Hired To Kill

By Brian K. Carr

Colin O'Brien is a normal guy living in Southern California. Unfortunately for Colin, he gets mistaken as a famous assassin and is asked to carry out a hit. Common sense would usually dictate to most people to just walk away, but when you are offered $1,000,000, as Colin puts it, it "can really skew your prerogatives in life".

Colin falls into the deep end of the criminal underworld, being chased by feds, grumpy Russians and seemingly the angriest mall staff in the western hemisphere. It quickly transpires though that there is much more behind the hit that the mysterious Monica Stafford wants Colin to carry out than she is letting on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian K. Carr
• Release date: Dec 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301010332

Brian K. Carr

Brian K. Carr is an author born and raised in Southern California whose professional life has allowed him to travel extensively and filled his mind with amazing stories. His first effort into publishing is the novel Hired To Kill, the first in the Colin O'Brien character series. Retribution marks Brian's second journey into the life of Colin O'Brien, with two more books in the works.When not writing or reading, Brian hosts a show called Asylum TV for the off-road community website Jeep Asylum. He enjoys helping people build their Jeeps, taking them off-road, and camping with his dog.Brian is also a black belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, having trained with greats like the Machado Brothers, original BJJ Dirty Dozen member Bob Bass, and his current coach Eddie Martinez.You can find more about the book Hired To Kill and its author at https://www.facebook.com/briankcarrauthor or follow him on Twitter at @BrianKCarr.

Book preview

Hired To Kill

A novel by

Brian K. Carr

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Brian K. Carr of Ninja Hawk Holdings, LLC

Cover art Copyright 2012 Brian K. Carr of Ninja Hawk Holdings, LLC

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

2012 Ninja Hawk Holdings, LLC

All Rights Reserved

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 1

Being offered $1,000,000 to kill a man can really skew your prerogatives in life. I’m not sure how she got the idea that I was some sort of assassin; maybe she overheard a conversation that wasn’t meant to be taken seriously, or maybe I look like somebody who was featured on an episode of America’s Most Wanted. Whatever the case, she picked me. I’d never killed a man before, but I couldn’t say no. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, and before I could think, it was too late to turn back.

Six weeks ago, I was a normal guy having a normal day at a normal Starbucks, enjoying a normal cup of coffee. I can’t say I didn’t notice her staring at me the whole time, but I simply didn’t think much of it. I thought she might be interested, thought I was attractive, and wanted a fling. I made sure to hold my coffee up with my left hand so as to make my wedding ring glare in the morning sunlight. She kept staring. As I left my friend and headed back to my car, I could feel her behind me, stalking, following. I started checking storefront windows and vehicles to see if I could get a glimpse of her. She wasn’t a young woman, probably later 30s or early 40s. She was very well-kempt, not a hair out of place, nor a piece of unmatched clothing. The formality of her attire ended at the shoes. She was wearing flip flops, but expensive ones. Probably does most of her shopping in Newport Beach, playground to southern California’s rich and famous-for-being-famous. Her blouse was sloped low, showing the bounce of her natural breasts, which were not tan, but not pale either. Her skin had a natural olive tone to it, but it was obvious she didn’t spend much time in the sun.

As I got nearer my vehicle, I slowed and turned toward an Infiniti that wasn’t mine and reached in my pocket for my keys. I turned directly toward her, half expecting her to nervously look away and walk past, rethinking whatever it was she wanted to ask me. My plan backfired like a ’73 VW. She walked right up to me and handed me a business card.

I’m a very powerful woman, and I’m in need of your services, mister…., she waited for me to jump in and offer my name.

McHale. Earvin McHale. I had always been a fan of the Lakers-Celtics rivalry of the ‘80s. With an on-the-spot moment like this, I simply went with an amalgamation of Earvin Magic Johnson and Kevin McHale’s names. Not sure how terribly Irish it sounded, but I figured my looks were Americanized enough to not warrant any judgment of a mixed name of Irish descent. Besides, telling her my real name was Colin O’Brien wasn’t high on my list of things to do. I took the business card by the corners and offered her my hand. Her handshake was firm. It was not that of your average housewife. It said she was not unaccustomed to business dealings with men, that she was used to asserting herself, and that she meant business.

