An Assassin’s Holiday

By Dirk Greyson

Brick Colton has been hired to kill Santa Claus—or at least the kindhearted accountant playing Santa for the kids in an orphanage. Brick grew up in an orphanage himself, but that isn’t the only thing bothering him about the contract on Robin Marvington’s life. The details don’t add up, and it’s looking more and more like someone has set Robin up. As Brick investigates, Robin brings some much-needed cheer into his life, the light in Robin’s soul reaching something in Brick’s dark one. But all of that will end if they can’t find the person who wants Robin dead.

I
KILL
people; it’s what I do. It’s all I know, and dammit, I’m very good at my job—and, in turn, my job has been good to me. The last thing on earth that I have is money worries. Unlike the guy who just passed me on the street, stinking of desperation and fear as he heads home to a tiny apartment filled with a wife and kids, wondering how he’s going to make the next rent payment. I could almost see him making calculations in his head to figure out if he’s going to have enough money to make ends meet for one more month.

I never have worries like that. As I said, I’m good at what I do, and I’m paid highly for it. There will be no wondering if my imaginary children will have presents this Christmas, because I could afford any present I wanted without giving it a second thought. Which I don’t, because at this very moment, I’m close.

My target is a block away, and my mind zeroes in on the task at hand. Slowly, I pat the pocket on the inside of my coat, making sure what I need is still there. I don’t feel the cold trying to lick its way through the fabric or up the sleeve of my coat. Minor distractions, like the few flakes of snow that began falling a few minutes ago and are now getting heavier and thicker, barely register in my mind. I know where everyone is around me, and yet I hardly see them. The old man with a cane and tiny dog a few steps behind me and falling farther back. The lady in her thirties rushing past me, arms filled with Christmassy department store bags. As she passes, my senses reach out for any sign of a threat. There is nothing.

After all, I’m the threat. If you cross my path or end up on my list of targets, then hell, for all intents and purposes, I’m the fucking Grim Reaper. And I like it that way. No one messes with me, and I have everything I could possibly desire: a safe place to live, comfort most could only dream of, food, drink, heat in the winter, air-conditioning in the summer, and security. All the things I’d been without for large portions of my life. I have them all now. Every tick box on my proverbial Christmas list has been checked.

“Excuse me,” a man says as he comes out of one of the stores, bumping me with a bag that he then proceeds to drop on the ground.

Without thinking I pick it up and hand it to him.

“Merry Christmas.”

“You too,” I respond with a slight smile that lasts for just a few seconds before the training and goal creep back into my head, and I move on. A few steps later, I surprise myself and turn around to look after him, but the man is gone. I continue down the sidewalk.

My quarry is just ahead. I can see him coming out of his office the same time tonight as he has for the last week. He’s a model of clockwork and predictability. I love guys like that—it makes my job so much easier. Know your target, get into his head, watch him, know his routine, and when the time comes, get in and out fast, cleanly, invisibly. Then disappear into the city with no one the wiser.

He turns right, coming toward me, and for the first time with this guy, I’m surprised. I expected him to go left toward home, like he always did. Not this time.

I’m careful not to make eye contact, focusing on a Christmas tree in the window of one of the buildings ahead of me, every window lit, bright and cheery, even as the wind and snow try their best to dampen that spirit.

“Do you have the time?” I ask just as he passes me.

He gets his phone out of his coat pocket. “Twenty to seven. Crap, I’m going to be late.” The quarry shoves his phone into his pocket, and with a mumbled, “Merry Christmas,” he races down the sidewalk as though he has fire licking the bottoms of his feet.

I grin for a second and wait for him to turn the corner before following. It isn’t like he’s going to remember me, anyway. He’s too wrapped up in whatever has him so frazzled to register that he even talked to me. Just what I needed.

I swear under my breath, a fucking blue streak, when I don’t see him at all. “Fucking hell.” I’m going to have to do this another fucking night. I can do that. It isn’t like I’m near my deadline to complete the contract I hold. But I’d been hoping to have this over and done with.

Then I see him, running like a rabbit across the street, down by the other corner. I pick up my pace, determined not to lose him again. My heart races. You’d think it wouldn’t be a big deal any longer after all the men—and women, for that matter; I don’t discriminate; I’ll kill anyone if the money is right—whose lives have lethally crossed my path. But every time, the excitement builds and I can feel my heart hammering in my chest.

My quarry yanks open the door to a building and rushes inside. Light spills from the huge windows out onto the sidewalk, making patterns on the pavement as well as on the falling snow.

I approach and stop just outside the squares of light. The room is decorated for the holidays with paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. There’s a Christmas tree with child-made decorations clustered toward the bottom. Obviously the kids decorated the tree as well. Little kids, by the looks of it.

“What the hell is this place?” I step back and look up for some sort of sign on the building. There is none.

Just as I figure I might as well go home for the night and finish my contract tomorrow, when my quarry is behaving normally, a bus pulls up in front of the building. The door opens and children stream off, talking, laughing, and squealing with delight as they file inside, their faces wide with smiles. The scruffy, often ill-fitting clothes provide another piece of the puzzle, as does the lettering on the side of the bus:
Saints Mary and Martha Home for Children.

“Shit,” I swear as I watch the last of the kids file past, followed by caregivers and a nun with a kind expression, a black veil flowing from her head down her back.

“Children, let’s all gather around—”

Whatever else she says is cut off as the door closes. The bus pulls away, and once again I’m alone on the sidewalk. I think about going home, but my feet are locked to the concrete. Instantly I’m transported back to a similar Christmastime evening, years ago.

