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THE MARK

Lana Gjovig


“So much for the element of surprise,” Jack muttered as he ejected the cartridge. He chambered another round hoping he had enough time for a second shot before his mark found cover on the quiet street. As he was aiming, Jack noted that the mark didn’t appear to be moving any faster than a brisk walk. This surprised the assassin, as he had hit the mailbox behind the mark. No one could mistake what had just happened; there was a hole the size of a fist punched through the metal can, and the air reverberated with the soft ‘chong’ sound the bullet had made.
Moving the rifle barrel along the victim’s trail, he sighted another shot while trying to ignore the queasy feeling that had struck him. The assassin held his breath and squeezed the trigger, firing another round. It missed as well; a puff of smoke wafted up from behind the mark where the bullet hit the sidewalk.
“What the fuck?” the assassin said under his breath, looking up from his scope. “I had him dead in my...”
His last words drained from him as he saw his target swivel on a heel and look straight at him. Jack dropped behind his cover on the building top, letting the edge of concrete conceal him. It was hard to remain in place for a ten count, but his will remained firm for the short duration. When he reached ten, he popped his head back up for a quick look.
The mark was still looking at him. At least...it seemed it was right at him. The man’s unnerving gaze didn’t stray for a second. “The hell he can...” Jack muttered, ejecting the spent shell and chambering another round. “No way, uh uh. Nope.”
As the assassin watched, the mark raised his hand. The index finger was extended; it pointed dead at him. That was all Jack needed. He dropped behind cover again, and crawled a few feet towards the center of the roof. Grabbing the rifle case, he got to his feet, crouching. He made his way to the fire escape before straightening so that the mark—Michael, his name is Michael—wouldn’t see which direction he fled. Jack jumped down to the fire escape, and raced down the stairs. His car was waiting. He unlocked it, and threw the case in the back. The rifle went on the front seat, and he covered it with his trench coat.
He started the car, then slammed it into reverse. He came out on the other side of the block, away from where the mark had been walking. After wheeling the car around and putting it in drive, Jack forced himself to go slow, despite the urge to put the pedal down. That’d be a stupid way to screw up, getting busted by the cops for speeding. He flipped his lights on, and cruised down the street. The radio was tuned into a metal station. Harsh, heavy lyrics erupted from the speakers, “...running....and when I find you, find you ....” Jack snapped it off with a savage jerk, bathing the car in silence.
“Easy,” he mumbled. “Keep ‘er easy. Nice and narrow, straight as an arrow.” He laughed to himself at the nonsense rhyme. His trembling hands had difficulty keeping the wheel straight. The incident had disturbed him more than he thought; he never got the shakes. Ever.
It wasn’t just that the mark didn’t run for cover at the first shot. There was something else wrong. The second shot; it should have hit him. Nah, I just missed, that’s all. But why was his mind coming back to it, again and again? It was a constant loop in his mental theatre.
Jack turned the car around the corner, and drove down the rest of the block to the red light. He stopped, drumming his fingers on the wheel of the sedan. As the red light stretched on and on, he grew more anxious. Did he see my face? Jack thought. Would he be able to pick me out of a line up? Man, I should have never taken this job from Vinnie...
Vinnie—Vincent Torelli to give his full name—was an agent of sorts for the local ‘family’. Jack had taken jobs from him before; the pay was excellent, but the risks were high. He’d only come back to Vinnie because he blew the last chunk of change he had at the tracks. So, it was time to be working again.This job had come up suddenly, Vinnie said, and needed Jack’s professional touch. The mark, a guy by the name of Michael Rechts, was some sort of high business, low profile dude. A big shot wanted him dead and soon. The price? A cool half million. With money like that, Jack could lay low for a while. He could take a vacation, in case there was any backlash that Vinnie didn’t tell him about. No small fry shelled out a five hundred G’s for a hit; this was big time business.
Given that it was such a huge step up, Jack expected bodyguards, security systems, and all sorts of trouble locating his mark. That wasn’t the case, and thinking on it now made his unease grow. It was too easy to find him. He’d asked around, dropped a few bribes, and got a favorite restaurant in almost no time at all. He’d scouted the place out, and found a great spot across the street to get a perfect shot. It was a fair bit risky of course, to sit in one place day after day waiting for the mark to show, chancing that the locals might notice his presence...but it wasn’t risky enough. It wasn’t equal to the pay.
As Jack was musing, the light turned green. He pulled ahead slowly, looking around at the dead streets, waiting for the first siren to show. This was a good part of town, and the call-time of the cops was short; another risk, yet not enough to set his mind at ease. “Man,” he muttered to himself as he passed by block after block, “where are the fuckin’ cops?” Their no-show was grating on his nerves.
Another red light loomed ahead, and he pulled the car up to the line. As it idled there, he glanced around. Nothing. The streets were empty. It was a rude slap on the face, startling him: it was only midnight and the streets were empty. That wasn’t possible in LA, not when he could count on both hands the number of bars and restaurants within his line of sight. People should be moving around, bar-hopping, or going to their cars. Something. But the streets were dead quiet; not a soul moved around him.
