by Darcia Helle

Created on: July 16, 2008

No Justice

Let him laugh. One more hour and he'd be dead.

Michael Sykora put the binoculars down on the empty passenger seat. The man he'd soon be killing went by the name Alan Nystrom. An alias, of which he had three others. His real name, the one he hadn't used in over twenty years, was Bruce Renwick.

More laughter. Good to know that Renwick was enjoying his last day. Soaking up the sun on the golf course, making jokes with his buddies. Would Renwick, if given the choice, pick golf as his last hoorah? Doubtful, though the choices people made often baffled him.

Michael was being paid $40,000 to dispose of Bruce Renwick. Twenty of that had
already been deposited into his offshore account. The other $20,000 would be received upon completion. His price had been a bit higher for this job since the client had chosen the method of death. A bit of an indulgence Michael had allowed this time. Though after what he'd found while rummaging through Renwick's home last night, Michael would gladly take this trash out for free.

Calling Renwick an animal would be a grave insult to the non-human world. Renwick was a pedophile. A predator of the lowest sort. The last child he'd raped, an 11-year-old boy, had hung himself afterward because the shame and trauma had been unbearable. That boy had not been Renwick's first victim. He would, however, be the last.

The next day Michael had been contacted. The boy's father did not want Renwick given the chance to walk away. Not ever. He had to be wiped off the earth before the police finished their investigation. That call had come five days ago. Michael had inside information that a warrant would be issued for Renwick's arrest tomorrow morning.

Renwick would be dead this afternoon.

Bruce Renwick, as Alan Nystrom, strode confidently toward the clubhouse. The man had an odd stoop, like he was training to be the hunchback in a play or something. His hair was that shade of brown that women called mousy and his eyes were covered by small round glasses reminiscent of John Lennon. He wore tan shorts and one of those polo shirts in blue. To all the world he appeared as a harmless geek.

The locked metal storage unit in his garage had told a different story. Michael had checked. He liked to be sure before he killed. Death wasn't something he could take back. The pictures had confirmed more than he'd needed to know. Renwick would not be a mistake.

Michael set his binoculars on the seat beside him and did his best to stretch in the cramped car. He'd

• 1
• 2
• 3
• Next Page >>