Interrogation (A Short Story) Read online

Interrogation

  By J. Steven Butler

  Copyright 2013 J. Steven Butler

   

  I love killing.  There is something so viscerally satisfying, so empowering about the feel of taking another person’s life, to see his existence cease, to watch awareness leave his eyes to be replaced by a never-ending blank stare.  Of all the things I do well, killing is my favorite.  And it’s not just that I like killing, but I’m also very good at it.  Some people in my past have tried to label me and call me terrible things, like sociopath.  They’re all dead now.

  It was when I was working black ops for the military that I first realized that I really enjoyed the art of death.  I was on a solo mission deep behind enemy lines.  I'd been in the jungle for days, no backup, no plausible deniability if I was caught.  My success or failure rested on me alone, and I found myself savoring every moment of it.

  I had become one with my surroundings.  It felt like the very essence of the jungle was pulsing through my veins.  It was almost a spiritual thing, and something deep and animalistic had awakened inside me.  I had become a predator, a wild and dangerous creature. I knew I had ceased to be just a man.  I had become a thing of terrible beauty.

  I sat for hours concealed in the most unlikely places, watching the movement of enemy troops, waiting for the perfect instant, the perfect shot.  I shut out everything else, the stings of insects, the scurrying of rodents.  Nothing distracted me from my prey.

  At long last, he showed his face and I felt a thrill unlike anything I had ever experienced before.  A curious joy bubbled inside me as I lined up my scope with his head.  I could feel a connection to him, like two magnets drawn inexorably together.  It was meant to be.  I had become the death angel, the harbinger of his demise.

  I squeezed the trigger with practiced perfection, the bullet leaping from the barrel like a rocket.  It was as though I could see it all in slow motion, the flight path, the initial connection with the skin of his forehead, the puncture of his skull, and the explosion of his brain matter from the exit wound.

  A delicious warmth spread through my body, a pleasure beyond mere feeling.  It was more than sensory.  I was infused with the energy of life.  My limbs pulsed with the glow of it, and I knew I would never be the same.  I had crossed the line into something amazing, and I was forever addicted.

  You know, when it comes to killing, some people do it because that’s what they’re trained to do, because it protects somebody else, or whatever. But I’ve found that those guys will never be as good as somebody who really loves the job.  Like the old saying goes, do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.

  Unfortunately, the military began to suspect that I relished the kill a little more than they would prefer.  You would think that wouldn’t matter considering the kind of work they had me doing, but I guess they thought this would make me dangerous to them, a liability instead of an asset.  Well, I guess they were right about that.  I wouldn’t have had to execute my commanding officer if he hadn’t tried to give me the boot.  In the end, I gave the boot to him, but that story might turn your stomach.  I'll say this much, it was very creative.

  I’m glad that things worked out the way they did, though, because by then, I’d built up a reputation in certain circles, and jobs doing what I love started to present themselves.  I couldn't have been more pleased.  I mean, the pay was way better than the military and there’s far less risk of harm to myself.

  It started gradually.  My first paid kill was a middle-eastern diplomat.  Apparently, he had ruffled the feathers of some of the higher-ups in his government, and they didn't take too kindly to it.  It was such a simple job, so easily executed.  They provided me with a paper trail to plant, indicating the victim had been laundering money, and I pushed him off a roof.  You should have seen that guy soil himself when I hung him over that twenty story drop.  In the end, everybody thought it was a cut and dry mob hit.

  Up until that time, my name was Vincent Malick, but I’ve long since stopped using my real name.  Having pulled off more big-time hits than you could imagine, I've made some pretty powerful friends.  Thanks to their help, all of the records of my existence have been erased.  There's not a database in the world that will register my real name, and no physical records of my life remain either.

  I have two dozen aliases, but I have ways of advertising my services to those who may be in need.  Some of the most famous deaths in the world are actually my handiwork, made to look like accidents, tragedies, whatever.  In many ways, I consider myself to be an artist.  A Van Gogh with a gun, so to speak.  Not that I only use a gun.  In fact, I prefer my bare hands.  Now that is a rush.

  You would be shocked at the kind of people who are willing to pay to have someone else murdered.  I even had a contract from an elementary schoolteacher once.  I confess, she couldn’t even pay five percent of my normal fee, but she was really cute so I gave her a break.

  But back to the present.  The job I’m on now is a little different from what I usually do.  The woman who gave me this contract just wants information.  Of course, she didn’t really say I couldn’t kill the guy after he gives me what I need.  Normally, I wouldn’t take this kind of gig, but her offer was nothing to sneeze at, even for someone as reputable as myself.  All she wants are bank vault codes from a Texas oil man named Sam Crowe.  Just sounds Texan doesn’t it?  So I’ve taken to simply calling him the Texan.

  I don’t have a clue what’s in that vault, and I’m not supposed to know.  Honestly, I don’t even care.  I’m a professional.  It’s not my job to care about such things. But whatever it is, it means a lot to my employer, because she laid down ten million in cash up front and promised another fifteen million upon completion of the job.

  I diligently study my victims before I take them down.  Some might think that's strange, but there are good reasons behind it.  Of course, there's the practical side.  By knowing my victims inside and out, it's easier to plan the kill.  You begin to get a sense of the person, what habits he might have, schedules he keeps, weaknesses and flaws in his character.  You start to learn little things that can be exploited to make the job easier.

  On the other hand, I have a more personal reason for learning all I can about a target.  The more I know about a victim, the more real he becomes to me.  The more real he becomes to me, the stronger connection I feel to him, and consequently, the greater rush I get out of the kill.  It's worlds better than just blowing some enemy soldier away on a battlefield.  It's the difference between smoking a joint and taking a hit of crack.  Not that I do drugs.  That's merely a metaphor that I've based off of the experiences of others.  Someone like me can't afford to mess with things that distort your mind or perception.

  The Texan is about what you'd expect given his circumstances.  His dad, Edmond Crowe, did all the real work building up the oil empire that Sam now sits on top of.  Sam's the epitome of a spoiled super-rich kid.  The old man croaked and left everything to him, but he's never done any real work a day in his pathetic life.  His idea of work is washing his own hair in the shower.

  He's never been married.  The only surviving family he has is his mom and a couple of younger brothers who aren't much better than he is.  At least they tried to have families of their own, both unsuccessfully, but not the Texan.  He's a committed bachelor who travels all over the world's hot spots hooking up with whatever tramp will have him for the day.  I guess he's a good looking guy from a woman's standpoint, but I'm sure the money makes him look better to them.

  His assets are ridiculous.  He has so much set back that he could spend $42,176 dollars a day and never touch the principal.  He has a list of
exotic sports cars a mile long, none of them costing less than $250,000, and he jet sets in a state-of-the art, overhauled Gulfstream V-SP. I feel sorry for the guy really, to have all of that and still have no real purpose in life.  He could learn a thing or two from me, from someone who has initiative.

   

   

  So, I find myself in Vegas where I’ve tracked him.  It’s taken me several months to catch up to him.  For at least five months he was always one step ahead of me, always able to grab a flight to someplace else right before I arrived.  It was extremely frustrating, and what makes it worse, it was pure dumb luck.  Every time I thought I would have a good opportunity to snatch him, he would change plans, hop another flight, or pass out in a crowded casino.

  But now, I have him right where I want him, and I’m so excited I can hardly contain myself!  And I'm going to make him suffer extra for my added frustration.

  He's sleeping in the oversized bed of his hotel suite across the room from me, wearing warm, fuzzy pajamas like a kid, his face obscured in the shadows.  His chest rises and falls steadily, his breathing slow and constant.

  I stand there in the piercing