I’m Monica Stafford. Where can we talk privately?

The question is when, I replied. I don’t work on weekends.

So, how much would it cost to get you to change your mind? she asked. I was now sure that she was not in need of a business operations consultant, and that she truly had no idea who I was. I decided to chance it.

Ten grand to talk. Not now. I’ll call you later today with a meeting place. To my surprise, she pulled out a bank-wrapped bundle of bills.

Here. Count it if you like. There are plenty more like it.

I took the cash and flipped through it like I knew what I was doing. I’d seen it a million times on TV. I was basically looking for blank sheets inserted between the real bills. It had been quite some time since I’d taken one of those courses on spotting counterfeit bills, so I wasn’t about to fumble through that in front of her. I quickly stuck it in my pocket and looked around to see if anyone else was watching us, more for show than anything, but I did notice a man up on the corner, looking almost as out of place as Monica Stafford. In Huntington Beach on a Saturday, business attire was not too common, even in the stores. I decided not to make a big deal of it and store it back in my memory banks. Thank goodness I’d already had my coffee.

Go home, Monica Stafford. I’ll be in touch. I hoped she bought this playing-it-cool routine. I walked off.

Aren’t you going to take your car? she asked.

That is not my car. She had taken the very first bait I threw out there. Either that or she was testing my scenario. However trivial, I knew I had to play it cool. I simply turned back around and kept walking. I walked right past my own vehicle and around the corner. I had departed with the upper hand.

I ducked around the ice cream shop and into the alley to get a look back at the woman I had just left standing on street. She was walking back up the street toward the place where I had spotted the oddly-dressed man, who was now gone. She rounded the corner and I let my curiosity get the better of me and headed further up the alley to see if I could catch her heading back toward the Starbucks. As I neared the top of the alley, I saw her cross it at the street. I eased up to the top of the alley and watched her through a shop window. She got in a silver Jaguar convertible and drove off. I repeated the license plate to myself so I could try and remember it, then walked back toward my car. I tried to find the other guy as I made my way back to my vehicle, but did not see him again.

As I drove south, I thought about what a person would pay ten grand just to talk about. My mood grew darker as I could think of nothing positive, or even legal. I decided I needed another head on this, and one that could do some digging. I put a call in to Freddie. Freddie was not only my jiu jitsu coach, but a trusted friend and, most importantly, a cop. As an instructor of unarmed combat, he was also linked in to many other aspects of law enforcement, and someone I really needed right now. I got his voicemail and left him a message, explaining my situation briefly and hoping he would call back as soon as humanly possible. I needed some help, as well as some information about Monica Stafford, before I had to call her and set up the next meeting to discuss the job offer.

I was at home doing a Lexis Nexis search on Monica Stafford when Freddie called. I wasn’t finding much at all. Just a few articles on her and her husband, charity events, and their architecture/construction company. I was getting nowhere quickly, and could use some help. The public sites weren’t much help, either.

What’s goin’ on, buddy? Freddie was a welcome, familiar voice at that point.

Well, I think I’ve been dragged into something odd, and definitely not kosher, I replied.

You just described your bachelor party. Seriously, what’s all this about? he asked.

I broke the entire story down for Freddie, starting with the coffee in Huntington Beach that morning, the guy on the corner, my web search and the business card I got from Monica Stafford. I was absolutely sure there were fingerprints on the card. The only problem was getting it to Freddie and waiting for the results. Unfortunately, crime labs don’t operate like they do on TV. This was not going to be solved in 55 minutes. This was going to take some time. I asked Freddie what I could do in the interim. He wasn’t entirely sold on my case.

Look, dude. You don’t even know what she wants yet. You just know she’s well-funded and some other really uninteresting facts about her life, he said.

But why would she pay me ten grand in cash just to talk to me? I asked.

