My name is Kyle Lewis; I'm a professional thief, a very good one. I have found myself in Spain, in a veritable palace overlooking the Mediterranean Sea in a sumptuously furnished bedroom that would make Donald Trump's entire condo look like a dilapidated hovel. The furnishings in this room alone are easily worth two or three million dollars.

I've often dreamed of hitting just such a place, so I could live in just such a place. Now I'm here and I'm having the worst day of my life.

Imminent death will do that to a person.

"Can I get you anything?"

The voice came from behind me, from the Fat Lady. She had a commonly-known moniker, but to me and others in similar professions she was simply the Fat Lady. She ruled most of this coastal city with an iron fist in a velvet glove. If the citizens knew of her connections to crime they might become outraged just long enough to do her some real damage; she did all her moving and shaking behind the scenes.

"No, thanks; I'm just dandy."

I had stepped out of my comfort zone and tried my hand at character assassination. I saw a bunch of dollar signs and couldn't say no. I tried to smear her name to run her outta town and my ill-conceived plan blew up in my face. I hadn't done my homework. Let's just say as soon as she learned what happened I found myself in her "care" within two days. As one professional to another, we had a civil discussion until she handed me a cocktail. Stupidly, I took it.

One sip and I knew I was poisoned.

Now here I was in this bedroom, sitting on a chair facing a small table, on top of which was a locked box containing the antidote. I pick the lock within the next 10 minutes or so, and I'm free to go. The Fat Lady knew she could let me live and not ever have to worry about me again, such was her power; she was the spider, I was the fly. In her mind this was giving me a sporting chance.

I could feel my heart racing now. My fingers were tingling, and I felt as though spicules of ice were flowing through my veins. As I poked about the lock with my tension wrench and pick with degrading competency, my eyes drifted to a pair of open French doors in the opposite wall, revealing the clear blue water of the Mediterranean in the near distance. Floating about 100 yards out was a luxurious yacht, one of several owned by the Fat Lady. As distractions go, it was a beaut. The lock box in front of me contained a life-saving elixir; that boat out there, however, held the real prize, one I desperately wanted to claim.

As I scraped at the tumblers with the pick the Fat Lady hove into view and sat down next to the French doors. She pulled out a file and started working on her nails; that was all the encouragement I needed to turn my attention back to defeating the lock.

My hands started to shake and my vision darkened, but I heard a muted snick and the latch popped up. Without hesitation I grabbed the vial inside and drank the sour liquid. What's the worst that could happen; I'd be poisoned more? Immediately my vision started to clear and though I still felt a little wobbly, I walked over to the French doors and exited out onto the balcony with the Fat Lady trailing.

Joining me, she followed my gaze out to the boat. She produced a two-way radio and spoke into it.

We stood there at the balcony railing, considering recent events. My heart was still fluttering a bit, but probably not from the poison; we were a cheetah and hare drinking from the same watering hole, sharing an unsteady truce.

Moments later, two figures exited from the boat, boarded a smaller craft and sped away.

"I'm a woman of my word, Mr. Lewis; your daughter is safe." She pointed with a sausage-like finger. "Monty will take you to the boat on that skiff there, and the captain will take the two of you wherever you'd like to go. Surely you don't begrudge my holding Sarah as an insurance policy?”

She turned to face me. “Mr. Lewis, I hope to never see you again."

"You won't, trust me."

Feeling a little better, I walked down to the beach, enjoying for the first time the warm sun and the refreshing sea breeze.

I was already planning my return. When I told the Fat Lady she'd never see me again, I meant precisely that.

“Hold it!” the shout rang out from behind me.

Juliet whirled around in terror, I followed suit more slowly, grinning. “Detective Girelli,” I said warmly. “Who says there’s never a cop around when you need one? I was just on my way to see you.”

“That’s what I figured,” Girelli said. His gun was pointing straight at me, which was bad manners. But hey, there weren’t enough hours in the day to get worked up over every joker who’d ever waved a gun in my direction. “You’ve been having a busy couple of days, Ray. Bodies everywhere. All people who pissed off Antony Piazza. He hired you to get back at his enemies, huh?”

I shrugged, still smiling. “I just do what I do. But Mafia guys like Piazza, their enemies list is like a phone book. What we’ve got here is more like a ‘greatest hits’ situation. A few of the all-time number ones, a few of the less popular ones you just can’t get out of your head, and a few new ones just to show you still got it.”

