Carritos, the Assassin_A Temporal Story by Clay Boutwell

Author:Clay Boutwell [Boutwell, Clay]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: www.ClayBoutwell.com
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

5

The Bum

So that’s it, Jackson thought. This is how I become the bad guy. Well, the really bad guy.

He pulled out the photo once more, studying the man’s features. Satisfied he wouldn’t kill the wrong guy, he tucked the photo back safely inside his jacket pocket. He shook his head. Mother would not approve.

Here he was some twenty-two miles northeast of Manhattan in Harrison, New York. He had come this far for one purpose: to become an assassin. No, Mother would most certainly disapprove. He kept walking. Harrison, he thought and stopped walking. Maria’s school is just south of here. Somehow he doubted that was a coincidence.

Jackson turned the corner and looked at his watch. Half an hour to kill the guy.

But…I’m not a murderer.

But…if I don’t murder, she’ll die.

Minutes passed. His feet slowed with each heavy step.

How long have I been walking, thinking? He looked at his watch again and was shocked to see his hand shake so. The kid—or old man or whatever it was—was certainly more powerful than he. He shook his head of doubt and looked ahead.

The task was simple. Slip into the man’s office, show him the business card, freeze time, and then just…kill him.

Only one problem. I’m not a murderer.

A different voice inside his head roared.

What difference does it make? A thief steals things; a murderer steals lives. It’s only a matter of degree.

“Spare a dollar?”

Jackson spun to face the voice—not the voice in his head. The other one.

“Excuse me?” He looked down. Huddled on the ground sat a bum holding up a hopeful hand, palm up.

“A little something, sir. For my breakfast.”

“Shoo! Get out of here,” Jackson said and then spat in the bum’s general direction. He had no patience for laziness.

Jackson took three steps and then had a horrifying thought which prevented his feet from taking another step. The blackmailer could change appearances. The bum. What if the bum is…

Turning on his heels, Jackson pulled out a twenty from his wallet, folded it twice, and, keeping a careful distance, tossed it in the bum’s direction. The man’s eyes went huge.

“Thank you, sir! Thank you!”

Twenty dollars buys some insurance.

Jackson turned back toward his objective. Just a few stores down, he saw the address he was looking for: 1025 Holland Street. That’s it. He looked up and read the name above the address: Brannon, Brannon, and Brown.

His target was the Brown part.

The blackmailer said the target was cheating on his wife and had done many bad things. Of course he said that to make this easier.

But add that to the fact he is an ambulance-chasing lawyer and that might just make this possible.

He had even heard of this law firm. He’d seen the billboards. “I sued my mother and Brannon, Brannon, and Brown got me a million dollars!” or something like that.

And now he’ll get his.

It was that voice again.

My thoughts? No, no. I’m not a murderer. Even if he is a trial lawyer. I’m not a murderer.

“Thank you, sir,” said the bum behind him once again.

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