My name is Michael Heron, and I am a hit-man. Typically I tend to throw away the other names for my trade, but I tend to like this one the most. Contracted killer is too cold blooded it doesn't even give me the ability to seem human. At least with hit-man I am a man. You will have no doubt about that. Before we begin, I need to clear the air with questions I know are seated firmly in your mind. The number of hits I completed is of no concern to you, also on the subject of killing, do I enjoy it? I don't think about it, and that's the why I am the best at what I do. Do not mistake confidence for arrogance; I assure you I have never failed.
The rain just wouldn't stop. It's not that I couldn't sleep with it pounding my window, but I had never seen it rain this long. By my count 4 days, non-stop, and it showed no signs of letting up. The relentless patter against my window halted what I hoped to be a long and restful sleep. Usually I am somewhat restless the night before a kill, that was nothing strange, but the rain tormented me. Just as I thought I was about to slip into the unconscious the crack of thunder wrestled me up. I looked at the clock; 3:30. I turned over into my pillows and buried my face.
A new sound. Amongst the rain, thunder and rustling from my sheets there was a new sound. My eyes open and I twist to look at the clock on the bed stand to the left of my bed. 4:30. The alarm quickly gets a slap and all that remains is the rain. Some sleep is better than none so I move to the window of my room. Stories above New York City I stand watching the stillness below, very uncommon of the stereotype Manhattan is given but it seems that in the moment I looked down there was peace. I wanted to be down there, looking up at myself looking down. Drenched but calm unlike the man looking down at me. I keep my lights off, and move into the bathroom to freshen up a bit. I don't need a full shower but just something to make myself look presentable. Luckily the Tribeca Grand Hotel dry cleaned my suit. My dress represents the quality of my work, and a stain of Château d'Yquem 1997 Sauternes on the pants is no way to present myself, although it would show I have excellent taste in wine. I have to blame my taste in wines from my father, always telling me years to look out for based on the rain patterns that certain countries received. For example, he told me if I ever got my hands on a bottle of 1945 Mouton-Rothschild to buy it and keep it a safe, because I would be in possession of the greatest wine ever created. I am still looking for that wine.
My towel is wrapped very tightly around me as I walk from the bathroom to the suit on the other bed in my room. I had made the reservation for 2, my non-existent wife and I. As I pass my briefcase I pick up the few documents inside. I'm a light traveler; I pack what I need then cut that in half. If I am ever in need of moving quickly I don't need luggage weighing me down, and so I carry a briefcase. Because it is the only thing I take with me I make sure it is good. Nothing shouts class and style than an aluminum briefcase and so I spare no expense when it comes to such. The outside is wood lined with a rich mahogany. But more than anything I care about security. There are 3 code combinations and had it enhanced just a bit more with magnetic strips to give x-ray scanners false impressions of what's inside. My case will always contain 3 things. A gun with a silencer, a complete history and status of the mark and my passport. Well, I should clarify; my 6 passports. It's amazing what information you can get on certain people these days, finding out where my targets live down to what they eat for breakfast makes my life that much easier. What used to take days of probing can now be done in minutes of typing, and anyone in my line of work will tell you, time is of the essence.
I look good in this suit, I'm not usually a fan of pin stripes but these are a faint gray among a sea of blue. I scan the picture of the target over and over again. Making mistakes is not my forte, and I try to keep it that way.
In case of a problem I have already memorized every emergency exit's location, and even improvised a couple of my own in the event something has gone terribly wrong. I've never had to execute a plan that involves me base jumping off of hotel roofs but I like the reassurance it's there. The emergency chute is under the fire hose 1 floor beneath the roof (That wasn't for your sake; it was for mine). I'm reviewed and from what I can see no trace of me has been left behind. With briefcase in hand I close the door behind me.
My mind remains clear, I have one focus. No distractions, no mistakes, it's an easy job paying top dollar for the death of a salesman. It wasn't my concern why even though I knew. If I am too involved with jobs I develop pity, pity blocks my ability to perform my trade and so I stopped caring. Plumbers have their shit, Bakers have their dough and I have my gun. I market death. I market it worldwide. I have linked my personal passion for travel into my job, so I can't complain.
Down 3 floors (in the stairs of course), 2 hallways and I am here, room 1516. I knocked.
"Excuse me Mr. Kneeling?" I knocked again.
"Sir, I'm with Tribeca Grand billing administration, we seem to have some issues with your reservations, if you would please open the -" It opened.
"What the hell-"I didn't give him a chance to finish before I pulled the trigger 3 times. 2 in the chest and 1 in the head. The fall was heavy. Just some high profile business type in New York to close a deal, probably about to head back and meet with his family in-.
"Jeremy, honey, who is it?" I'm don't like collateral but I do what has to be done. I walk into the room and close the door behind me. All I listened to was the rain outside the window.