The Sterling Hit

I’ve cased the place for the better part of a month. They live well, the Sterlings. Good jobs, a few nice cars, a pair of average kids; the standard suburbia set-up. If you can ignore casual infidelity, it’s not a bad gig at all. Comfort and stability, a perfectly fine appetite.  

“Kit-Kat?” Bull asks the group. 

“Bull.” Clipper laughs, “Why on earth do you have a Kit-Kat?”

I watch him unwrap it from the rearview mirror. 

“I dunno,” he manages, his voice buried in between hurried bites. “I always got one on me. Helps with the nerves, y’know?”

 Stifled laughs and heavy chewing populate the silent car. Even with the commotion I can tell they’re nervous, anxious even. Another day, I’d give them a shout, tell them to loosen up. But on the night of a hit, I like them a little on edge. Keeps their palms wet and their fingers quick. 

“Put it away.” Buck murmurs, her voice just loud enough to dust my ears. 

She reads the atmosphere well, I’ll give her that. 

“Now.” she presses, quieter still.

They look at her in awe. She’s calm, collected. Her words pierce them now in a way very few others could. It’s a wonderfully bizarre thing to witness through quick, subtle glances at a rearview mirror. Assailants, armed and masked, brought to wonder and fear by a single word. Now. Were it not for the slight tremor in her hands, I’m sure I’d be struck too.

“Eight minutes,” I say, my voice startling them half to death. “In and out.”

They stare at the back of my head, the weight of the moment settling into their eyes one by one. It’s hot in the car now. 

“Heat and Bull.”

The pair nods.

“You’re up.” I say, my hand cinching my watch. 

“Cool.” Heat responds in a rough, raspy voice.

They jump out through the back door, leaving it ajar as instructed. Normally, I’d be joining the entry team. No better leadership than by example. But with a crew this green, I prefer to stay out of the action. Makes them work a whole lot faster and me a lot less liable. Can’t overestimate the calm that comes from seating out a night like this. Still, I can’t help but watch from the sidelines. 

Heat works quickly, just barely outpacing Bull through the locks. It’s a marginal difference really, no more than a couple seconds. They are cordial enough to leave their disparities undiscussed. None of the others are keen enough on the minutia of the entry to care, let alone remark. It’s a smart move, keeping the playing field level between them. Certainly saves me the trouble of having to address it. 

We watch them enter the property. The car is silent, save for the ambiance of the night that’s crept in through the open door. I listen carefully, slowing my breathing down to let the crickets and wind resonate. The street is empty and the lights are on. It’s peaceful here, far too quiet for anything short of kind or neighborly to transpire. I expect we’ll be quite the hot topic come morning. 

“Hey, Buck?” Clipper asks, “Toss me my bag, will ya?”

My eyes snap to the seat beside me. 

“Yeah, sure.” she answers as a bag flies by my head. 

He’s shaking. Hard. I see him dig through the bag with his bottom lip between his teeth. Something’s missing. I dart my eyes from his masked face to his holstered weapon. He has them both. There’s little else he’s required to have on him. Hands are gloved too. 

No. He forgot something he shouldn’t have brought. 

“Glove compartment.” I spit, my eyes torn between him and the sideview mirror. 

“W-what?” he asks in a stutter. 

“Glove. Compartment.” 

His hands listen and the compartment swings open. Hot, unnerved breaths fill the front seat. He digs through a few documents before a little box hits the floor mat. I hear his seat creak as he bends down to pick it up. He smiles, wide enough for me to hear the saliva bubble in his gums. I catch Buck’s disapproving glance through the sideview mirror. 

“Aw, thanks man.” he says while peeling the patch. “This stuff works wonders.”

“Close my box.”

He shuts it hard, far harder than he needs. The stuff I gave him took the edge off it seems. Not the ideal situation, but it’s a small sacrifice. He’s excited, giddy even, but he’s focused. Most days, that beats anxious and hesitant. I think Buck disagrees, though she keeps her mouth shut. My watch beeps. 

“You two, out.”

Clipper jumps out of the car and sprints towards the property, leaving the door open. Buck steps out through the open back door. She’s careful with her movements. I watch her wrap around the side of the car and appear on my right. I can’t see her face through the mask but I catch a look as she closes the opened passenger door. 