“I get it. Who’s your friend?” Girelli asked.

“I-I’m not with him,” Juliet stammered.

“Juliet, shut up,” I said, as nicely as I could. She snapped her mouth closed. “This is Juliet. Juliet, this is Detective Girelli. He’s the last name on my list.”

“She a hitter, too?” Girelli asked.

I cracked up. Girelli just watched me as I roared with laughter. Juliet closed her eyes and mumbled something. “Juliet? No, but she does have certain sterling qualities. For instance, memory. She remembers all sorts of details about people. She only saw Piazza’s youngest son for, like,” I pinched my fingers together, “this long, and yet she could remember so much about him, he’ll be as old as his old man when he gets out of the pen.”

The detective frowned. “She testified against Piazza’s kid? So what’s she doing with you?”

“Well, see, the lone gunman is just that. Lone. You ever see This Gun For Hire? Alan Ladd? Great movie. Except Ladd’s character is a complete LOSER!” I screamed the last. Juliet shrank back into herself, and even Girelli flinched for a moment. So I pulled my own gun out.

I could see Girelli’s knuckles whiten. “Drop it, Ray,” he said softly.

“You'll do what you do, detective. That means arresting me, not shooting me. Where was I? Yeah. Ladd just sits around and stares at the ceiling when he’s not on the job. Forget that. If you don’t enjoy life, why even bother living? Aren’t we all here because we enjoy living? You enjoy living, right?” I asked Juliet, jamming my gun into the side of her head.

“Oh, God,” Juliet whimpered. Girelli took a step forward.

I dropped the gun to my side. “Juliet and I made a deal. She comes along for the ride, gives me somebody to chat with, you know, keeps me sane, and in return…”

“You let her go?”

“Please,” I groaned. “I kill her last.”

“Some deal.”

“It’s life or death, Girelli,” I said soberly. “How much more do you want?”

“Well, I hope you don’t want much, Ray,” Girelli said. “Because it’s all over for you. Piazza died yesterday. The Family’s running scared. Nobody’s going to be a paying you a dime for this contract.”

I shook my head in amazement. “You think I do this for the money? “ I spread my arms out, laughing. “Do I look like I’m getting rich off this job? I’ve been wearing this same lousy suit all week! If I wanted money, I’d have opened a Japanese restaurant. Have you seen what they charge for a handful of meat on top of some rice? ”

“Why do you do it, then?”

“Because it’s what comes naturally to me,” I said, bringing my gun up, level with his.

“I swear to God, Ray, I will…”

“I looked at a newborn baby once, Girelli,” I said, “and I felt absolutely nothing. No epiphany. No sudden appreciation of the worth of human life. Not once have I questioned my chosen profession. That is justification enough. If you are good at something, and can’t see yourself doing anything else, don’t you have an obligation to do it? Pay is irrelevant. You do what you do. So I think we both know how this is going to end.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right, Ray.” Girelli sagged. And then he shot me.

I was surprised, to say the least. “You…” I gasped as I sank to the street and Juliet ran to his side. “You actually…what…kind of cop…?”

“A lousy one, I guess,” Girelli said. “We can’t all have the jobs that fit us best. But even so, I do what I do.”

I hate this job.

Yeah, I should have paid more attention in class, worked harder, gone to college, and gotten a job with a little prestige. Being an exterminator stinks, and being an exterminator on this particular job stinks harder. Big contract jobs are always like that. You want a tough job? I got your tough job right here: The living conditions are terrible; it's dangerous, dirty, hot, smelly work. There's always too much to do, and not enough time to do it, and the boss expects me to be perfect all the time, you know what I mean? There's no recognition for a job well done. I get no respect, even from my own kids; I'm telling you that. But, yeah, it pays the bills, so I keep doing it.

I'm used to it, actually. I wouldn't even mind so much, except that this particular infestation is so large, and I got so little help, that it's killing me. You want bugs? I got bugs up the yin yang. A whole planet's worth of bugs. I'm not as young as I used to be, either, you know? It's tough doing this job, out here in the middle of nowhere, weeks from civilization. It's slated to be a small vacation resort, but first we have to get rid of the vermin.

