Joe the hit Man: Three

De: Paul Block

Narrado por: Virtual Voice

1: The Teacher's Shadow

The stench of stale urine and rotting garbage clung to the air, a familiar perfume in George Topsfield's nocturnal endeavors. Rain, a relentless drizzle that had plastered itself to the city for days, slicked the cobblestones of the alley, turning the already dismal space into a treacherous, reflective mirror of the neon-drenched city above. It was a fitting stage for the final act of this particular performance. Across from him, huddled in the meager shelter of an overflowing dumpster, was his mark: a weasel-faced accountant named Arthur Finch, his eyes wide with a terror that George had seen a thousand times before. Finch clutched a briefcase to his chest like a shield, a pathetic gesture against the storm that had finally caught up with him.

George, or ‘Joe’ as he was known in these circles, felt no remorse. Remorse was a luxury, a weakness he'd shed years ago, somewhere between the sterile confines of a high school gymnasium and the blood-spattered realities of his current profession. Finch had played his part in a grander scheme of financial malfeasance, a symphony of fraud conducted by men who operated with impunity. Now, his role was simply to be erased.

The gun in George’s hand, a silenced Glock that felt as natural as his own limb, was a testament to his meticulous nature. He didn't rush. The rain, the darkness, the sheer desperation radiating from Finch – it all conspired to create a sense of urgency that George deliberately ignored. This wasn't about speed; it was about precision. It was about the cold, hard transaction that underpinned his entire existence. Finch’s life, measured in the millions he’d siphoned and laundered, was about to be traded for a few thousand dollars and the continued anonymity of his employers.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Joe,” Finch stammered, his voice cracking. “I can… I can give you more. Anything. Just name a price.”

George’s lips curved into a humorless smile. A price. That was Finch’s language, the only one he understood. But the price had already been set, negotiated, and paid. By men far more powerful, far more dangerous, than Finch could ever comprehend. George was merely the enforcer, the final, unarguable punctuation mark.

“The price is already paid, Arthur,” George said, his voice a low growl, barely audible above the drumming rain. He stepped forward, his movements fluid and economical, the worn leather of his trench coat rustling softly. The alley seemed to shrink around Finch, the dripping fire escape and the grimy brick walls pressing in, mirroring the claustrophobia of his rapidly ending existence.

Finch fumbled with the briefcase, his trembling fingers struggling with the latches. “My… my employers, they promised…”

“Promises are cheap,” George interrupted, his gaze fixed on Finch’s face, cataloging the fear, the regret, the sheer, abject terror. It was a familiar tableau, a morbid still life he’d curated many times. He saw not a man, but a problem, a loose end that needed to be tied off, permanently. His success in this world, the immense wealth that flowed into his offshore accounts, was built on this brutal pragmatism. He’d learned to compartmentalize, to detach, to see each life as a ledger entry, a sum that needed to be balanced. And Finch’s account was severely overdrawn.

With a swift, practiced motion, George raised the Glock. The silencer was a whisper in the cacophony of the storm. Two shots, muffled and precise, ripped through the night. Finch’s body slumped against the dumpster, the briefcase clattering open, spilling its contents – stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills – onto the wet cobblestones. They lay there, glistening under the weak yellow light of a distant streetlamp, a starkly literal representation of the value placed on a human life.