“Go.” I say with my eyes averted.

She stares for a moment and then heads toward the gate. I raise my gaze up toward the rearview mirror and fix my attention on the large bow windows facing the yard. All things considered, I can see quite a bit from the car’s mirrors. Buck knows to keep things smooth in my stead; there’s no real need for worry. But I’m not perfect and I like to keep tabs.

I see the flat end of two flashlights dance through the room. Heat and Bull are in the living room. They’re careless with their lights but it seems they’re keeping to schedule. I dip my hand beneath my seat and tug at the lever. My neck is stiff and my back is sore. This car is getting old. I get comfortable after a few adjustments and turn my attention to the floor mat on the passenger seat. There’s a little white square on the ground. Clipper left the peel of his patch on my floor, the slob. I think to reach down and pick it up when I hear three smothered sounds whip from inside the Sterlings home; each separated by a few seconds.

I duck beneath the seats. Half of them don’t have live rounds in their weapons. Buck and Bull being the exception. The other two lack impulse-control, and that’s too big a flaw to ignore. Not that it should matter. The Sterlings aren’t home; kids are camping, and she’s at her parent’s place for the weekend. Hell, Mr. Sterling’s out of the country on business. No, something else happened. 

I sit back up quickly, splitting my eyes between the side and rearview mirrors. The kitchen and second floor windows lure my eyes. A beam of light shines out through the former. I can’t tell if it’s moving or if my vision is playing me. I narrow my eyes. It’s still, barely swaying. I reach for my door handle when a pair of muffled sounds rings out again, this time broken up by the shattering of glass. I tug on my mask and step out of the car, the beep of my watch overshadowed by my breaths. 

I walk slowly, entering the property through the gate with measured steps. It’s a large yard, maybe double the size of the house. Good thing about properties like this, they have too much land and not enough things to fill it with. I hug the fence as I approach the house. The porch door is left ajar, as intended. I swing it open gently, moving it a half-inch at a time. It cooperates nicely, creaking no more than my muddied shoes. 

It opens to the kitchen. It's clean, organized, not a single thing out of place. That’s good, it means they’re following instructions. My eyes dart around for the flashlight I saw through the window. I find it peering through the walkway into the living room. I draw my gun and I step around the kitchen island. 

I round the corner carefully, my gun preceding me. When I finally turn, I’m blinded by the light. 

“Turn that off.” I whisper.

It stays on, irritating me enough to raise my voice. 

“Did you hear me? Turn that-”

I walk around the light and see Bull on the ground, the flashlight a few feet to his left and his mask soaked in blood. I holster my weapon and step toward him, noting quickly the state of the living room. 

“Bull. What happened?” I ask, my fingers slipping under his mask. 

He doesn’t respond. 

When I lift his mask, I see why. His eyes are glossy, and his jaw looks broken. I let my hand wrap around and feel the back of his head caved in. He was hit hard. I lay him down gently on the floor and turn my eyes to his chest. It’s stagnant, devoid of any rises or falls; he isn’t breathing. I keep my eyes on his body, searching for any gunshots. I don’t see anything. My fingers reach for his holster but it takes my hand a second to register that it's empty. On an impulse, I reach for the flashlight and turn it off. 

I get up and unholster my weapon. Even now, my fingers tremble and my breath is shaky. I scan the rest of the living room, taking in a few shapes and shadows thanks to the moonlight. In the corner, by one of the larger sofas, something shiny catches my eyes. I focus my eyes and take my first step, setting my foot on a fallen book and twisting my ankle. My finger tenses and I nearly pull the trigger. I groan and try to shake it off. My watch beeps again, reminding me to keep walking. 

I limp toward the shine, realizing it is another flashlight only when standing a few feet above it. I crouch down to pick it up but the handle is wet. I wipe my hand on my jacket, bringing my eyes down and seeing Clipper leaned against one of the couches. His mask is halfway off and his blue eyes stare blankly at me. Even in the dark, I can see a hand folded over his stomach; the other loosely grasping his gun. I can see the entry point of a bullet near his stomach. I bend down toward him, pressing my hands hard against his body. Blood pours out, coating my hands and sleeves. He’s gone. I reach for his weapon. It’s inert, likely his own. Still, I holster it and get back up. 