So yesterday, I'm out with the new kid, Tony. He's strong as an ox, and dumb as a post. But he's eager to learn, so I'm trying to be patient and explain the business to him. First we put on the suits and the sprayers. Then, I tell him the first rule of the job is to surprise the bugs, and then let them all run away. You let them see you; you squash a few so they know you're serious, and they all run and hide. Then, and you have to be quick about it, you get them with the spray, because you know exactly where they're hiding. Does it work? Are you kidding me? It works every time: There's nothing they can do about it. They all die, and, better yet, they're out of sight so the customer doesn't have a fit. It leaves the world a better place, with no bugs around. Customers feel right at home then.

So Tony goes out with me, but his suit leaks, and by the time he gets that fixed, the bugs aren't surprised any more. And these bugs are nasty. They're tiny--we're huge by comparison--but they start swarming all over. Tony gets surprised, and the first thing he does is start spraying the air. The air! I'd have smacked him then and there, but I was too busy. It was a heck of a mess; the bugs were ticked off, and they were stinging and crawling around and flying all over. Tony ran low on spray and was just standing there. I told him to snap out of it, put the spray down, and start stamping on the little buggers. The two of us do our little tap dance thing for awhile, and some of the bugs run and hide, like they all should have from the beginning, if Tony had been doing his job.

Problem is, a lot of them didn't run, and not only that, the bugs are, what do you call it, organized. It's almost like they have a plan. I haven't seen this since Mars, and I've done a lot of jobs since then. They're persistent little critters, too. They start stinging us--they can throw their stingers quite a ways, and they make little hot pops when they hit us. There are even some bugs that can drop the stingers on us from above. Damn if the heat doesn't start eating into our suits.

Tony, the new kid that he is, picks up his sprayer, runs out in front, and takes a lot of the heat. Of course, he panics and starts spraying the bugs while they're out in the open. Naturally he can only point his sprayer in one direction at a time, and the bugs catch on to that pretty quickly, and swarm at him from whichever direction the spray isn't pointing. Last time I saw Tony, he was down, on fire, covered with bugs, with big holes in his suit.

I had to leave him there, and come back up here and try to figure out what to do next. I think I'm going to have to sinter the atmosphere, just like we had to do with Mars, long ago. The customer won't be happy--they'll have to wait a couple more eons before they can move in. The place won't be as pretty--it won't be blue any more--but at least the bugs will be gone. Good riddance to them.

Damned bugs.

I tilted my head backwards and exhaled, holding the gauloise limply between two fingers. Yet more smoke rose to cling to the low ceiling. I counted three seconds before levelling my gaze once more onto the man opposite me. Giving it another two and a half seconds (half beats keep them on their toes), I cocked my head. The room was already dark enough, so you might say the polaroids were unnecessary, but you’d be wrong. Most people think there are only two reasons for sunglasses (fashion and protection), but there is in fact a third which is in adherence with rule number one of meeting your client: don’t let him relax. People like them want someone to relate to; someone to tell them what they’re doing is alright, you know? If all he can see is his own sorry self in the eyes of the guy he hired to kill his cheating wife and her lover, then he’s going to be scared. And scared people tip well.

“No,” I said suddenly, breaking both the silence and my cigarette. I twisted the gauloise slowly and deliberately, all the while making sure I still had him fixed in my mirror-eyed stare. I let him watch as the light was snuffed out of it, dying with a stream of smoke curling lazily from its corpse. People respect power and rule number two is all about respect. It is a commodity virtually exchangeable for cash at any major bank or building society.

The man looked forlorn, mouth working but words withheld. He sure was rattled.

"20k then!"

One...two...three...

"25?"

...four...five...

“35k!” That last one was panic. See? What did I tell you – fear pays.