Risking being pulled over by the police, Jack went through the red light and sped up. He just wanted out of this area, this city, this dead zone. He had never felt so alone before; he hadn’t realized how much he relied on people until they were gone...and he didn’t even like people. He killed them; they were just a fat paycheck to him. Well, with the exception of that first one...
...his hands squeezed her throat tighter and tighter; her face was turning an alarming dark color, but this only served to further his excitement. He was about to let her go just moments prior, if she’d only kept her big mouth shut. He hated that about Felicia; she’d never be quiet, even when it was in her best interest to do so. The boy thought back to all the times when she’d berate him for being late to pick her up, for the way he dressed, for not remembering their six month anniversary...for all those and a thousand different things. She’d broken it off with him last week, but he had to see her one last time, to know why. She said she just didn’t love him anymore, and he could accept that. He had reached forward, and was turning the key in the ignition when she added in that snide voice of hers, “Besides, Billy Larson has a bigger dick than you.” At that, he’d stopped and looked at her. Something in his face must have given away his intent as her smirk faded, then fled her face to be completely replaced with fear. She fumbled the door open, and raced out into the night, but he’d caught her easily enough, beating her first, then wrapping his hands around her slender neck. It wasn’t that he’d planned to kill her, but he had come prepared. Her grave was dug, the sod on top set aside under a plastic tarp, and they were out in the wilderness that surrounded their Illinois town. He was sure that no one saw her get into his car, and even if they did, it was perfectly normal enough; they said they’d still be friends, after all. No one would ever find her body. He’d dug the grave deep and true; no wild animals would dig her up. He squeezed tighter and tighter as her hands beat at his face ineffectually. Surprising to him, he had a boner; he could feel it throb in his jeans. Finally, it was done, and the bitch would talk no more. He held her throat for another couple minutes—just to make sure—then he lifted her up, and carried her to the grave he’d oh so carefully prepared...
...and Jack blinked awake from the vivid daydream. He found himself parked on the side of the street; he didn’t recognize the neighborhood. What made me think of that? Jack shrugged, trying to cast off the last remnants of the dream, and bent to start the car. That was when he spotted him: Michael. The mark was standing in front of the car, as if Jack had rolled it to a stop just before hitting him.
“What the fuck...?” he asked, not believing it, though he saw the mark standing nice as you please with his own two eyes.
As Jack stared at him, Michael smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile this one, oh no. It was cold, and calculating. It was the smile Jack himself had probably given some of his victims over the years. One that said I’m going to enjoy this. Jack fumbled for the door, his heart beating at a frantic pace. The mark didn’t move a muscle. He just stood there and smiled, eyes gleaming with a preternatural glow in the moonlight.
The assassin flung open the car door, and heaved himself out. Everything seemed unreal to him, except his fear. And Michael, of course. Michael was real, utterly real...and crazy. Jack saw that now. He was sent after a crazy man, a sociopath maybe. Like Bundy or Gein. Except did Michael enjoy killing women?
Oh, no, no, my friends. No, Michael enjoyed killing men. Maybe he fucks them...after, Jack thought as his mind raced, caught in the light of Michael’s eyes like a deer in the headlights of a car. Sure, I bet he does. Turns them over when they’re still warm and fucks ‘em. Wasn’t there a joke about that, somewhere? Wasn’t there a....
...feeling that you’d get, Jack mused to himself, knowing which women liked it rough, and which didn’t. Most of them didn’t, of course. That was to be expected. But some did, and he looked for those, seeking them out with a sixth sense only he possessed. Most whores didn’t like it rough-and-tumble; they were paid professionals. Jack could respect and understand that; getting the crap beat out of them while they fucked was bad for business. No, most of them who liked it rough were the quiet ones. They were the ones who read books about bondage, who looked up pictures of women being abused on the ‘net, and fingered themselves to it, too afraid to go out and find a real man. That was ok too; Jack would find them. Just as he’d found Felicia so many years ago. Normally, he’d find them in their homes, late at night, reading some sort of romance novel, the kinds where the heroine might act strong, but would crumple like a tissue in the masculine hero’s arms. Sometimes, he’d find them on the streets, and end up pulling them into an alley for a quickie. His latest one was in the trunk of his car, tied up and gagged with duct tape. He would take her home, to his basement, and help her play out her fantasies. Oh, yes he would. It’d start slow, and build up. He’d never let her see his face, of course, just on the off chance his sense was wrong. It wasn’t so far. He was hard just thinking about what he’d do to her. It was the vulnerability in her eyes, he thought. He never got this hard unless he was whacking someone. Oh, this one will be fun, he thought...
...screaming his head off, running down the street. Just as she had run. She and so many others, boiling up to the top of his mind, like corpses clawing their way out of stinking, putrid graves. He could taste bile in the back of his throat. What am I doing? His panic-ridden mind allowed for no other questions; he was jumping over a chain link fence, then racing down an alley as that thought came to him. It clanged in his head, thrumming in time to his heart. What am I doing? What am I doing? What in the fuck am I doing? He hit a trash can with his knee, knocking it over as he risked a glance behind him. At the mouth of the alley, he was there. The mark. Looking at him with those awful, knowing eyes.