I remember walking into the common room at the home, Greggy holding my hand. He was a veteran, and I was so new to all of it and afraid of everything. As I’m looking inside the building, a little boy sits on the floor in a small pair of jeans and a red shirt that someone probably donated to the home. I remember wearing whatever clothes I was given because that’s all there was, and for a second, I imagine that I’m that child, sitting apart. I know how he feels: alone, maybe a little scared, spending a lot of time wishing things were different.

One of the other boys sits down next to him, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He has a Greggy, just like I did.

“Fucking hell,” I swear, blinking rapidly. I’m on a job, and I’m not supposed to let all this shit get to me any longer. I’m a professional, and my emotions have no place in my work. I really need to get the hell out of here so I can do my job and get paid. That’s what all this is about, after all. Not some trip down a twisting, turning memory lane that’s best left forgotten.

Laughter, cheers, and clapping reach my ears, and I figure I’ll stay where I am for a few more seconds, just to see what’s going to happen next.

Santa Claus arrives, walking out of the back room in a bright red suit, white hair that’s obviously a wig, and a fake beard. I instantly see through the disguise. The kids, however, are delighted, some jumping to their feet, unable to contain their joy. Hell, I know what that feels like, and I flex my hand slightly, instinctively reaching for Greggy’s hand. But of course there’s no one.

There hasn’t been anyone to hold my hand in a very long time.

Santa sits on a chair, and the children gather around. I pull my coat a little closer to me to keep out the chill, but I still can’t move. I tell myself my quarry is in there and I need to watch for him so I can do my job and get the hell home and back to my own life. Santa extends his arms, and the first child races to him, hugs him, and receives a hug in return. Santa doesn’t put the little girl on his lap, and I know it’s because there is no “what do you want for Christmas” talk coming. For kids like these, like I was, no one asks. You get what you’re given and that’s all.

What surprises me is how tactile and warm the Santa seems to be. He spends a few minutes with each child, holding them as though he knows just how badly they need it.

I blink once again. I don’t want to remember how terribly I’d wanted to be hugged and held when my mother and father were no longer around. But I didn’t get that. Obviously, things have changed, because even the nun touches the children as she gently guides them to Santa.

Once he’s talked to each of them, Santa reaches into his bag, rummaging so dramatically that I can’t help smiling. Then his hand emerges with a present and he gives it to the child. I wish I could see the light in their eyes for only a second. But then, I don’t need to, because I can remember the years I’d gotten a gift from the Santa at the home, and I knew what it meant to know that someone hadn’t forgotten me and that there was even just one present out there with my name on it.

Finally this shit is over, and I am about to turn to leave. Let the children have their happy night—Lord knows they deserve it. I’d pick up my quarry in the morning and take care of business then. I take one last look at the scene in front of me and stifle a gasp as Santa lifts his gaze and looks straight at me.

Those eyes, a deep cerulean blue, are unforgettable. I’ve seen them before—I’ve been following their owner for days. They belong to my quarry, and I swallow hard. My quarry, the guy I’m supposed to kill, spends his off time at an orphanage, playing Santa Claus and making sure these children—the ones no one seems to want, kids like I was—have a merry Christmas. Something isn’t fucking right.

I step back, away from the window, and into the shadow and darkness where I belong. I’m not concerned that he’ll recognize me or anything. Hell, I’m not even sure he can actually see me through the window. The room is bright and ablaze with warmth and comfort.

I, on the other hand, am outside in the dark. I never meant for my life to turn out this way, but it became very clear to me from an early age that I belonged in the shadows. That way no one saw me, didn’t bother me or pick on me. Night, shadow, and blackness were my friends and allowed me to exist, providing safety of a sort.

I sigh and decide to take a chance. I take a step forward, walk in front of the windows, and chance a look inside. What I see stops me in my tracks. He, my quarry, the one in the Santa suit, is surrounded by the excited, jumping children, accepting hugs. They’re all holding presents, and as I continue on, they sit and began ripping open the packages. I don’t see what each of them gets, but I’m curious beyond belief. They’ve passed out of sight, and I have to let it all go. It’s too dangerous to walk past again and draw suspicion, so I continue on, debating whether I should lie in wait or simply go home. I opt for the latter and pick up my pace.

The walk home gets more and more miserable with each step. The concentration that kept the cold and wet out of my mind is now gone, and as soon as I don’t have anything more important to worry about, the discomfort roars into my brain. I pull my coat tighter around me, picking up my pace, and try to forget about the warmest, bluest eyes I have ever seen in my life. They stay with me the entire trip, keeping some of the chill at bay.

Once I reach my building, I use my pass key to open the front door and go inside. There are cameras in the lobby area, but I know where all of them are. They catch me coming and going, especially when I want to make sure they do. But they never, ever manage to capture my face. I never allow it, and since I long ago figured out how to use that system to my best advantage, I also know where the records are kept and how to manipulate them when necessity demands. I pass through the lobby and go directly to the elevators, wait for the car, and take it up to the eleventh floor.

My apartment is average-sized for a New York apartment. I could afford larger if I wanted, but there’s no need to draw attention to myself. I like the building, and my place is a fortress, with reinforced doors and even a safe room, and as a further method of escape, there’s a passage behind one of the walls to a hall closet on the floor below.

Inside, I empty my pockets carefully so I don’t harm myself. I don’t like to kill with bullets. It’s too messy and draws way too much attention. Instead, I learn about each of my targets and figure out the exact combination of chemicals I can inject into them. With what I use, it doesn’t take much. I drew my inspiration from the Russians during the Cold War, using a small pellet, injected, and then letting its lethal contents do the work. Of course, I’ve made advancements so the delivery mechanism, once it’s done its job, is simply broken down by the body. I always love that. My targets hide the evidence of my intervention and their demise without knowing it. The drawback is that if I’m not careful, I could end up caught in my own trap.