“Done.” The man looked positively relieved. Sweat dripped down his fat face and his cheeks were ruddy. A true amateur; I would have settled for fifteen. Nonetheless, I offered my hand. Rule number three is always be polite. Good manners never hurt anyone.
*
I pretended to survey the hole in my stolen uniform; the maintenance room wasn’t exactly code-locked. According to her husband, the lady I was looking for met her gentleman friend at the golf course, which she had been frequenting more and more of late. The course map shows the ninth to be different from the other holes in the sense that it is the only which has a water hazard; a little stream in fact. Just down a small valley underneath the shade of some trees, some romantic soul had constructed a little wooden pavilion presumably so tired golfers could sit a while and watch the stream. If I were cheating on my husband, and my only excuse to be away for hours at a time was golfing, I wonder where I’d enact my lechery? According to the timetable in the maintenance room, the other grounds men weren’t due on the ninth until 4PM, so time was on my side. As nobody but a man in uniform questions a man in a uniform, I was able to sit and wait for them to come to me.
*
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I have no idea if he was talking to me, but he appeared to be shouting in my direction. His accent was coarse and American. Consequently, I named him Brad. Brad probably didn’t expect a reply, because exactly a second later, the space where a reply would have fit was filled by the sound of a golf ball being hit. I recognized his golfing partner from the photograph my client had shown me. They watched the well struck ball glide gracefully in the complete wrong direction.

The two of them disappeared down towards the stream, apparently in search of Brad’s ball, and the cogs in my skull whirred to life. I remained perfectly still as I counted to five hundred and forty seven.
*
I could hear them. My right hand gripped the silenced pistol, my left touched the door. I counted to three.
It lasted two seconds. Brad managed a shout of alarm before a bullet buried itself in his heart. Three milliseconds later, a second bullet shattered through his temporal lobe. The gun pointed to her. She started a scream that would never finish. A third bullet slammed into her neck, completely severing her windpipe. Blood surged forth to join Brad’s. She gasped desperately for air. I’d have finished her there and then, but my job was not done. I stepped forward, workman’s boot splashing in the growing red pool.

“I have a message from your husband. He says he still loves you and wishes it didn’t have to be this way.”

Her eyes widened in silent shock as I squeezed the trigger for the last time; begging fate to alter its course. The bullet struck her in the head. I watched as the light was snuffed out of her eyes and a single stream of smoke rose from the hole. I do love that part.

"Pssst! Jim! Let's play ninja!" my older brother whispered, long after lights out.

"OK, Mike. You go first. Bring me the salt shaker from the kitchen table," I replied.

Mike silently crept out of the room. He'd have to go through the hall, down the back stairs, and into the kitchen, after checking to make sure Mom and Dad weren't in there. He'd then have to swipe the salt shaker, and make his way back to our bedroom without being caught.

Mike had never been caught. In fact, in the whole summer since we started playing the game, neither of us had ever been caught.

My mother, of course, was puzzled by the occasional overnight appearance of household items--silverware, figurines from the living room, toys from the family room--in our shared bedroom. Obviously, we professed to know nothing about it.

Sure enough, Mike returned in three minutes, holding the salt shaker triumphantly.

"That was too easy," he said. "Let's make it harder."

"OK; I'm game," I said.

"Bring me the little framed picture of you and me that is on the end table in the den."

"The den? But that's where Mom and Dad are!" I said.

"You chicken?" asked Mike.

"No way!" I said. I wasn't about to be called a chicken by my brother. I got out of bed, and like a ninja, I stealthily left the room.

I planned the route in my head. There were two options. I could go down the back stairs, through the kitchen, and into the den, but I'd have to cover the whole length of the kitchen, and all the lights would be on. Or, I could go down the front stairs, through the living room, and into the den, and stay in the darkness. Better yet, the end table with the picture on it was right by the door. The only problem was that my father's recliner faced that door; I'd have to be very careful during that part of my mission.

The first part was easy. I crept down the front stairs, and made it through the living room without making a sound. I eased down to the floor, and slowly peeked around the bottom of the doorway into the den. Dad was reading the paper, holding it up in front of him, and Mom had her back to me, watching TV.

What luck!

I silently eased into the room, and ever so slowly reached for the little framed picture of my brother and me on the side table by the couch. I had to make sure I had the right one; there's also a picture there of our sister Karen, in a matching frame.

Got it!

Now all I had to do was back up and retrace my steps, and I was home free. I looked behind me, easing my way slowly, carefully, stealthily back around the doorframe, just like a ninja. As I reached the safety of the living room, I peeked one last time into the den, to make sure I was safe.

Dad was looking right at me!

I quickly ducked back into the living room and tried to make my escape. Dad, however, had other ideas. Without saying a word, he got up, came into the room, and grabbed my arm, and marched me away from the den, stopping only when we were out of Mom's earshot.

"What on earth are you doing, Jim?" he whispered.

