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Lies, Damn Lies and Statistics (Character Backstory)
Archived Post
Posts: 1,156,071 Arc User
It was always the same five words. God, I hated those words.
The phone rang, twice. I picked it up.
"We have work for you."
I gave the expected answer, "What time?"
The voice at the other end was muffled - digital encryption. "Three o'clock."
Without a word, I hung up. Three o'clock meant I was to meet my handler at Kensington Market, on Spadina. I grabbed my coat and went out the door.
Twenty minutes later I was at the Market. I recognized my handler by the long black coat and carefully chosen black Prada shoes, the soles of which had a letter "C" inscribed into them. The handler was always a different person, but the outfit was always the same.
I walked toward him, without looking. We brushed up against each other, just briefly. To anyone else in the crowd it looked like two strangers bumping into each other in a crowded market. But the exchange had been made. A special made flash drive that hadn't been in my pocket five minutes ago was there now.
I looked at the fruit vendor in front of me, bought an apple and left. It was time to get to work.
At home I removed the drive from my pocket and plugged it into my laptop. The files were encrypted and only my computer had the key to unlock them. Thirty seconds later I was looking at the target. I scanned the screen for his vitals:
IGOR VELISTRY
Former KGB spy. Currently living in Toronto area as permanent Canadian resident. Last known address 99 Harbor Square, unit 912.
Termination order issued at friendly request.
I nodded and read the file over again. I scanned Velistry's face in the six surveillance photos that were part of the file. He wasn't old, maybe fifty. He wasn't a big man - his vitals listed him at five feet, six inches - but he was powerfully built. According to his service record, he was former Spetsnaz. I had dealt with them before and I knew they meant business.
The "friendly request" bit made me wonder. Typically that meant that American authorities wanted a target eliminated but didn't want to risk dealing with the problem themselves. It didn't happen very often. I shrugged, Velistry must have some powerful enemies in the CIA if they wanted him gone. If he really was former KGB it could have been anything from assassination to running secrets to the Chinese.
It didn't really matter. I didn't need to know.
I pulled up a floor plan of Velistry's suite. Ninth floor. Secured access. One doorman.
I grinned in spite of myself and opened my work kit, pulling out my beloved Ruger MK IIs.
This was going to be a cakewalk.
The phone rang, twice. I picked it up.
"We have work for you."
I gave the expected answer, "What time?"
The voice at the other end was muffled - digital encryption. "Three o'clock."
Without a word, I hung up. Three o'clock meant I was to meet my handler at Kensington Market, on Spadina. I grabbed my coat and went out the door.
Twenty minutes later I was at the Market. I recognized my handler by the long black coat and carefully chosen black Prada shoes, the soles of which had a letter "C" inscribed into them. The handler was always a different person, but the outfit was always the same.
I walked toward him, without looking. We brushed up against each other, just briefly. To anyone else in the crowd it looked like two strangers bumping into each other in a crowded market. But the exchange had been made. A special made flash drive that hadn't been in my pocket five minutes ago was there now.
I looked at the fruit vendor in front of me, bought an apple and left. It was time to get to work.
At home I removed the drive from my pocket and plugged it into my laptop. The files were encrypted and only my computer had the key to unlock them. Thirty seconds later I was looking at the target. I scanned the screen for his vitals:
IGOR VELISTRY
Former KGB spy. Currently living in Toronto area as permanent Canadian resident. Last known address 99 Harbor Square, unit 912.
Termination order issued at friendly request.
I nodded and read the file over again. I scanned Velistry's face in the six surveillance photos that were part of the file. He wasn't old, maybe fifty. He wasn't a big man - his vitals listed him at five feet, six inches - but he was powerfully built. According to his service record, he was former Spetsnaz. I had dealt with them before and I knew they meant business.
The "friendly request" bit made me wonder. Typically that meant that American authorities wanted a target eliminated but didn't want to risk dealing with the problem themselves. It didn't happen very often. I shrugged, Velistry must have some powerful enemies in the CIA if they wanted him gone. If he really was former KGB it could have been anything from assassination to running secrets to the Chinese.
It didn't really matter. I didn't need to know.
I pulled up a floor plan of Velistry's suite. Ninth floor. Secured access. One doorman.
I grinned in spite of myself and opened my work kit, pulling out my beloved Ruger MK IIs.
This was going to be a cakewalk.
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Comments
Textbook.
The bullet entered at a forty five degree angle from above, right through the motor cortex and severing the brain stem. He didn't even have a chance to make a sound.
The building had been cake. The doorman hadn't even looked up from his newspaper as I slipped in behind an elderly woman carrying her groceries. The elevator hadn't even had a camera in it and the worn numbers on Velistry's keypad had made getting into his apartment less than a challenge.
There were no bulkheads on the kitchen cupboards and about two feet of clearance between the top of them and the ceiling. More than enough room. I had shimmied in, readied my pistol and waited. I knew Velistry would be home around 6:00. I had gotten there at 5:20. It was a waiting game.
The door had opened, the footsteps were muffled by the heavy carpeting in the entryway. The kitchen light came on. I took the shot.
The file hadn't said anything about a son.
The shot was clean.
Textbook.
The bullet entered at a forty five degree angle from above, right through the motor cortex and severing the brain stem. He didn't even have a chance to make a sound.
He couldn't have been more than 12. Dark hair, stocky. He must have been enrolled at some private school, judging by the uniform.
He fellt to the ground, dead. Because of the angle of the shot, the blood had sprayed onto the white, tile floor. A pool was beginning to form almost immediately.
Velistry rounded the corner into the kitchen.
I still had my gun at the ready, but I hesitated.
He didn't.
Velistry was well trained and the Gsh-18 appeared in his hand almost as if by magic. I was in a bad position, wedged up near the ceiling. No cover.
The muzzle of Velistry's gun flashed twice and I felt the bullets bite into my left leg. It didn't feel so good. But neither did the fact that I had just killed an innocent boy.
Using my right arm, I pushed out against the wall, sliding out from the cupboards and dropping onto Vilestry. His gun spun away into the darkness of the dining room and his head made a loud crack against the floor.
He was stunned, but conscious.
"Markov," he whispered, his left hand reaching toward the dead boy, "Markov."
I raised my pistol. I had a job to do.
to be continued....
It would be five years before I would learn the truth.
Velistry wasn't ex-KGB. Hell, he wasn't even Russian. He was a small time hood - a Canadian born citizen - working with the Russian mafia. Turns out he had stumbled on some embarrassing information involving some higher ups in the American senate and he'd been trying to run an extortion scam. The only thing he hadn't figured on was the lengths the Yanks would go to in order to shut him up.
I didn't pull the trigger that night. I had killed his son. I couldn't kill him.
I disappeared that night. I left my apartment, my bank accounts, everything. I had the skills to blend in where I needed to and I used them. I went to Europe for a few years before I ended up in the US.
My skills are still good. I figured I'd put them to use. The only difference is I'm not taking orders from anyone any more. I decide what to do and who to save and how to do it. I'm not anybody's tool.
Last I heard, Velistry had gone a little nuts. Turns out that's a good thing in the Russian mob. Seems he's heading a huge syndicate out of Toronto and Montreal, and from what I hear they're even looking at extending their operations down to Millennium City.
Am I sorry for what happened? Yeah, of course I am. I didn't sign up for this business to kill kids, intentionally or not. All I know is that I have a particular set of skills and that's how I make my living.
The difference is, I pick the targets now. And I don't ever miss.
Very nice. I foresee the foundation of at least two different Nemeses in this. The pacing kept a good narrative flow in the character's voice with all the short and fragment sentences.