I scan the room once more. There’s no one else here, I am almost certain. Heat and Buck, if they’re alive, are likely upstairs. I can’t be sure of what has happened, though my mind races toward Buck. Beyond Bull, she is the only one with a capable weapon. Not to mention a hard enough gut to carry out something like this. I try to recall anything that might clear this up but my mind fogs. 

I limp carefully toward the stairs, trying to mask my steps. I have my hand on the railing when I feel metal press against my neck. 

“Buck.” I presume.

Our breaths fill the silence. 

“What now?” I ask.

“Drop it.” she says, her voice harsh and unrecognizable. 

I take my foot off the stairs. I know to listen so I bend down slowly. The barrel follows me, branding my skin as my weapon leaves my hand and hits the floor. 

“Kick it.” 

I don’t speak or move. Better to test the waters before jumping in. She seems to disagree and digs her gun deeper into my neck. I take the hint and kick the gun across the room hard, far harder than necessary. A rash decision, I recognize instantly. Best not dwell on it. 

“Walk.” she barks in a deeply unpleasant tone; the voice hardly her own. 

 I limp, my hands raised far above my head. We walk quickly, despite my repeated attempts to slow down. The house is large and we are walking in darkness. Still, I put it together quickly and understand we are heading toward the cellar. I think to ask why, but hold my tongue. Buck’s not one to converse. I imagine she must have discovered something, a greatly valuable thing. It would explain a lot of the other dots I’ve yet to connect.

We round the corner and walk through a hallway. Even with just a little bit of moonlight, I can see that the cellar’s glass door has been shattered. It’s a puzzling sight really. While it does explain the noise I heard, I can’t think of a reason why it would be broken. They knew which rooms would be locked and where to find the keys. Hell, Buck was assigned to clear out the cellar, she should have the key on her by now. Curious despite myself, I limp faster toward the cellar door. My watch beeps again, startling Buck enough for her gun to press a little harder against me. As I approach the shattered pane, my injured foot hits something hard and I nearly trip over myself. 

Annoyed by the state of the house, I look over my shoulder brazenly, not bothering to mask my contempt. Buck reads my behaviour well and shoves me hard toward the cellar; her patience is running out. But in the second I was afforded, I caught enough to make out a shape. It was a foot I stumbled over, not an object. Judging by the masked face, indeed a very identifiable characteristic, I presume the body to be Heat; four shots should now be accounted for. Assuming one was used to shatter the door, it leaves one bullet in the air. 

“Get in.” I’m told. 

I reach for the door handle, not realizing it's covered in small glass shards. Though the lights are off, a distinctly foul smell tells me something is wrong here. I look around the darkened room, trying to make sense of what I’m smelling when the overhead lights are switched on. Before me, bent against the exposed brick, are two bodies. Even in my shaky vision I recognize the one in front; Mr. Sterling. His collar shirt is stained red and unbuttoned, and a gun hangs loosely from his fingers. It’s one of ours too. The woman behind him, whom I can only be certain is not Ms. Sterling, is wearing a night gown. It too is coated in blood. The bastard brought his mistress home. What an idiot.  

“Mistakes happen.” they whisper, the voice definitively not Buck’s. “I don’t blame you for that.” 

I turn around, my lips twitching, torn between defending myself and asking questions. There’s room for a conversation here. Sure, I knew about Sterling’s philandering but how was I to know the business trip was a farce. The man bought return flight tickets; I saw them myself. As the arguments begin to flood my mind, I catch myself staring at the person before me. I missed something here too. They’re taller than Buck, a little stronger too, and wearing a dark shade of gray. I lean my head forward and catch a glimpse of their face.

“You know what I blame you for?” Heat says, his rough, raspy voice clear now.

I track his weapon carefully. He is trembling.

“Packing me with blanks.” he grunts, tossing his inert weapon at my feet and drawing a second from his holster. “And giving Bull a live one?” he twirls it in his hand. “That guy’s an idiot.”

“He’s stable.” I say, taking a few steps closer to him. 

He’s smaller than me, a little lighter too. 

“Enough.” he tries to command. “I’ve had enough.”

I inch a little closer and lower my hands; my watch rings. Our eight minutes are up. We stare at each other, equally partial to the consequences that await us.

I take another step.

“Go on. Try me.”

I do.