"Playing 'Ninja'," I said, truthfully. It never, ever paid to lie to my dad.

"'Ninja', huh? When I was a boy, we called it 'Spy'." He paused for a second, considering. "OK, listen to me: No more! Go up to bed right now. The next time I see either of you down here, there'll be a very sorry young man!" he said. He was sort of smiling as he said it, but I also knew he was serious. "If your mother ever caught you, your bottom would be sore for a week!"

"Yes, sir," I said softly, and crept back upstairs.

I still had the photograph, though. As I sneaked back into the bedroom, I showed it triumphantly to Mike, as if nothing had ever happened.

"Wow, good job!" said Mike. "I didn't think you'd make it!"

"Thank you," I said. "I was very careful. Now, it's your turn.

"Bring me the little framed picture of Karen that is on the end table in the den."

I got out of bed and checked that all the body parts that I needed were still functioning. Somehow that list keeps getting shorter. I got dressed with my usual attention to detail and drank my coffee while choking down a bowl of bran flakes and read the obituaries. Unlike most elderly people, I didn’t read them to learn if any old friends had died. I read them to find out about the people I had killed. I am probably the world’s oldest hitman.

Breakfast finished, I picked up my cane. So many of the young crowd are all about gadgets and weapons. They can shoot someone from miles away, they can plant bombs or bugs or poison. They are messy. When they kill, you know their victim was a target. There are sirens and investigations. They need to run off and lay low in exotic locations.

Not me, I’m all about finesse. When I kill someone usually even the victim doesn’t know they’ve been murdered. I do the job, then I go home and have a cup of tea and watch reruns on TV. The last time I went anywhere exotic it was months before I was regular again. There is nothing worse than trying to do a job when your bowels aren’t working right.

Today was the culmination of a month’s work. Tidy, respectable death takes time and planning. I walked down the hall to the elevator and nodded good morning to Mrs. Jones. I was one of her “projects” and was trying not to encourage her. Her biscuits were hard enough to break my teeth.

It was one of those damp days that can’t decide if it is going to rain or not. The pavement was slick and wet, though it wasn’t actually raining at the moment.

I only had to wait a few minutes for the bus uptown. They were always running a few minutes late and always running a bit fast to catch up. The bus let me and the rest of the geriatric crowd off in front of the market. I saw my target immediately. He stood out like a rottweiler in a pack of poodles. He drank his coffee and pretended to read the paper. I knew that his cold, blue eyes were scanning the crowd for danger.

I walked past with the crowd. He was on his feet and beside me before I could react.

“Just keep walking Gramps.” he said quietly. He showed me the 9 mm pistol in his waistband. The weapon of choice for the young punks. I pretended I didn’t hear him and kept following the other old people.

“Hey, Gramps,” he said much louder, with that fake cheery voice that people put on to talk to folks that don’t have a full deck to play with anymore. His hand on my arm made it easier to follow him. He led me away from the crowd along the street. I could feel his frustration at my slow pace, so I slowed even more.

“I know you’ve been casing me. You are going to tell me who you are working for, then I will let you go home and have a nice glass of prune juice.”

“Such a smart boy,” I snorted, “You have so many people who want you dead, they had to take numbers and wait in line for the privilege of hiring the hit.” I started listing names. I stopped when his grip on my arm became painful.

“Who's the hitman?” he snarled, “I’ll kill him, then all those posers.”

“I am,” I told him. He stopped and spun me to face him. I thought for a moment he was going to hit me, but his eyes caught the watching glare of some passing people. He started walking me along the road again, faster now. I could almost hear the wheels turning. We got to a corner and I saw his other hand reach for the pistol.

People who live out of strength expect strength. They are prepared for it. If you hang your life on gadgets, you are ready to deal with them. I gave him something he had no knowledge of - weakness. I let my cane slip on the wet pavement and started to go down. His instincts betrayed him and he tried to keep me upright. For the slightest fraction of a second he was off balance.

It was enough for me to give him a shove. Nothing obvious, but enough to make him take a step back onto the road, in front of the bus that was still moving too fast trying to catch up to an impossible schedule. The slick road meant the tires wouldn’t grip the pavement. Even a rottweiler will die when run over by a bus. I slipped away as the crowd gathered to watch his corpse grow cold.

Like they say, old age and treachery...

