Free The Silver Bear by Derek Haas

what was otherwise a handsome face. She stayed in shape, too, working out five days a week with a personal trainer . . . alternating upper and lower body workouts with cardio training each session. Her gym was equidistant between her town home and her courtroom.
    Now, whether there was a hit on her because she sent the wrong guy up or because she was about to preside over an important trial, I didn’t have the slightest idea. Maybe the contract on her life had nothing to do with her job. Again, I didn’t know. My middleman made sure I stayed in the dark. It kept curiosity at bay, like a leash on an angry dog. The less we knew about the “whys,” the less tempted we were to learn more about our clients. It was just an assignment, an impersonal killing, something I was expected to do by rote.
    I was sleeping a dreamless sleep when Jim’s voice cut through the darkness. He said something about the phone, and it took me a moment to realize he was standing in the doorway with a cordless receiver in his hand.
    “I’m sorry . . . ?” I asked, still trying to shake out the cobwebs.
    “There’s a gentleman on the phone for you. He said it was urgent.”
    Waking in this bed, in this room, at this time was so foreign, it didn’t register to me what was happening as I sat up in the bed and Jim handed me the receiver. He backed out of the room to give me some privacy.
    “Hello?” I said into the phone, my eyes still adjusting to the darkness.
    Vespucci’s voice reached through the receiver. “It’s a go.”
    Vespucci. He had found me. He knew exactly what I was up to, had even obtained the home number to Jake’s parents’ house. The middleman, the fence, whose job it was to find out everything he could about a target, had also found out everything he could about me. These thoughts were ripping through my head in an instant, only to be broken when the dark Italian spoke again. “Twenty-four hours.” And then the phone clicked off.
    It’s a go. Twenty-four hours. Six words packed with a meaning that stretched all the way from this bedroom to a town house off of Beacon Street. I stood up, suddenly awake, as though smelling salts had been twirled under my nose, and started to dress.
    When I came out of the bedroom, carrying my pack, Jim was stooped over a pot of coffee, pouring it into two large mugs.
    “I’m sorry the call woke you,” I offered.
    He handed me a mug. “I’m a hopeless insomniac,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I usually get up by four. It gives me time to think.”
    “What time is it now?” The coffee tasted very good.
    “Four,” he said, a twinkle to his eye. “You need to split?”
    “Yes, sir. Something came up at work. They need me to fill in.”
    “No problem. Take the mug with you.”
    “I couldn’t—”
    “Don’t be silly.”
    Just then, Jake’s voice cut through the quiet of the room. “What’s going on?” she managed. She looked beautiful, standing in an oversized nightshirt, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Looking at her there, it was all I could do to speak.
    “I’m sorry . . . I got an emergency call. Everyone’s calling in sick to work today and they need me to fill in. Must be the flu or something. But they said it would be double pay if I could get there by seven. I can’t pass it up.”
    She yawned and looked at her dad. “Any more of that java?”
    “Half a pot.”
    “Well then, pour me a mug while I get dressed, old man.”
    “You don’t have to go. I’ll just call a cab to take me to a rental car place. Company said they’d pay for it.”
    She moved over and kissed me on the lips, sleepily, right in front of her dad. “Don’t be silly,” she said, sounding just like her father. “I’ll drive you. Pop . . . apologize to Mom for us.”
     
     
    WE rode most of the way talking about innocuous things . . . my impression of her parents, the neighborhood, the house, the bed, the dinner. I was glad not to have to concentrate on what we were