Maybe she wants to kill you, burn you up, and claim it’s her husband. You know, kind of like a ‘Fletch’ thing. Or she thinks you have a big cock.

No, I looked them up. Her husband is nothing like me. Way shorter. Not sure about the cock.

Well then, you have two choices. Keep the money and go see her, or send it back to her and tell her the deal’s off. I highly recommend the latter.

How about running her background or fingerprints? I pleaded.

You don’t even know what this is about. I can’t just initiate an investigation based on your weird experiences. Write a novel, maybe. But you’re just going to have to accept the fact that you need to walk away from this. Freddie always was a party pooper.

We hung up and I sat there and stared at the stack of money in front of me. Oddly, I was not even tempted by it. My own morbid sense of curiosity and desire to solve this intriguing, at least to me, mystery was drawing me to further involve myself. I didn’t even want the money, though I needed to be careful with it, as it may have more fingerprints, or could be linked to some other crime! I really need to stop watching procedural cop shows. It only makes me more dangerous…to myself. But hey, I always have Freddie to bring me back to reality.

I did spend some time in the field of personal protection, and even a stint as a bounty hunter. That being said, what I know about investigating is barely enough to figure out if Colonel Mustard really did it in the kitchen, and why the hell he would use a candlestick. Finding a bail jumper was sometimes as easy as calling a buddy at the county jail and asking if they had picked the guy up. Often times they had, but it wasn’t known that he was back in the system yet. So, a few signatures later, you had the easy money. That made up for some of the more difficult skips. I got weapons training through various departments, and did some other training with the Secret Service. So, all my training is pretty much tactical, not investigative, in nature. Still, my curiosity wouldn’t let me quit. Time to call Monica Stafford. I used star-67 to block my phone number. The phone rang only once.

Monica Stafford. Her voice sounded calm and efficient, saying only what needed to be said. No more, no less.

Mrs. Stafford, it’s McHale. We met for coffee this morning.

Yes, Mr. McHale. I’m glad you called.

Are you sure you’d like to meet again? This situation might not be ideal. I had to test her.

Mr. McHale, I can assure you that it is exactly what I want. If you even think of taking my money and stiffing me, I will call the police.

The police. Now she’d thrown me for a loop. Why would someone go to the police for a 10 thousand dollar down payment she put on a meeting? Maybe it was legitimate. Then again, maybe she was counting on the fact that I must be a career criminal and wouldn’t want even the hint of police activity around me. Maybe I was over-analyzing the entire situation.

I don’t respond well to threats, Mrs. Stafford. Now, such discussions are not usually had over the phone, so no more words from you; only listening. Meet me tonight at 8pm. Spectrum. Ferris wheel. Then I hung up.

I went to the closet and got my Glock .45 out of the gun safe. The model 21 is a powerful gun, yet still fairly accurate beyond 25 yards. Cleaned it, checked the action, and loaded it up. Loaded an additional magazine and made myself some food. Good thing the wife wasn’t getting home until later. She’d throttle me if she knew what I had gotten into. As big and tough as I like to think I am, she really is the boss…and I, quite frankly, am a moron. She’ll figure it out soon enough; but by then, I hoped to have it cleared up. Once again, my affinity for bad detective shows was allowing me to believe that this would all be in the bag in 55 minutes. At least I had cool sunglasses.

I decided to make dinner for Kathy and leave her a note that I would be out until about nine o’clock. One thing I had learned was that if there was a good meal and a decent bottle of wine present, it made an evening go very smoothly. I made a quick chicken breast and some pasta to go with it, picked out a nice cabernet, and wrote out the note. Then I went back upstairs and got ready to go. I figured I’d head over to the Spectrum early, scope the place out, get a bite to eat, and set up to watch the area around the ferris wheel for a couple hours. Took my wedding ring off to simply cut any presence of a family tie that could put anyone else in danger, assuming there was going to be danger. Then I remembered flashing it obviously this morning and hoped that it would remain just a glare in Monica Stafford’s memory. I put the hidden clip in my pants to hold the Glock. It isn’t the smallest gun, so I made sure to wear my old size 36 jeans and a shirt that hung decently below the belt line. Trying to hide a gun in the California summer really sucks. Good thing I had what Kathy calls some fat jeans still lying around.