“I’m an assassin for the US Military, you know,” he said, taking a swig of what, by all appearances, was his fifth or sixth beer of the evening. “These days we aren’t under as strict of confidently rules, because of the terrorists. We want them to know we’re out there.”

I tried hard not to laugh. What a pompous fool. He couldn’t even use the word “confidentiality” correctly. If he thought that line would impress me, he was drunker than he thought. Of course, it would have to impress me. I had to get him alone, and having him work cheap lines on me was the easiest and most effective way.

Everything about this place was cheap. The drinks, the come-ons, the women. I tried to remind myself that they didn’t realize they were worth more than a five dollar bottle of perfume, a two dollar tube of red lipstick, and whatever man they could convince they were worth a few drinks and a roll in the hay. They didn’t look much different from the women just down the street, working the corner in the same get-up and charging for what the women in the bar couldn’t manage to give away. Still, I had to fight a feeling of repulsion for these women who were too worried about getting laid to realize their own self-worth.

Maybe that’s all they’d ever been made to feel they were good for. I sure knew the feeling. Of course, I’d realized early on that my life was heading down a different path. Where most women felt self-pity, I’d only felt a sense of vengeance. In a way, I wasn’t that different from the women on the street corner. I’d just learned to cash in on my anger in a different way.
I watched the man order another beer, and nodded and grinned at whatever foolish prattle he was spewing at me. I could tell when his mood shifted from hopeful to confident. I felt a similar surge in confidence, and made my excuses to go to the “powder room”, making sure he knew I’d be returning.

I punched in the numbers quickly, and whispered a single phrase. By morning thousands of dollars would be transferred to my bank account. I walked back to the bar and ran my nails along his spine. “Let’s get out of here,” I whispered. He grinned goofily. They all grinned that way. We walked out to his car, and he clumsily opened the door for me. For some reason, they always thought I’d let them drive me somewhere after the massive quantities they’d been drinking, too. Just one more reason I wouldn’t feel guilty for doing my job.

“Hang on,” I said, running a hand down his cheek. I tried not to shudder at having to touch him. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward him in a clumsy and sloppy embrace. I felt the back of my throat clench and unclench in an effort not to gag. I jerked from him, and he watched me with hurt eyes. "I thought you were-"

I smiled at him reassuringly. "I am. Just let me just make sure I put my wallet back in my purse.” I reached in and pretended to rummage around a bit, before grasping the comforting weight of my gun, and before he realized what had happened, I’d disposed of him.

His eyes widened in shock, and he fell to the ground with a dull thud. I stood over him as the blood gurgled from between his lips, and watched him struggle to catch a breath that would never come. I couldn’t help but smile at his struggle.

“Should have stayed home with your wife tonight, bub.”

“You’ll have to release me soon, you can’t get away with this,” he said. “This city is crawling with the best homicide investigators in the world, and you think you can get away with this?” He was taunting me.

“Shut up!” I snapped. “I can’t think!”

This was not a situation I had ever accounted for - they’re never conscious at this point. I looked around the vault for something heavy and came across a skillet.

“You know they can find traces of blood these days long after you’ve cleaned up. If you do anything to me they will find you,” he continued, so I hit him again. And again. And again until he stopped screaming and the blood streamed across the table . . .

----------------------------------------------

I first spied him drinking alone at the bar at the Rydges. He seemed unsure of himself despite his confident air, a dead-give away for an out-of-town conference goer. But he was perfect: since switching from rodentia to human flesh, I only have to feed once every few months and the more powerful the prey, the longer I can stave off the pangs.

But don’t misunderstand me, I’m not one of those types who dress up in capes and pretend to be a vampire or one of those sad perverts who advertise on cannibal fetish websites for willing “victims”. For me this is far from fantasy, nor is it something I necessarily enjoy: it is a necessity. When the hunger rises, when the anaemic, empty lethargy overcomes me, it takes a life – and nothing but a life – to quell it, and with a vial of GHB in my purse and a pair of red stilettos on my feet, I was on the prowl.

Getting to work, I sidled up to him and asked him what he was drinking, my smile warm and open. He was rather striking, tall and muscular yet pallid and rather youthful for his age with a foppish mop of white-blonde hair. On physique alone, I could tell he could keep me satisfied for months if only I could get him back home.

“So . . .” I asked, running my finger up and down my champagne flute, “what brings you here?”