Another scream ripped itself from his throat, and he redoubled his efforts. A stitch was growing in his side painfully. The alley zigged. He followed it, skidding around the corner. It was a dead end. Can’t be...can’t “...be happening...” he said. The assassin turned, and there was the mark. Jack backed up, terror gripping him ever tighter. He pulled a 9 mm pistol from his shoulder holster as his back hit the wall of the alley. He pointed it at the mark; his hands were shaking. It was all he could do to hold onto the gun.
The mark’s eyes were still glowing, even though the moon had slipped behind a cloud. With every step, he grew larger and larger in Jack’s sight, until he was the assassin’s whole world. It was unreal...and if insanity had come at this point, Jack would have welcomed it. He remained fully cognizant. The madness that he yearned for so that he could make sense of this unreality stayed stubbornly out of reach. Through this horrible ordeal, he was scared—almost to the point of pissing himself—and his mind was caught in a mental loop, struggling to free itself from a deadly trap...and he was sane. Utterly, completely, coldly sane.
“Shoot!” Jack screamed. “I’ll shoot! Kill you! Don’t! Don’t...! Don’t...”
”...come any closer,” she said, words and hands trembling in fear. “I’ll cut you, I really will. Just...just let me go, and I won’t say anything....” Jack smiled from behind his leather mask. This one was picked up off the streets. It was his latest impulse, and one that was very bad: picking up runaways in broad daylight. He couldn’t let them go, of course, because they’d seen his face, his normal looking, almost-handsome, concerned face. If they didn’t get in, that was fine; there’d be another. This one was a little spitfire, though, and he was almost sorry to have to kill her. But she’d seen his face. She was trying to act tough, even though she was crying already. He’d barely touched her so far. A few smacks and that was it. Just to...warm her up. Nothing compared to what was next. He came in quickly, startling her into a cry of outrage. Without any real effort, he wrested the knife from her, and tossed it aside. She wept, a torrent of tears cascading down her face that looked so much like Felicia’s...he bent to kiss that face and...
...cringed away. He was still holding his gun, but it was pressed up against his temple now. He jerked it away with a loud cry, tears welling in his eyes. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, the words forced from him, “I didn’t mean it... I didn’t mean any of it! I couldn’t help myself, I couldn’t stop, I...I...” His breath hitched and he hiccuped noisily, then shouted, “Icouldn’tstopmyselftheyneededtodiebecausetheywerealllikeherandtheyw-wuh-wanteditIknowtheydid!”
The mark started to walk towards him, as quiet as a cat.
Jack raised the gun, trying to see through his tears. The mark was twenty feet away, then ten, then he was right before Jack, standing there with his eyes burning. The assassin put the muzzle flat against the mark’s chest and fired, three times. The recoil made the gun jump in his hand. One shot went into the breastbone, the next into Michael’s throat, and the last into his face.
The bullets passed right through, leaving no wounds. The mark’s skin was whole, unblemished, pure.
Michael stepped back and cocked his head, as if considering this turn of events as the assassin knelt on the ground. “You know what to do,” the mark said, his voice sad and exultant at the same time. Jack nodded, the last of his mental defenses broken down. I don’t want to do this, he thought in desperation. Yet he was unable to stop himself; his hand raised of its own volition. He put the gun to his temple, its grip slick from his sweat. Jack’s last sight was moonlight shining uninterrupted on the floor of the alley as the moon glided free of the constraining clouds. He’s got no shad-- was the last thought he’d ever have in this world. He pulled the trigger.
Michael, standing in the assassin’s living room, looked at the corpse for a long time after that. The man was overdue for death by years. Through a trick of fate and the Devil’s own luck, he had escaped his execution for his girlfriend’s murder. That was remedied now. He wouldn’t torment women any longer. The people he killed as an assassin did not bother the man standing beside the corpse; in a strange way Jack had been helping to rid the world of people who needed to be gone. The deaths of innocents, however, could not be abided, and would never be tolerated.
The man’s suicide would be a footnote in the newspapers. “He was such a quiet man,” his neighbors would say. “Kept to himself.” None of them would know the truth of the matter, but that was alright. Some people—people who were sensitive to this sort of thing—might dream about it, perhaps. For the most part, Jack’s death would pass unnoticed. It was just another cog in the mysterious workings of the universe; a part of God’s unknowable plan.
He turned his eyes to the ceiling, as if checking for cracks in the plaster. “Where next?” he asked of no one. After a few moments, Michael nodded. He turned and started walking away, melting into the ether between the worlds. This was a faster way to travel than the earthly, mundane means. His next mark was a man who had killed his family, slaughtering them with savage joy. He was running around unchecked in the wilderness of Colorado, luring hapless campers to play parts in his murderous drama. A lost soul that needed to be removed from this world.
There was so much to do now, in these times. Things had been simpler back in the day. One warning was all it took, millenia ago. In this age of skeptics and unbelievers, a...personal touch was needed.
He sighed as his body became corporeal again in an abandoned camping site.
Further up the road was the cave in which the killer—Franklin, his name is Franklin—lived and slept. Michael began walking. So much work to be done....







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