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The Tempest by JT Ellison The sky is transparent gray, the rain moving up the valley. Lightning dances, long silver white forks hitting the ground, thunderbolts thrown from Zeus’ hand. The lights flicker as I look out the window, watching the wet blanket of verga slip closer and closer. The mountains hover, old men with knowledge to share. The outcropping of rock known to the locals as Indian Head glowers at me. Hummingbirds race the wind, trying to gather one last sip of sugar water before the storm drives them to their invisible nests.
He is coming for me.
You may wonder how I know. It is the palpable sense of heaviness that hangs over my small cabin. The storm will blow in, bringing his acrid breath to the nape of my neck. If I don’t anticipate his coming, he will stand over me. I will be powerless. If it gets that far, if he gets the upper hand, I am done for.
There is a little matter of paperwork.
The contract was sought three months ago. My previous employers weren’t happy with my performance on a singularly gigantic job. I had killed the target, in the exact manner they requested. It was my affair with the man that upset them. I wasn’t sure why they cared. He was dead, the contract fulfilled. One little roll in the hay and they got their panties in a wad. Hired someone to take me out. I was a bit upset by their overreaction.
There were ramifications to every action I took of late. I wish I could go back to the early days, where mistakes were overlooked because I am who I am. No longer. More is expected of me.
I know who they’ve procured for the job, of course I do. It is my business to know these things. He is the best, which is difficult for me to say. It’s hard to admit that you may not be the most elite operative, unsurpassed in your skill, unrivaled at shepherding targets to death’s door. But I’m a realist, and if that’s the truth, I have no reason to hide it from you. It’s not so much that he’s better than me, more a matter of his experience. He is the legend. He is the west wind. He is the assassin no one knows, no one has ever seen.
And he is coming for me.
I’d reinforced the doors and windows, put a stock of weapons at hand in each room, places I would know where to look, but he wouldn’t. I’m not planning to go down without a fight.
Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky. He doesn’t have the element of surprise. My agent quite humanely called ahead, let me know when the paper was produced. He likes me, would rather have me alive and making him commissions than cold and dead in the grave.
The lights dimmed, then extinguished. I strained as I looked outside. The deep sky was illuminated with flashes, secondary increments of clarity, allowing me to see the figure huddled at the base of my ponderosa stand.
He has come for me.
I palmed two weapons and spun away from the window. He would come in through the guest room, two floors below. I’d left the window cracked to make his ingress easier. Four paces to my left was a small alcove, to the right the cavernous space of my office. The top room of the house; cool in the summer, warm in the winter. I’d hate to give the room up. I bought this house specifically because I knew I’d enjoy spending time in the bucolic space, the windows overlooking both the valley and the mountains. I stepped into the shadows of the alcove, knowing the darkness hid me from sight.
I heard the footsteps on the stairs, the third from the top, which creaked a single screech when you try to step to the side. He’s been informed.
Two more steps and he’ll be in my sights. My hand isn’t shaking, the gun is steady, pointed at the man’s heart.
“Honey?”
I fumbled with the weapon. “Robert? Jesus, I almost shot you. What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in Seattle.” I holstered the weapon in the small of my back. Went to him, kissed his neck. He buried his nose in my hair, licked my lips in the briefest kiss. I pulled back to look out the window again.
“Honey, I called three times. You didn’t get my message? Are there any candles? The bloody lights have blown, the storm is here.”
I laughed, my voice rickety, scared at how close I’d come to murdering my very own husband. I was so wrapped up in my imminent demise, I didn’t hear the garage door. I needed to get Robert to safety; the assassin was still out there.
“In my top desk drawer. No, I didn’t get your call. Everything alright with the McGinnis account?”
There was the flick of a match, then the room glowed in an eerie light. Robert, lit by the blunt stub of wax, was holding my 9 mm Glock. It was pointed at my chest. How is this possible?
He has come for me. He is the man I love, the man I thought I knew. Something inside me broke.
“I love you,” he said, and fired.
I didn’t flinch when the bullet entered my chest, pierced my shattered heart. I felt nothing.
THE END JT Ellison © 2006 |
JT
Ellison is a thriller writer based in Nashville, Tennessee. A graduate of
Randolph-Macon Woman's College and The George Washington University, Ellison
had a career in politics before turning to crime fiction full time. Her
short stories have appeared in Demolition Magazine, Flashing in the Gutters,
and Spinetingler Magazine. She blogs at