke his message. Paul said, “Send text,” then did the same for the next two: Karina Simmons and Marus Dalks.

On the walk home, his iCom beeped and Paul was surprised to see Karina Simmons had responded to him already. He hadn’t expected to hear from her at all. He tapped open the message: I’m interested. Can you give me a guideline for how much money you want? How can you guarantee the position?

Snow started falling so Paul hurried indoors to a nearby cafe and found a booth in the corner. “Green tea, if you have it,” he said to the waitress.

The cafe was crowded and noisy, so Paul keyed in his response: Thebidding starts at $20,000. But I’m not telling you my secrets. You have to trust me. He wanted to brag that he’d successfully completed such a mission before, but he resisted the urge.

Karina came right back to him: What’s the position?

Paul keyed: deputy inspector general.

She was silent after that. Paul imagined her surfing the net to learn more about the position. Maybe she’d find out Robert Morales was under investigation. Then she might think she could save her money and just wait for him to be fired. Damn . Had he blown it? Was Morales the wrong pick?

The waitress brought his tea and he sipped it slowly, reading a new thriller on his Dock and waiting. Finally, Karina got back to him: Morales is going down anyway. Am I on his replacement list?

She knew about the database! Paul’s mind whirled with possible scenarios. If he told her she was on the list, then she would know she had a one in three chance anyway and might not pay for a vague guarantee. If he told her she wasn’t on the list but that he could get her an interview, would that give her more motivation to pay?

He finally keyed in: I can guarantee the job. Make me an offer.

She came back with: I’ll think about it.

Paul hurried out of the coffee shop and started for home. He still had to complete a workout and finish sorting through Isabel’s folders. She was the last of the generation who still kept paper copies of everything, and he was trying to wrap up her affairs. He held a tiny hope that he would come across some stock certificates or something of value. He’d felt guilty the first time he’d thought it, then forgave himself. Her cremation had been expensive and he’d paid for it himself, because Isabel had died with only $758 in a checking account.

Paul did an hour with his virtual exerciser, showered, and sat down with a stack of Isabel’s file folders. He fed most of the paper into a shredder as he went along. He was engrossed in his task when his iCom beeped at 8:46. He recognized James Olbert’s number and quickly tapped open the text: If you’re soliciting a bribe, it’s illegal and I plan to report you.

Paul’s heart missed a beat. He dropped the iCom as though it had burned him and jumped from his reading chair. Could they track Olbert’s message to his apartment? Paul shoved the device in his pants pocket, grabbed a coat, and hurried out with only a few comforting words to Lilly. He had to throw away the iCom and abandon the mission. The thought of being investigated filled him with dread. Sweat seeped out of his pores under his heavy winter clothes.

In the hallway, Mrs. Olson stepped out of her apartment. “Hi Paul. Are you going out for a walk?”

“I’m running an errand and I’m late.” He spun away and made a dash for the stairs. He hadn’t meant to be rude, but his brain was scrambling with worst-case scenarios and he couldn’t focus on anything else. What if they could track the message to his apartment? Why had he opened it there? He’d been careful the first time to send and receive the texts in public places. Would it even matter where the device ended up now? Had he already blown it?