The Man with no Name

A few year ps ago, I started a new book project about a professional hit-man. I’ve met a couple of men who’ve killed to order. They weren’t high calibre assassins by any means and as proof of this are now serving life sentences, but they had a rare quality: the willingness to murder a fellow human being without a qualm. The men I came across in my former work environment were willing to kill or maim for sums that I thought trifling, but they were at the very bottom of the assassin’s career structure. At the peak are men of a very different quality. The man with no name is just such a man.

As this is very much a work in progress I’ve made no attempt to conform to established conventions. ‘They’ tell me I should write short, snappy prose interspersed by dialogue and at all costs avoid lengthy passages of description or explication. Well, tough.  There are great chunks of prose here, particularly at the beginning. I may tidy this up, make changes, at some future date. I may not. I break all the rules – ‘they’ say that too.

As that noted sage Popeye said, ‘I yam what I yam.’

Killing remains the greatest taboo. Even when sanctified in warfare it doesn’t come easily to many. Killing at close quarters is even harder. Most people can’t do it. Under extreme conditions, killing when a life is threatened, even then the aftermath brings sleepless nights and recriminations. The man with no name was one of the rare ones. He would kill without a moment’s thought and afterwards the act was consigned to history, never to be thought of again.

A professional killer takes no pleasure from the act of killing. It is necessary and then he moves on. Such men are highly prized in certain quarters. Today he was due to meet a man he’d never met to discuss a job. The contact had been made in the approved fashion, through a series of cut-outs. This pleased him and demonstrated the man requiring his services was a man worthy of attention.

It was always a bonus to work for intelligent clients. They were far less likely to cheat the hired help. The difference between a common thug and an intelligent man was the intelligent man would know that cheating a person such as himself was tantamount to a death sentence.

He could be ready to leave at a moment’s notice and had already checked out of the hotel. He didn’t own much and even among the few items he possessed there were none that he couldn’t walk away from without a moment’s regret.

He had money, rather a lot of money, but was not even remotely concerned with wealth. He had enough for his needs. He lived well, ate well and dressed well, sparing no expense, but he could manage perfectly without any of the trappings of wealth. It was important to him that he owned nothing that he would miss if it were no longer available.

The same maxim also extended to personal relationships. He had no family, no friends, and no lovers. He had never allowed another person into his life. Other people were a tie and an attachment and he had no need of either. Everything in his life was disposable, to be used and discarded when necessary.

The tools of his trade were numerous, but he preferred to buy his weapons for a specific job and then dispose of them. A .22 calibre Colt Woodsman has been derided by some as a ladies’ gun with no stopping power, but in his opinion it was the perfect weapon. Easy to carry, and conceal where necessary it had never let him down. He routinely specified a matching silencer and always self-loaded his ammunition. The gun lacked stopping power, that was true, but in his hands this was a virtue. He wasn’t looking to knock down a charging buffalo after all. When he touched the barrel to a human head and pressed the trigger it was game over.

Powerful handguns are all the rage in Hollywood films, but in the real world gunshot victims have been known to survive even a head shot from a magnum cartridge. A bullet could pass straight through a skull and leave the victim alive. Not in good shape, but alive. With the Colt that option wouldn’t be possible. When the bullet left the barrel it passed through the skull, but lacked the power to blow out an exit hole. With a surgeon’s skill, he’d calculated the exact charge needed for his ammunition. The bullet may not have had the power to break out of the skull again, but it rattled around inside, turning everything it touched into mush. Job done. Nobody could take a direct head shot from a .22 and live to tell the tale.

He was very good at his job. In fact, he was a lot better than that; he was the best. Being the best took dedication and the elimination of distractions and unnecessary attachments. He’d been known by many names and yet his real name was unknown. He appeared in no police files or databases and left no paper trail.

His head ached, but that was nothing new. The bullet inside his head wasn’t even a whole bullet. Just a stray piece of the metal casing; sharp enough and travelling fast enough to penetrate the skull but not significant enough to kill him. He could remember the impact of the bullet against the wall right next to his head, but had no memory of what happened next.

‘You were lucky,’ they’d told him at the hospital. ‘An inch to the left…’ He got the picture. He was the original innocent bystander. Unarmed and apparently minding his own business when some unknown madman fired shots at him and disappeared. The perpetrator had to be mad for what else could explain the man discovered lying in the road with blood seeping from his temple? A random act or a drive-by shooting; it didn’t really matter as the man who fired the gun was never found.

