Hitman with a Limp

By Mitchell Pickett

Marshall Jones was a legendary hitman (at least in his own mind) before a gunshot wound to his ankle forced his early retirement. After limping through a decade of booze, pills, and cheap prostitutes, Marshalls life has become a constant state of misery.
One day Marshall learns that Mason, his estranged brother, owes two million dollars to a ruthless drug lord named Medrano. Marshall has to travel to Costa Rica in order to kill Medrano, save his brother, and earn a huge payday. Marshall initially refuses the job, but when he learns that Elise, his twelve-year-old niece, is also involved in the mess, Marshall decides to come out of retirement and get back into the business of killing.
Things immediately go wrong for Marshall and he realizes that hes not only rusty, but begins to question whether he ever had any skills as a contract killer in the first place. Dropped into an environment thats part paradise and part hell-on-earth, Marshall is forced to deal with psychotic drug dealers, a deadbeat brother, a sassy niece and the realization that life isnt easy being a hitman with a limp.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481752626

Mitchell Pickett

MITCHELL PICKETT has B.A. degrees in English and Spanish from the University of Idaho and is a graduate of Vancouver Film School. He is a travel writer, poet, blogger, screenwriter and novelist. He lives in the Pacific Northwest.

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PROLOGUE

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When life becomes a never-ending shit storm of misery, I use booze, drugs and street-bought pussy to cope. It sure beats the hell out of praying. So when my last mark shot me in the ankle and forced me to retire from killing people, that’s exactly what I did.

The shithead that shot me got away. His bullet laid me up on a couch for nine months and left me with a permanent limp. Some may call it a pimp limp or a gangster walk. I call it a giant pain in the ass. The worst part is the way people look at you. No matter what kind of badass you are (or were), the world only sees a cripple.

My employers didn’t offer a health insurance plan and I couldn’t go to a real hospital for a gunshot wound, so my medical care wasn’t exactly cutting-edge. Instead of a proper surgery, some quack cut me open and drilled a plate into my bone. The procedure was more like what you’d expect from a Civil War doctor—there were medieval instruments, a belt of whiskey, and a doctor with hands so dirty he looked like an overworked proctologist. When I saw the x-ray afterwards, it looked like Home Depot had taken a shit inside my ankle. At least the doc gave me a mountain of pain pills. I can live with the limp. What’s been hard is not being able to live the life anymore. There’s nothing else I’m good at and nothing else I care to learn. My employers gave me a small pension, but it barely covers the booze and pills I need everyday just to get out of bed. Small miracles.

So here I am, a thirty-five-year-old retired hitman living in a shithole apartment in a shithole part of town. Hell, I can’t even afford prostitutes. I’ve tried to get back on the job, but what good is a hitman if an old lady with a walker can outrun you? It’s hard to be stealth when you walk like one leg is two inches shorter than the other. It’s not that bad, I guess. I’ve still got my pills and my booze, at least until my employer stops the payments any day now. Then who knows? Maybe I’ll get into armed robbery or some other kind of work where I can use my finely honed skills. Maybe I’ll sell insurance; I hear they’ll take anybody.

My longtime girlfriend, Camille, dumped me a few weeks after I came home. She never was the caring type, and she was nut job-crazy, but it was the closest to love I was capable of. I sniffed out that there was another man involved. Women rarely leave a mate unless something better has come into their life, and as it turned out, that something better was cumming into her pussy on a regular basis. I thought about killing her, but that seemed wrong. Besides, killing someone for emotional reasons is the surest way to get caught, and getting caught is never an option. I will take a bullet in the head over a prison sentence.

I should’ve just let Camille go, but I kept seeing her face when I went out in public. Something didn’t feel right about how she left. She wouldn’t have had many options for a new suitor, unless some smooth son-of-a-bitch had seduced her at a bus stop. So one day I found her new apartment, broke in, and waited in the dark for her to come home. She walked in with my older brother, Mason, which was bad. But what really kicked me in the dick was that Camille was pushing a stroller.

Like all brothers, Mason and I have a complicated relationship, which means we hate each other. Things hadn’t always been sour between us, though. My mother left my father shortly after I was born, which turned Dad into a drunken tornado of violence. Mason and I grew up protecting each other from my father’s beatings. No matter how bad things got, we stuck together, which made it bearable. When Mason was fourteen years old and I was only twelve, he starting leaving the house as often as possible and I became the lone punching bag. Each time my father hit me, it chipped off a piece of my humanity. All of my emotions turned to rage. On the night of my 16th birthday, I decided to kill my father. I waited for him to get his nightly drunk on and then lured him to the basement stairs. When he came at me I sidestepped, and he rolled down the staircase. He was unconscious, but still alive, so I went down and finished him off with a baseball bat. The police didn’t put much effort into their investigation and his death was ruled an accident. I went to live with Mason in the city and our illustrious criminal careers began. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Back to the part where I discovered that Mason was fucking my old lady.