I drove up to the Spectrum and parked by the outer lanes on the east side, then strolled over to the west side and went up to the top of the parking structure to check things out. I wandered in and out of the cars, taking my time, making it look like I had misplaced my C Class among all the others. There was no one else up there but me, so I went over to the ledge on the east side of the structure to get a good vantage point of my chosen meeting place. With all the new construction, it wasn’t as clear a shot as I’d hoped, but it would have to do. I would at least be able to see Monica Stafford arriving, as well as anyone who might be shadowing her. I thought about calling Freddie and asking him to meet me down here to help out, but he’d probably just try to talk me out of it. If he did bite, he’d probably blow it for me anyway…just to be an ass. There was nothing out of place. Everything in a public place with shops and amusement attractions was as it should be. There were kids, some with parents, some without, going on the ferris wheel, eating ice cream, playing games, shopping, and occasionally being harassed by security for riding their skateboards. It was a pretty typical summer day, turning into a warm summer evening. I walked up and down the row next to the wall, just to see where the best vantage point would be. The wind was non-existent. I could tell by the giant wind sock that hung over near the Target. So, if I were a sniper, I wouldn’t have to adjust my angle for a clean shot in any direction. I decided that the best vantage point was where I had first chosen to look down upon the food court by the ferris wheel. I stood a can of soda on the wall and headed back down to the bottom of the parking structure. Then I walked over to the food court and picked the most logical spot for a conversation. I could see the glare of the soda can in the pre-twilight sun, reflecting a slight angle of the setting sun, but also casting a small shadow. The question now was, will I be able to see anything once the sun goes down?

As I stood there thinking I had checked every angle, it dawned on me that I was still caught up in the world of prime time television. Looking up to my left, I realized that there was a window in the second floor of the Nordstrom that had a clear view of the food court. Would someone be up there with a rifle trained on me? Not likely, but it seemed a good enough spot for an associate to get some decent pictures, which is what I was actually worried about at that point. Given the location I had stated for our meeting, it was going to be next to impossible to talk in a place that wasn’t visible from at least one of the locations about which I was now worried. I decided to go with a bench that was at the side of the ferris wheel, far from the Nordstrom window. Since I wasn’t worried about snipers at this point, I figured the view from the parking garage was going to be a bit farther and more distorted. Having settled on my decision, I walked over to the coffee shop to sit, wait, and watch. It’s amazing how something like a good cappuccino can actually calm your nerves, as opposed to getting you wired.

I watched the reflection of the soda can fade with the sunset. It never moved, which meant that either no one was up there watching, or it was not in their way. Feeling satisfied with that angle, I focused my attention on the crowd. I watched for 20 minutes before looking back up at the soda can, perched atop the parking structure like it had always been a part of it. Scanning back through the crowd, I spotted her. In Huntington Beach, Monica Stafford stood out like a turd in a punchbowl…but here, she fit right in amongst the surgically-developed housewives, the local business folk just out of their stores’ weekend hours here for dinner, the yuppies trying to seem hip on a date, and the uber-rich who would just as soon walk through here eating an ice cream cone as they would stop at the Saleen store and pick out a new, six-figure ride for the commute on Monday. I decided to wait and see what she does. I thought if she waits patiently, then she’s obviously in no hurry and I’ll go out and have our conversation, hand her back her money, and tell her I’m not her man. If she looks like she’s giving signals, then I’m out of here. Maybe I’ll wait around the corner and follow her, but who knows what or who she’s signaling.

She sat on the bench that was right in between both vantage points and looked at her watch. It appeared she was in no hurry, but wondering when or if I would even show up. I figured I’d give it another 10 to 20 minutes, then casually walk over to the place with which I was more comfortable, motioning her to follow me and sit down. After the first nine minutes, my problems were solved. Monica Stafford was thirsty…or nervous. She walked over to the coffee shop, stepped in, and walked right up to