More accurately, the police never found the man who’d fired the gun. There’d be an open file somewhere, but they may as well close it as they’d never find him now. His intended victim had advantages the police didn’t have: he knew the man’s identity and he knew where to find him. The attempt on his life had been at the behest of a former client and both the intended killer and the man who’d given the order had begged for death when he found them. The man with no name rubbed his temple, willing the pain away. Surgery hadn’t been an option. The metal fragment was in an awkward place, apparently. Left alone, it would probably stay put forever. Of course, there was always the chance it would move and if this happened the consequences would be serious. That would never be a problem. In his line of work, mortality was always only a heartbeat away; one more risk factor was neither here nor there.

The wine was served with a side order of indifference. The waitress was bored and didn’t mind showing it. He ignored her and left a tip, neither large nor small.

Outside, the town was dying and not even bothering to fight back. Empty shops littered the area and the few passers-by wore shabby clothes and an air of defeat. The decline of a town is usually a gradual, creeping metamorphosis, but here its inevitability must have been evident from the start. Not even worth opening a file or conducting a post-mortem. Self-inflicted death with the inhabitants as willing accomplices would be the coroner’s verdict.

Belonging, or looking like you belong, will get you into most places. A confident walk, head held high and a ‘don’t bother me, I’m busy’ attitude works nine times out of ten. In dangerous streets like these there was no other way. He walked the walk and looked the part. Predators look for the weak, the inadequate and the vulnerable. The lead bull, awash with testosterone and spoiling for a fight, is rarely picked on. He projected an image of danger, an ability to do serious damage to anyone rash enough to challenge him and was left alone. He walked swiftly, in plain sight of the unseen eyes that watched his progress.

Empty bottles, plastic bags, broken syringes and discarded needles littered the ground on what had once been a playground for children. The swings and climbing frames were still here, rusted and unused, but there’d been no laughter and joy around here for quite a while. Serious editorials ranting about drug usage and teenage pregnancy were stock in trade for the local newspapers, but there were no reporters down here. Nobody came near this estate who didn’t have good reasons for being here and that included the police.

He had that essential stillness: a basic requirement for a successful predator. The ability to switch off, enter a state of virtual hibernation where blood flow lessens, muscles ease and the body shuts down physically. In this state his mental powers were heightened, not diminished, every sense on full alert.

He’d learnt to watch a subject without ever appearing to do so. Some humans have a well-developed sense of impending danger. Something deep inside the lizard brain buried deep inside Homo  Sapiens reacts to a threat and is attuned to its recognition. He knew this because he was just such a man. Men like him know when they’re being watched, can sense the eyes of others upon them and took no chances. The subject was always within sight, but kept on the very edge of his peripheral vision. When he was satisfied the other person was alone, he walked across the wasteland and stood in front of the man who’d been sent to meet him. A slender man in his thirties, he looked competent but nervous.

‘You don’t know me,’ the slim man said.

The man with no name looked at the man who’d spoken and nodded. ‘Let’s keep it that way.’

‘I have a job for you.’

He waited. Why else would the other man be here?

‘The person I represent wants this man to disappear. He can’t be found. Ever.’ The slim man passed over a buff envelope and waited while the hitman studied its contents. A colour photograph and a single sheet of paper. He slipped the photograph into his jacket pocket and read the words before taking out a cigarette lighter and burning the paper until it dropped to the floor, completely consumed by fire.

‘Not a problem, but it will be difficult.’

‘My principal knows this and is prepared to offer…’

The man with no name took hold of the other man’s arm and the words died away.

‘Get him for me, now.’

The slim man blustered for a moment and then took out a cell phone and handed it over.

‘Speed dial. Just press five.’

The man with no name pressed the button and held the phone to his ear.

‘Your man is here with me now. I agree to the target.’ He named a price and waited for a moment. ‘I’ll want it in advance, the whole amount. Any more requirements?’

He listened to the reply and then spoke for a further minute; reciting account details from memory and ended the call immediately. He removed the SIM card, snapped it in two and dropped it down a drain before handing the phone back to its owner.

‘Who else knows about this?’

The slim man shook his head. ‘Nobody. Well just the man you just spoke to and me. You as well now. Nobody else.’

‘Good. The fewer the better. Why didn’t he come himself?’

The slim man shrugged. ‘He has me for that.’

‘You do his dirty work?’

A shrug. ‘I suppose so. I’m supposed to ask you when it will be done.’

‘You’ve asked.’

‘He’ll want an answer.’

‘When I’m ready and not before. I’ve agreed the job and when the money is in the account I’ll start to plan it.’

‘My boss was insistent I tell you there should be nothing that can be traced back to him. No loose ends.’

The man with no name nodded. He reached out as if to shake the hand of the other man and then seized the proffered hand and pulled him close. Face to face he watched the fear in the other man’s eyes for a moment and then slid the blade between the ribs, grunting as the point snagged briefly on bone.

He looked down at the body and nodded. ‘Your boss was right. It’s always better this way. No loose ends.’