While I pointed the gun at them, I kept looking down at the stroller and thinking, This child is in store for a fucked-up life with parents like Mason and Camille. Perhaps it would have been a mercy killing, but I could never kill a child. Anyone that can needs to be put down like a rabid dog. I kept the gun pointed at them. Camille started crying and Mason was trying to talk his way out of it like he always does. I didn’t have it in me. All the fight and rage left me standing there dazed, like a lamb that’s just been castrated. Instead of killing them, I put my gun away and limped out of the house. I never looked back, and I haven’t spoken to either one of them since.

I was able to kill a few people after getting shot, but I never regained my all-star status. The injury and the fact that I was taking enough pain meds to kill a rhino made me a liability, which is something no hitman can ever become. Instead of the standard retirement party (two slugs in the brain and chopping my head off), my employer let me live as long as I kept to myself. From time to time, they would call on me for a job—nothing serious, just scaring someone or squeezing the occasional testicle. It was work that was far beneath my talents, but I never turned down the extra income. When I started being paid with my beloved pills, there was no job too low. Once I even took a job mopping up the vomit and piss at one of my employer’s classy establishments. I ended up being laid off after booze started disappearing from the bar.

Now each day rolls by and I limp one step closer to an obscure death. Like many of my victims, I will simply disappear from this world and leave nothing behind except an empty pill bottle and an ashtray full of cigarette butts. I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. I wouldn’t call this a code or anything; it was just something I never let go of. It’s the only shred of humanity I have left, which isn’t saying a whole lot. Twelve long, shit-stained years went by and nothing happened. And then one day, something did.

CHAPTER ONE

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It’s never a good thing when the phone rings at 3 AM, unless it’s a booty call, which I never get unless I pay for it. I had been sleeping dreamlessly when the annoying chirping ringtone of my cell phone went off. I’m used to waking easily in the middle of the night. I should put that under special skills on my resume.

Marshall Jones, you up? The caller was a man named Julian, my old handler and only connection to the outside world. He was always the one calling in the middle of the night with instructions on my next mark. I already felt rusty, and my ankle was throbbing like a bitch. Time for another pill.

What the fuck you calling me for? I hissed. Although I was pissed off for being woken up, I felt a little rush of blood flowing and for once it wasn’t heading for my penis. It had been a long time since I got one of these calls.

I thought maybe I’d come over. We can strip down to our panties and spoon. You know, see where it goes.

Get to the point or fuck off and die.

Oh how I miss our love, especially in my butt. Julian is a douche bag, but for some reason I kind of liked the guy. The reason I’m calling is, have you ever considered The Church of Latter Day Saints—

Julian!

Okay, sorry. Your brother Mason is missing. No one has heard from him in over three months.

Fuck ’em. I said.

I thought you might say that. But there’s something else you should know. His daughter is missing, too.

What? This news shocked me, and I’m not someone who is easily surprised. The last I knew of Mason, he was doing some petty drug smuggling in Latin America, but I never heard where and I didn’t care to know. The fact that he got his daughter mixed up in his business was breaking a cardinal rule in the criminal world. It’s one thing to get chain sawed by a drug lord, but involving your family is the worst kind of sin.

Where were they last seen? I asked in a cold tone. I immediately went into business mode any time the phone rang at such hours. With the phone still to my ear, I took out the Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum I slept with under my pillow. I held the heavy gun in my hands.

Julian said, San Jose, Costa Rica.

Where’s that? I asked, truthfully having no idea where exactly Costa Rica was. I knew it was somewhere between Mexico and Brazil, but I had never had much time to travel in my old job. I had only left the States a handful of times on some international jobs. People always think they can run and hide. I don’t blame them. I admire the human instinct to survive. Besides, runners are always the most gratifying to kill. They usually look more surprised than anyone when the inevitable catches up with them. Come to think of it, everyone looks surprised when it happens.

Does it matter? Julian asked.

How do you know all of this, Julian? Even though I thought he was a raging asshole, Julian was the only person in my life who resembled a friend. I had lost all faith or interest in mankind. To me we were all just beasts, fucking and killing our way through our sad and pathetic lives. Despite all of his flaws, Julian had always been a great handler, but I never really trusted him. I never trust anyone.

I was helping him set up business contacts in the states. Julian explained.

What kind of business?

The usual. I don’t really want to say over the phone.

I see you’re still paranoid.

Yeah, and you’re slipping. What’s the matter, take too many pills today?

Yeah, and I need some more. Can you hook me up? (Julian was referring to a rather heinous drug addiction I had picked up over the years. One thing about being a hitman: you can always get what you want. No matter how dark that need may be.)

So, ah, just thought you should know in case you may want to do something about it.

And what would I do? I said, remembering that Julian never failed to annoy me as our conversations progressed.

Do what you do, he said, and I waited on the phone for a long time before answering.

Mason has had this coming for a long time. I hope they torture his ass before killing him.

What about Elise?

Who?

His daughter… your niece.

Not my problem.

I see you haven’t changed.

No one ever changes.

Well, if you decide you want to do something about this you know how to reach me.

Hey, Julian, why the fuck you always gotta call me in the middle of the night? We could’ve had this conversation during the day like normal people.