“I’m here for a symposium,” he replied, his English perfect yet with a charming Scandinavian tinge.

“Oh yes, are you a scientist?” I ventured, with carefully measured coyness.

“No, not a scientist, but I am an expert in my field,” he offered with a grin.

“Come on, you can tell me, I won’t laugh at you.”

“I’m a senior detective in the Keskusrikospoliisi.”

“The what?”

“The Keskusrikospoliisi, the Finnish National Bureau of Investigation. I’m here for a homicide investigation symposium . . .” Part of me froze.

“No, you don’t say!” I tried to laugh it off, but my instinct was to get out of there right away. I couldn’t take a detective, no matter where he was from. It was too dangerous.

Against my better judgement, I bought another round of drinks.

He was a rampant flirt and a heavy drinker, making my work easy. The first shot of GHB only seemed to loosen him up, and the second shot with coffee back at my house didn’t do much either. The rational part of my brain told me the risk was too great, to let him go but I had already got this far – if I was to get him down to the vault now, I would have to change my plans and tire him out another way.

After coffee I led him to the bedroom. “This is a strange house you have here,” he commented as I snaked my legs around him and pulled him towards me on the bed.

“It’s an old bank. I bought it cheap and did it up. Anyway, baby,” I started to undo his buttons, “that’s not really important right now . . .”

After we made love, he rolled over and fell into a deep sleep. It was time to act. I grabbed my bedside lamp and with all my strength I slammed it down on his head. He didn’t even move.

By the time I got him down into the vault and secured on the operating table, he had come to.

“If you wanted to play kinky, you could have asked . . . but that’s not what you brought me home for, is it?” Startled, I dropped the saw and screamed. I thought he was out cold. "I know what this place is!"

He tried to talk his way out of it, oh how he tried, but all his booksmarts and experience couldn’t counter my hunger and my fear. And now, with the bloody deed done and his heart sizzling in my frypan, his flesh in my freezer for later and his bones in my soup pot boiling down for stock, there is no time to relax – maybe not tomorrow, but soon someone, somewhere will start looking for him . . .

Our nature, as human beings, is to remember the significant, and the first time we experience a thing tends to be the most significant, I think. Those memories outlast everything subsequent. First taste, first touch, first kiss, first blood. It is the barometer by which all that follows will be judged, measured, and found wanting. Our lives are formed and lived around lessons learned, and the first of anything is the purest memory we will ever have.

When I was ten I saw my older brother stabbed to death. He was six years my elder, and I idolised him. We had been walking home together after he had been sent to collect me from a friends house. Later, the newspapers would present what happened as a case of a mugging gone wrong - almost a tragic accident, but I knew better. As clear as yesterday I remember three of them - older boys, tattooed and dangerous looking. Two held him pinned against a wall. The other was smiling as he brandished a small, wicked looking knife.

My brother turned his head and screamed at me to run and get help; but as he did so he thrashed his body against the boys holding him. The knifeman grinned, and with a fluid motion flipped the handle of the knife so he was holding it in a fist, rammed his arm forward, and drove the blade into my brother's thigh.

They let him go, but his leg would not support him. They were laughing as they ran away, but whether it was at my brother collapsing or my screams, I do not know. I screamed for help as I held him, but none came. I found out later the blade had neatly split his femoral artery.

It didn’t take the police long to find them. At the trial, they pleaded guilty. Ten years for my brothers life. I remember feeling hatred so profound it would swell up within and choke me.

Over the years, as I have come to understand the meaning of love, I realised he was the first thing I loved totally and completely. First - and last. My love for him was a physical feeling in my chest, sometimes. When he died, I understood nothing would ever be the same again. I hated the world that could be so cruel. I hated my parents that sent him to collect me that night. I resented the grief counsellors I was sent to; how could they possibly understand my pain? How could they stop the anger? How dare they talk to me about my brother? Too young to say these things, I shut myself off. As soon as I was old enough, I left home.

My path led from the Army, to where I am now. It took years, but I am patient man. They call me The Ghost. Able to disappear like mist, to kill without conscience. The Ghost never misses a mark. The Ghost is cold, ruthless. Clinical. Never goes over the top. My reputation has grown with every job.

