Endings by Linda Richards (portable ebook reader .TXT) 📗

A world where angels die but monsters remain free, the threat of the possibility they represent an ever-present blight on the horizon.

Before I can ponder all of this too much, I get a job. For a little while, this commands all of my attention. In that way, it is a welcome break.

Now that I am established, a routine has emerged. Assignments come in e-mail. I check my account daily through my Tor browser on the DeepNet. The silence is always broken by a text to give me a heads-up to check my mail if they want me to get on something right away. The text is always the same, though the number is always different. I don’t know if there are different phones, possibly burners, on their end. Or maybe it’s different people all the time. Different places. Or the calls might be generated by some program that makes everything random and anonymous. I don’t dwell on it, though. It’s not like it really makes a difference in the outcome or like I’m ever going to find out.

“Hey, sunshine! How’s life treating you?” will come the text.

And my response doesn’t vary much.

“I told you it was over. Stop bugging me or I’ll block you.” Or, “I’ve moved on. Let’s not do this anymore, okay?” Or something else that indicates there will be no further response from my end. And then I go to my e-mail.

Since it comes from the DeepNet, theoretically the e-mail I am sent is untraceable. And it stays on the server; there’s nothing downloaded to my computer. Still, it’s a dangerous business. I don’t take any chances. And neither do they, even though I still don’t know who or where they are. Only that I get my instructions, execute the job—pardon the pun—then report back in when the job is complete. Within twenty-four hours, there is a deposit to my Bitcoin account. I now have more Bitcoins than I know what to do with. Not a lot of the things I desire can be bought. I keep doing the work anyway. At this stage, I wouldn’t even know what else to do.

So I check my e-mail. And there isn’t a message there every day, but there is one today. And it is cryptic. The nature of the beast. But by now I know what it all means.

49.256094 -123.132813 49.283847-123.093670 ASAP. AD.

And then a name.

The first two numbers are the target’s home. The second two are the preferred location for the hit. And they want him taken out as soon as possible—ASAP—and he needs to die by accident. AD. Accidental Death. Not a lot of those come my way.

I plug the second set of coordinates into an app on my phone. It’s an office building in downtown Vancouver, Canada.

I book my travel. Book a place to stay. Then get an early night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be a difficult day no matter how well it goes. Assignments always equal difficult days.

I decide not to take the Bersa. Arrange instead to have another sent to me via a UPS store in the heart of the city. It will come to a name that is not mine, but I’ll be able to pick it up. I pay a lot for this service, via a dark web connection, but I figure it will be worth it for the hassle to get an untraceable Bersa to Canada, where guns are much harder to lay your hands on.

There is nothing that cements me to my house. No man, no kids, not even a cat. Still, when I lock the door to go away even for a few days, there is a little pang that goes with me. Maybe missing something I don’t have. Again. I try not to think about it. As time goes on, I’m getting better at that.

I take my car to long-term parking some distance from the airport. It is prudent to cover my tracks. Then a shuttle the last bit of the journey.

There are no direct flights from my local airport to Vancouver. I have to go through Phoenix, an airport I know well, because it’s a hub. I change into more fashionable clothing. I’m going to a city; my baggy country housedress will stand out there and that won’t do. I brush makeup onto my lashes, my cheeks. Sweep my hair up into something like a chignon. I feel ready for business. I feel nearly human again.

I have a lunch in the airport so good it is ridiculous. Airport food is not supposed to be excellent, but here we are. I savor it. Take my time between flights. Even order a glass of wine. I’m heading to a foreign country. One I’ve never been to before. I’m not certain there will be anything good to eat. Maple syrup and beavers. Possibly cheese. I can’t even imagine what Canadians might eat.

I sleep much of the way to Vancouver. Why not? There is nothing else to do. But once there I have an awakening of the senses. It smells beautiful. Amazing. As soon as the plane is on the ground and we passengers are on an ill-protected walkway to the main terminal, I smell something rough and new. A bit of the mountains. A bit of the sea. My heart quickens with it.

In the terminal, one must deal with customs.

What is the purpose of your visit?

Why, pleasure. Of course. What else? To see this jewel. This well-designed city perched charmingly on the sea.

How long will you be here?

A few days. Perhaps a week. There is so much to enjoy!

Have a great visit!

Oh, yes. Yes. Of course. I shall.

I find Vancouver to be stunning. Beyond my expectations. City of glass. Of ocean. Of apparent racial harmony. It’s a cool place.

I’ve arrived in the evening and it’s raining. The taxi driver grunts at me when I mention the rain, and I’m not sure what language the grunt is in, but it’s indecipherable to me.

It turns out the UPS store is on the way