What can I say? Old habits die hard. Julian hung up the phone and I set my cell phone on the nightstand by my bed. I looked at the .44 I was holding in my hand and pointed it at my bedroom door for no reason.

Old habits die hard. I said aloud as I popped a few more pills and swallowed them dry. Yeah, I guess they do. I picked up my cell phone and dialed a number. Julian answered immediately.

CHAPTER TWO

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I woke the next day and reached over to my nightstand where I kept my rather impressive stash of prescription drugs. I took out a handful of Oxycontin and popped them into my mouth. I reached down to the floor near my bed and picked up a pint bottle of Old Crow, took a long pull, and swallowed the large pills. I grimaced a bit, but I love the burn of hard spirits. Gotta have that burn, especially for breakfast.

I stood up and limped toward the bathroom, saying a silent curse-filled prayer asking the Lord to bring down his wrath on the asshole that shot me. That slippery bastard has been a reminder to always respect your marks. That had been my number one rule when I started in this business, and it saved my life many times. You never know what people are capable of—most of all, yourself.

I took a shower and was already feeling better. Even after all this time, I could feel the pills start to wiggle into my system. I went into the kitchen and made coffee. While it brewed, I read the paper and smoked cigarettes. When the coffee was done, I grabbed a cup and sipped it while cleaning my .44 Magnum. This was my daily ritual, and I’m a creature of habit.

After a bowl of cereal, I dressed in a dark blue suit with a blood-red tie. As I checked how I looked in the mirror, I thought about how great suits are. The world will open its pussy wide open to a man in a suit. I always wear suits when on the job. It’s like putting on a mask, and everyone just assumes you belong wherever you are. A nice suit is almost as important as a reliable weapon. Almost.

I grabbed my cell phone, keys, and wallet, and slipped into the shoulder holster that I custom made for my .44. I set the actual holster closer to the middle of my back so that I could conceal it easier but still had easy access if I needed it in a hurry; that’s another thing to keep in mind in my profession. Pack heavy and be ready. The last item I put in my pocket was my favorite: a three-inch titanium Gerber lock blade with a serrated edge. I love this knife, even more than this suit.

I hit the street to the usual thunder of city buses and honking horns. Fucking cities, I don’t know why I live in one. Perhaps it’s the anonymity. Being nameless comes in handy, especially when you hate every other living human being on the planet. But I always miss the country life that I’d had growing up. Hunting and fishing seemed like they were the only activities I had any interest in. At the time, I had no idea how useful it would be for me to know how to handle guns. So many of my marks had the chance to protect themselves, but they lacked the fundamentals of shooting. I even laughed the last time I shot a gangbanger who had opened up on me with that ridiculous side-grip shooting stance that many of them fancy. If gangbangers learned how to calm down and take controlled shots, there would be a lot less innocent bystanders shot.

I limped toward a bus stop that would take me further downtown to meet Julian. A homeless man asked me for money. I stared at him for a few seconds until he looked confused and walked away, shaking his head. I made it to the bus stop and waited for the bus.

The bus was crowded like always. There was a fat lady sitting in the handicap seat at the front of the bus. I walked up and stood right in front of her until she looked up at me. With a sadistic smile I said, This is a handicap seat, get up.

Go fuck yourself, she said, and looked away while undoubtedly daydreaming about fingering herself in a pool of melted fudge.

Being fat doesn’t make you handicapped, I said. Besides, you could use the exercise. Hell, just pulling that elephant ass of yours out of the seat would burn a few hundred calories.

The fat lady started shaking in rage and her three chins jiggled like she was wearing a scarf made of Jell-O.

I was starting to lose patience, so I gave her my murder stare. It’s one thing that has really come in handy for me over the years: I can look like one mean motherfucker when I want to, and right then I wanted to. But the stare had no effect. What the fuck? I had seen grown men shit their pants at the sight of my green, vacant eyes. So why was this bitch not moving? This was not a confidence-inspiring moment for me, but I shook it off. No big deal.

I called the lady a fat bitch and waddled down the aisle. The bus lurched forward and I fell down face-first. The day was going swimmingly and it wasn’t even lunch-time yet. I pulled myself up and looked back down the aisle at the fat lady. She was laughing and pointing at me. I was so pissed off, I could’ve stabbed her right then and there. I even considered following her home and burning her house down. Instead, I just sat on the bus and tried not to smell the fresh load of shit that the homeless guy next to me had just dropped in his pants.

I got off at a bus stop and crossed the street to a bar called The Rusty Stab Wound. It’s one of those places where you never want to end up or accidently stumble into. It was eight in the morning, and I could already see the regulars hanging out in front of the bar, sucking on their smokes like they were umbilical cords. I glared at them as they eyed me in my nice suit. I lit a Lucky Strike and headed inside.

CHAPTER THREE

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I walked into the dark room and my nostrils filled with the stench of mold, stale beer, piss, and losers. I scanned the empty bar and saw Julian sitting near the back in his usual booth. He waved for me to come over. I headed that way but stopped by the bar on the way. Two shots of Old Crow and a PBR tall boy, I told the bartender. He poured my drinks and gave me a weary look. The last time I had been at that bar I got bounced