As with everyone, I am a product of my memories; my lessons learned. I remember my first contract. So long ago now, but it’s still clear in my mind. The mark knew what was coming; of that I am certain. He had never seen me before I removed the bag from his head, but there was something in my bearing he recognised immediately. His eyes went wild below his sweaty hair, and despite his bonds he tried to pull himself away. He screamed against the gag, panicking. I was quick, and deft. He did not suffer unnecessarily. I felt nothing. When it was done, I wiped the blade clean on his clothing and left his body in a manner that would speak to others. My employers were pleased.

I am a killer, made that way by circumstance. I make no excuses and seek none; I am what I am. I feel no regret, because I have measured myself against the darkness in my past, and within it I see my true self. With an adult’s perspective I can look back on my brother's death as the catalyst that changed my nature forever, but I confess - I feel no compulsion to change it back.

Because it’s all been a sideshow to my real purpose - here, and now. I have tracked him for years, but now my brother’s killer is tied to the chair in front of me, begging, pleading. I am sure he recognises me. Clinical? Not this time.

My love was the purest thing in my life, but it is only a memory now.

I am going to take his eyes first.

I run as fast as I can across the open scrub, racing for the dense tree line across the frozen lake. As my feet hit the iced over lake I skid out of control. I dig into the thin layer of snow dusting the ice and try to control my slide. My heart skips a beat as I try to run faster across the ice. I know that skirting the lake would have been easier, but this is much faster. I must get away, everything depends on my success. My breath is screaming out of my lungs as I hit the lake shore and am able to grab purchase in the thicker snow.

The earth in front of me explodes. I hear a loud crack, followed by another shower of rocky shore slamming into my face. He is getting closer! I knew I shouldn’t have stolen from him, but I had no choice. Life depended on it! I knew he would chase me, but this far? “POW”, another wicked spray of earth hits me in the face, I am momentarily blinded by the fine powder of dirt and snow lacing my eyes, I can’t stop to wipe them, he is gaining on me. My wounds are slowing my stride and my prize weighing me down. I hear him crossing the lake, cursing and shouting at me.

The tree line is looming just ahead of me, if I can make it that far, I might have a chance. If I could just drop my prize, I know I could make it. The pain is driving me out of my mind. My heart screams at me to keep moving, I must make it back with my prize. I hear crunching as he closes in on the edge of the lake he is really gaining on me. If only my back weren’t torn up so bad, I could lengthen my stride. Darn that rickity fence. I knew it was too dangerous to cross under. There is another loud crack, my vision explodes with color, red and blues dance before my eyes. My ear, my ear feels like it has just exploded on my head.

I can’t keep going, the pain is so awful. I could almost welcome the painlessness of death. The calm darkness of eternal sleep seems like a promising reward for the pain I am suffering. My mind tells me to just let go, so quiet and calm. No pain, no chases, no rifles just peace. I slow my pace, my soul writhing against my failing will. Reminding me of what I must do. Their lives depend on my making it home. Why won’t he just leave me alone! He had dozens of these, how can he miss just one so badly? I struggle to get back on my feet, he is just behind me now, and I can almost feel him. The trees are only a few more feet away. I might just make it! I can see the outline of the bushes just in front of me.

I am almost home! If I can just get there I will be safe! “Pang” my left foot screams in pain, was that a rock? God, I am almost there, so close. I am nearly out of breath and my heart is beating harder than it ever has before. I hear him crashing thru the snow just behind me! I have no choice, I can’t keep running. I gather myself for that last leap and feel his fingers grab at my toes. They slide clear and I nearly collapse in the brushes, my mind screeching at me that I’m not safe yet. I gather myself and make the few last feet to home, dragging my prize behind me as I dive into home. The darkness folds over me, protecting me as I race further down the tunnel.

My poor babies crying with hunger are music to my ears. I swear silently to myself that I will never steal again, and thank the gods that I made it back from this hunt. My kits are so happy to see me; they lick me and notice the nice fat turkey I brought home. They barely wait for me to present it before they attack it with tiny teeth and ferocious appetites.

My mate, the love of my life licks my face. Then noticing my wounds goes to work cleaning them up. I lie next to my mate as she attends to our kits and they climb all over me with full bellies. How fast they grow! They are starting to look like such fine little foxes! My body completely spent from the chase, my mind exhausted, my belly full, my heart contented, I drifted off to sleep that late November day thankful for everything I had.