Part 1.1

Part 1.1

I think that is enough about me.

How about we focus on your ex?

His name was Marcus Aurelius St. Patrick.

Ironic, isn’t it?

Named after an Emperor, and he was the biggest piece of shit to come out of his mom.

When he died, nothing of value was lost.

Now I will explain in detail how the hit went, from the start to its end.

First, like I always did, I made a few rounds through his neighbourhood.

He was the average rich kid.

Parties on daddy’s dime, while the help cleaned up the mess.

Secondly, I started forcing my ear into the right walls.

His dad worked for the Tower.

Apparently, he was a bigshot and in charge of the Tower Assembly Forces.

Those guys try their best to keep the peace and to punish the bad guys who kill people.

I am the first to tell you that is not how things go.

I’ll tell you about that later.

Let’s focus on Marky-boy.

For a low-level mark, he did have quite a few enemies.

He was also terrible at keeping a bodyguard.

That may seem like a stroke of luck, but you have to understand that patience is my best weapon.

People have habits and eccentricities; if you wait long enough, you can hook and reel them in.

It is kind of like fishing, without the mosquitoes.

As I was saying, he needed a bodyguard, and your old pal MIA had an in.

While I waited for the latest guy to quit, I studied Marko.

He had a very long list of crimes.

Not good for the son of an enforcer of the peace.

That was why Daddy Dearest would bury whatever he got up to.

That reminds me of a saying, you know the one, the one about apples, trees and falling.

Every few months, he would be on the lookout for new bulletproof mercs in vests.

I just had to put my hat in the ring and wait, and that is what I did.

It took months for the last guy to quit, and to my surprise, it was someone I knew.

They called him Tommy Typewriter.

That isn’t a pun on what he does in his free time.

His arms were fitted with submachine guns, and they were made to sound like Tommy Guns.

They were called Typewriters back in the day.

The only reason he lasted as long as he did was that he always honoured a contract.

That meant he didn’t ask for an extension, and let’s see if my name was called.

To my annoyance, it wasn’t.

While I waited, I would have secret bets with myself, bets on how long they would last.

I was always wrong every time.

My favourite was when a female took the gig.

Sandra Steele with her retractable finger blades.

Even with the Chitin, she is a feisty one, and I give it a fifty-fifty shot of me winning.

She left after an hour when Marcarius copped a feel.

While I was still laughing my ass off, my phone rang.

I will be telling you what they said, but I won’t do the voices, I promise.

I pulled out my phone and answered as professionally as the man I pretended to be.

“This is Milton Adams. What can I do you for?”

I heard a sigh on the other end, which was a good sign.

“This is Abraham Smythe, calling on behalf of Master St. Patrick. He requires a capable bodyguard, and I wish to make an appointment with you regarding an interview.”

I promise he said all of that without breathing once.

I knew I had to word my response carefully, so I pretended to clean up my language.

“Yes, yes, of course, sir. When is the most convenient time for you?”

I didn’t see his face, but I knew he was looking down on me.

All these pompous British types were like that.

“We expect to meet you at the entrance of the St. Patrick Manor in a presentable suit at precisely half-past eight the day after tomorrow. Is there anything you failed to understand?"

After a quick eye-roll, I answered in my most professional voice.

“I understand, sir. I won’t be late.”

After a second of silence, he hung up.

What is it with these rich people and their need to have European staff?

I have a secret: I am from the area, but moved here when I was older.

Europe is a dump, and too many people are like the butler.

Most of them are a stupid sort of faux-Royalty who believe that the only way to be a good ruler is to oppress their people.

So yes, I escaped, and I’m never going back.

Unless I get a ticket, then it will be a jolly good show.

Back to the story.

To the untrained eye, my apartment looks like a shithole.

To the trained eye, it is a shithole, with some hidden treasures.

One of those treasures is an assortment of padded clothes of all sorts of formality.

I know I said my skin is basically bulletproof, but this helps for the shock and bigger bullets.

I have to stay alive long enough to cut the head off the snake.

The other treasure is an assortment of wigs, coloured contact lenses and cosmetics.

People don’t remember the whole face, especially the über-rich.

They remember features, and Milton has a few.

First off, he has pitch black hair, piercing blue eyes and a square jaw.

Normally, I only have one of those features.

I also picked out a navy blue suit, a white button-up shirt and a black trench coat.

I also went through my list for Milton again, to make sure I didn’t leave out any details.

His weapon of choice was dual pistols.

It is low-tech compared to some of the other mercs, but he was a decorated soldier in the AA.

That meant he had subdermal implants.

Not as advanced as mine, but he would look like a regular Joe.

Just like me.