It was probably the coldest night that the city had experienced all winter and the winter that had hit the city was the hardest winter on record in over ten years. Sure, snow came in and the city's fleet of snow plows and deicing trucks would rev up their engines and be seen going down streets like they were on parade. That was nothing new. This winter brought with it a biting cold that made you freeze up the moment you walked out side regardless of what clothing you may be wearing. A wind hadn't let up in a month and it carried with it invisible, frozen daggers that dug into your eyes if you looked at the wind with them fully open. It was no longer uncommon to open the news paper and see a series of John and Jane Doe's, along with a series of luckily identified dead homeless people who had given into Jack Frost's cold, welcoming embrace. Half of them were found without clothing on. Everyone was miserable and desired the sun to creep through the perpetual, two month long cloud cover that loomed overhead day and night. At least the bugs on a log helped alleviate things a little.
Bugs on a log. Celery, peanut butter and raisins. It had always been my favorite snack food since I was a child. Of course it could have just been because it was an excuse to eat peanut butter. I ran my lip over my teeth and gums, clearing crevices of the tasty, stringy goo. It gave me something to do while I froze my ass off in the front seat of my car, shivering and watching my breath. The coffee was also helping keep me warm, but the thermos was three-quarters empty and getting cooler by the moment.
As I reached over to the passenger seat and plucked another stick of celery with the raisin covered brown paste filling it's bowl, I realized just how much of a fool I was to agree to taking on this job watching a brownstone. The problem with stakeouts is that you had to be patient and you had to ensure that you could occupy your mind with things so you wouldn't get bored. If you had a partner with you, one of you could read while the other watched or you would have a nice quiet conversation to pass the time. Tonight I did not get that exception to my normal solo-steakout rule. Instead I normally passed the time watching movies in my head; I'd pick one that I had seen enough to have memorized practically every scene, every facial tick, every line of dialogue, voice and vocal inflection. The cold was getting in the way. Instead of picturing the explosion, or the conversation in the diner, all I could think of was how goddam cold it was. My patience was wearing thin. Unfortunately the money was too good.
The job was simple. Watch a brownstone and wait until a man with a jagged scar running across his forehead to show up and go inside. Follow him in, pick the lock, and begin an audio surveillance of the room that he was in; bonus points if I could use a fiber-optic camera to get some good pictures from underneath the door frame. I knew the room that this man was supposed to be going to so that made catching up to him the easy part. Dying from hypothermia on the other hand was something I was more concerned with at the time.
The street was completely empty. Snow was coming down and I had to periodically get out of my car to wipe of the windshield. I cursed myself every time because that was not conducive to good surveillance. While not having a choice in the matter I would always open the door slowly and carefully and make sure that the windows with lights on didn't have silhouettes in them, and the ones that didn't weren't moving. A couple quick scrapes and flicks of my hand, just enough to clear the glass for enough visibility to see the entrance of the brownstone, and I would bounce back into the car. After about the fifth time I was really starting to lose my patience, which is something that is unheard of for me.
It was about a quarter to midnight when the target finally came into view. The scar on his head was more prominent than the grungy, blurry photo that the contractor had sent me; I took the manilla envelope from the underneath the defunct telephone booth that the initial instructions directed me to on the second phone call. It was jagged and ran across the forehead. He had a tight, dark mustache which turned down either side of his face and came up the sides of his cheeks in a thin goatee, though he kept his chin clean shaven. His cheeks and jawbones looked as though they were chiseled from the cold wind that was blowing outside the car. He wore a long dark coat; wool from nearest as I could tell given the distance and quick accumulation of more snow on the windshield. His left, gloved hand, held a briefcase and his right hand was in his pocket. He started up the brownstone steps and disappeared from site.
I counted to five before getting out of my car. I quickly pulled out my small bag that I carry on stakeouts and carefully hurried over to the steps. Normally I would have been faster; the ground was slick with ice and snow. My shoes, despite their good traction slipped here and there as made my way down the sidewalk. The steps were equally as treacherous. How my target managed to walk up the steps without showing so much as a sign of concern or frustration was beyond me. I almost fell on my face on the third step. After regaining my balance and gripping to the hand rail tighter than the icy cold that gripped the air, I made my way up the steps.
A quick study of the lock showed that it was a simple design in nature; it probably was as old as the brownstone's facade. Before I pulled out my picks I gave the handle a quick test and found that while it wasn't unlocked, the door gave way with ease; either the door doesn't close well or my target wasn't expecting anyone to follow him. Either way, I didn't take time to inspect the architecture; I was just glad to finally be out of the cold. In fact, my body welcomed the transitioned that I had to fight to keep it from shaking in joy at the sudden transition in temperature; it was all I could do to just keep my teeth from chattering as I made my way quickly and quietly up the stairs.
My destination was the third floor. I figured I'd take it a bit slowly on the second floor so that my target would get comfortable in his room. I figured it was probably just some important figure having a discrete rendezvous with a prostitute or high class call girl. It wouldn't be the first time that I captured some politician on film in flagrante delicto with someone who wasn't their husband or wife. Those were usually the easy jobs that I took for a quick paycheck. The more difficult jobs were the reason why I never went on the job without carrying a handgun. I could feel it pressing up against the middle of my back.
