Contract
by Ronnie Smith
Genre: Thriller
Swearwords: None.
Description: A short short story about a contract execution in Moscow. Topical and based on real events.
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Not a bad photograph this time, the target actually looked like the image Grigori held in his hand.
It was raining, thank God, and it would get heavier. A sharp autumn storm flying across the Moscow plain, clearing the streets of witnesses. He could relax a little, waiting in the doorway as the target waited in his, making a phone call before he went round the corner to his car.
Grigori knew everything. The time, the doorway, where the car was parked, the outcome. The target knew nothing.
Every time he waited, Grigori thought about the system. About how it was an anxious mixture of the very dangerous and the almost totally secure. He knew too much and there could only be one end, one day. At the same time he was protected, he would never be caught, never tried. There would only be death ordered by someone higher up, perhaps even today. He took a few deep breaths and refocused.
The target’s obituary had already been written, already set on the page. Grigori would never have one. He didn’t exist. He’d disappeared a few years ago in service in the Caucasus. The cops would arrest a few demonstrators tomorrow and at the weekend. There would be a dead-end investigation and that would be it. Another one silenced, gone. Grigori already had the money.
The rain was really starting now; cooler, louder and thicker. The sky was black, black as the last day and the streets were as empty as an air raid; perfect cover.
The target was ending his phone call.
Grigori walked quickly across the flooded street, looking only at the car as the target swung his legs under the steering wheel. The gun rested comfortably in Grigori’s hand as he lifted it out of his pocket. In one continuous movement he opened the passenger door and shot the expressionless driver twice in the head. Immediately he shut the door, quietly, the result was certain - no need to look, no need to fill his head with images, no need to worry.
Grigori slipped the gun back into his pocket and lifted the two empty cartridges from the soaked tarmac.
Time for a drink.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A short short story about a contract execution in Moscow. Topical and based on real events.
_____________________________________________________________________
Not a bad photograph this time, the target actually looked like the image Grigori held in his hand.
It was raining, thank God, and it would get heavier. A sharp autumn storm flying across the Moscow plain, clearing the streets of witnesses. He could relax a little, waiting in the doorway as the target waited in his, making a phone call before he went round the corner to his car.
Grigori knew everything. The time, the doorway, where the car was parked, the outcome. The target knew nothing.
Every time he waited, Grigori thought about the system. About how it was an anxious mixture of the very dangerous and the almost totally secure. He knew too much and there could only be one end, one day. At the same time he was protected, he would never be caught, never tried. There would only be death ordered by someone higher up, perhaps even today. He took a few deep breaths and refocused.
The target’s obituary had already been written, already set on the page. Grigori would never have one. He didn’t exist. He’d disappeared a few years ago in service in the Caucasus. The cops would arrest a few demonstrators tomorrow and at the weekend. There would be a dead-end investigation and that would be it. Another one silenced, gone. Grigori already had the money.
The rain was really starting now; cooler, louder and thicker. The sky was black, black as the last day and the streets were as empty as an air raid; perfect cover.
The target was ending his phone call.
Grigori walked quickly across the flooded street, looking only at the car as the target swung his legs under the steering wheel. The gun rested comfortably in Grigori’s hand as he lifted it out of his pocket. In one continuous movement he opened the passenger door and shot the expressionless driver twice in the head. Immediately he shut the door, quietly, the result was certain - no need to look, no need to fill his head with images, no need to worry.
Grigori slipped the gun back into his pocket and lifted the two empty cartridges from the soaked tarmac.
Time for a drink.
About the Author
Born in Glasgow, Ronnie Smith has lived and worked in Romania for the past eight years and is getting back into the writing of fiction after a long break. He publishes in Romania, in English and Romanian, and hopes to be published more in Scotland in the future. He is currently working on a novel set in post-independence Scotland.