I made it to the room where the target would be in and set up shop in the apartment next door that was guaranteed by my contractor to be completely open and vacant. I should have known things would start going from cold to worse when, upon opening the apartment door, I found that it was perfectly furnished. Someone did live here. I guess by vacant, my contractor meant that no one would be there for the evening. Hopefully that would be all evening as it wouldn't be good for my otherwise spotless reputation to have the rightful occupants of this place walk in on a perfectly illegal surveillance job. Based on the very complete information that I had been given when I took the contract, I suspected that I would have the entire apartment to myself for the entire evening. I could probably have had a dip into the very fine selection of scotch that the residents of this place kept in the bar that I passed. With the feeling that I felt in my gut, I almost did take the residents up on their unspoken offer. The only thing that kept me from it was my standards of never leaving anything that could be considered a trace during a surveillance job.
I moved into the bedroom. I shined my flashlight only enough to capture the layout of the room in my head and then proceeded to work in the dark. My first move was to close the drapes. Afterward I opened my kit and pulled out a small, high frequency, directional microphone and started feeding it into the vent. According to the plans that were given to me, the vent shared the wall in the next room. The contractor was very thorough in the information. I couldn't help but think why they just didn't do this themselves.
I knew it was in position when I heard the voices coming in clear on the other end of the vent.
“Your friend told me that I could find you here. I must admit, I was expecting something a little bit more of a fight,” a very deep, foreign voice said.
The sound of the voice made me pause. I've heard that tone before. The last time I heard it was when I was looking down the barrel of a gun. The only way I got out of that situation was the police storming the room and apprehending the gunman.
I worked quickly. I had a very small and quiet drill. I didn't have time to feed a fiber-optic camera under the door. I'd have to bore through the wall. It would be a small hole. I doubt anyone would notice, or at least anyone on this side of the drywall. The other side would be more tricky. I had a small little canister of spackle which looked to be close match to the color of the wall that I briefly saw upon flashing my light on the room. I just hoped that the resident of the place next door opted to not paint the walls like these people did.
The drill worked quickly; I felt it give when I broke the first layer of drywall. The second layer was going to be the trick. I just hoped that the people in the other room wouldn't hear the drill.
“So, I'm only going to ask this once. Where did your contact tell you to meet you? Was it here?” the voice said.
I couldn't hear the other persons response. It seemed muffled. Somehow I could picture my target talking to someone who was gagged and tied to a chair. Working fast, I barely felt the give as the drill punctured the second layer of drywall. I fed the camera into the hole and saw the room on the other side.
It was a sparse room. I could only make out a bed and a body moving around the room. Sometimes the figure was just feet moving around, other times as he moved, I saw him from mid chest down. It was definitely the target that I saw walk into the building. He never took off his coat, and the gloves were unmistakable; even from the distance that I initially saw them from the windshield.
“So, it is here?” the voice asked.
I could see the figure holding up something and then putting on the nightstand next to the bed. For being so professional and scary looking, the individual appeared to be sloppy. I never would have put whatever it was back on the nightstand. That was something I knew I would want look at. Whoever he was talking to wasn't in the picture, but my suspicions were confirmed when I saw the figure pulled out a silenced pistol. It was as quick; there was no dramatic speeches or begging. The pistol fired three times. I could hear the silenced reports over the directional microphone. Anyone else in the opposite room wouldn't have heard anything.
My target holstered his weapon and bent down to police his brass. He took his briefcase and walked out of the room. I pulled the camera and the microphone as soon as I thought he was safely out of the room.
I waited at least ten minutes, during which I applied a small bit of putty to cover up the hole. No one would notice unless they paid very close attention. Picking the lock on the opposite door was as easy as I expected the main entrance to be. I quickly made my way into the room that I was surveying. As I expected, there was a body tied to a chair with a sock duct-tapped into his mouth and three holes into his chest. He was young, probably in his twenties.
I've seen bodies before, but this one seemed to be different. The look on his face seemed as though he knew he was in over his head. He clearly wasn't begging for his life, but the look in his dead eyes seemed to be one as to having been resigned to his fate. I almost felt sorry for the poor bastard even though I didn't know him.
I went over to the nightstand after puttying up the hold on this side. To my joy, the wall was creme white, same as the putty's color. A quick swipe and a few blots with a tissue and it didn't look like anyone had touched the wall at all. On the nightstand, a plane ticket to Munich, Germany. My target was probably already on a phone booking a flight to that location. Where he was going in Munich, I could only guess. I knew that my employer would probably know.
Technically this job was over. I did what I was contracted for. I got the video and the audio recording. While I didn't have a face, the contractor would know that my target was the shooter. Something told me that the contractor was going to be wanting me to pursue the target overseas. Besides, there was something in the victim's eyes that made me curious as to what this case was going to turn to. The funny thing about the whole ordeal that I just witnessed, the only thing that went through my mind before I left the room and reported back to my contractor was whether or not they had peanut butter in Germany. I wanted another bug on a log.
