“Because I meet a man who looked like you once. And I killed him. Or as it may have turned out I didn’t. The thing of it is you can never be too damn sure. Yet that is my job. My place in this world. To make sure people stay dead. So you can understand why this isn’t personal. It’s just part of the job.” The silence of the room is taken over by the sound of the revolver blowing out the back of the man’s head.
A man dressed in an all-black suit sits at a table outside of a café in Quebec, Ontario. The man sips his espresso and he waits. The man doesn’t have to wait long before another man dressed in a black suit and red tie takes the seat across from him. It’s too cold for most people to be sitting outside in that time before the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Even with the snow cling to the sides of the buildings around them it is a nice day and they are not most people. Before the man has any chance of delivering a greeting the man in all black asks, “Is the job done Mr. Orr?” Mr. Orr’s deep voice answers back swiftly, “Would I be here if it wasn’t Mr. Green?” “No I guess you wouldn’t be. So it’s safe to say the man got the message then?” “Well nothing is ever safe to say, but yes the man has gotten the message.” Mr. Orr looks Mr. Green in the eye and says, “Did you want some kind of guarantee?” Mr. Green tenses up to the question, “Well as a matter of fact I would like some kind of guarantee. In fact to tell you the truth Mr. Orr I would have preferred proof. You weren’t on an errand. You weren’t being paid to pick up my fucking dry cleaning. You were being paid to deliver a message to someone. Someone I might add that hasn’t been seen or found since an unknown assailant raided his club last night. Not the cops, not his whore of a wife, and surely not anyone in my organization. I’ll admit that this in most cases would be a good thing. I’d clap my fucking hands and say good job. Way to fucking go.” Mr. Orr straightens up in his seat. “But,” Mr. Green continues, “But I didn’t pay you to kill this asshole. I paid you to scare him. That was it.” The café becomes quite as the two men stare each other down. “You should try to stay calm Mr. Green. You’re starting to make a scene.” Mr. Green slams his fist hard into the table knocking over what is left of his espresso. Mr. Orr pulls something out of his left coat pocket and hands it to Mr. Green. The crowd in the café slowly return to their conversations and drinks. “The man is dead and the job is more than done. I can’t help it if the cops in this town can’t find a dead body, but the man you sent me to scare. That man is dead.” Mr. Green takes the article that Mr. Orr handed him. Mr. Green folds the paper and places it into his suit pocket, “Yes, Yes it appears that he is, but you were sent to send a message.” Mr. Green again clenches his fist, “And since there’s no body to speak of, would you ever so kindly like to tell me why?” Mr. Orr sighs, “Well there were complications.”
Mr. Orr stands at the curb in the arrival area of Toronto’s Pearson International Airport as a taxi pulls up next to him. He enters the taxi, “First Canadian Place.” The cab driver begins to talk, “Ah buddy what you here for? Business? Pleasure?” Mr. Orr pulls some money out of his pocket and slips it to the driver. “No talking. Just drive,” he says in his deep voice. The taxi driver takes the money, “Anything you want buddy.” The driver looks at the money. “Anything you want.” The cab driver pulls out on to the road and heads for down town Toronto.
The taxi pulls to the curb of west Kings Street to deliver the man known only as Mr. Orr to his destination. He picks up his brief case, hands the driver some more money, and exits the cab. The taxi pulls away to join the sea of cars on King Street. Straightening his suit Mr. Orr looks around him. The noise of the city flips a switch in his head. The noise reminds him why he likes the peacefulness of the country. The seclusion from people and society has provided a sanctuary from all the evil he has done throughout his life. No people means no reminders. He begins the slow walk towards the entrance of the First Canadian Place passing businesses men on their lunch break, a crowd of female tourist visiting from the states, and more people than he can count within a few glances. His focus is on one thing. His focus doesn’t waver. As he pulls the door open an attractive woman cuts him off on her way into the lobby. Mr. Orr is forced to stop and he is bumped hard from behind. He turns around quick, too quick for someone who is pretending to be a normal business man and not a trained killer. As he spins around ready for anything, what he sees is not what he had expected to see. The man who ran into him quickly apologizes to Mr. Orr without the slightest notice as to who he is. Mr. Orr however is now transfixed on the face of the stranger. He nods to the stranger and watches his eyes for the slightest sense of hesitation. The man apologies again and heads off. Staring him down all the way to the security desk Mr. Orr can’t help but to think, to know that he has unfinished business with this man.
Mr. Orr joins the man at the security desk making sure to stand two people behind him in the line that has formed. He never takes his eyes of the stranger. The stranger has a face he remembers like all the other he has killed. He looks to his watch. I still have time before I’m expected upstairs he thinks to himself. Mr. Orr over hears that the man is headed for the 35th floor as he looks at the floor legend posted by the security desk. Apparently the stranger has a meeting that he mustn’t be late for. The man might be late for that meeting he thinks because we have a thing or two to work out. Mr. Orr follows the stranger once again.
“You don’t fucking get it do you motherfucker,” the stranger screams at Mr. Orr. “You’re dying here today one way or another.” Mr. Orr screams back, “Oh and how do you see that happening?” “You’ve made one too many mistakes here tonight asshole. I don’t know how you managed to get your weapons past security, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize you don’t have enough bullets left to finish this. How many you got stranger?” The mark asks Orr. Pulling out the clip to his gun Mr. Orr begins to count, “One, two, three.” Mr. Orr stares at a mirror adjacent from his position behind a desk, from what he can see the man isn’t being very smart, it’s hard to figure out his exact position, as the mirror is slightly blurry from the water of the fire sprinklers, but he can see enough to make the shot he needs. “Four, five, looks like six. I’ve got six shots. Good news is that I only need one. Now it’s your turn how many you got? How many are you going to need?” The stranger begins to laugh and shake his head in a fit of rage. Beads of water fling off of his head, “You’ve got balls. Big hairy balls.”
Mr. Orr is starting to feel the chill of the water on his face and hands. Each falling drop landing in pain on his body. Canadian winters can be bitter and harsh much like the man with the gun in his hand. The mark keeps talking, “What you got nothing to say now? How about I make you fucking talk?” The man fires three bullets throughout the room. The three shots don’t hit anything remotely near Mr. Orr. The mark has no idea where Mr. Orr is or the colds getting to him as well or both. “How about you just tell me who sent you and we can go have a laugh and a drink?” The stranger fires another round from his gun. “Who fucking sent you?” Mr. Orr rises up from behind the desk he has been taking cover under and fires one shot, “As far as you’re concerned God sent me.” The shot grazes the stranger on the left side of the head and forces the man back into the cracked window behind him. The mark falls two stories into the night as the window gives out.
No telling if the shot was fatal, too much water blurring his view, but if the shot didn’t get him the fall must have. Mr. Orr keeps his gun raised and walks to the window. Ready for anything this has been one fucked up night. The shattered window has traces of blood on the shards of glass still left in the frame. He looks out the window into the dark night, “Fuck.” Mr. Orr stares at the icy river below him, “If the bullet didn’t kill him the cold, the cold water should have finished him off. Fuck.” After a moment Mr. Orr turns to the mark’s desk. He takes an envelope from the top drawer and slips it into his pocket. He eyes the picture frame on the desk, Green.
Mr. Orr stands next to the man he believes he has seen once before. The man wears a navy blue suit with a white tie. The suit isn’t expensive like Mr. Orr’s, but the man is still dressed up all the same. They enter the elevator together. With just the two of them the man gives a weak smile and presses the button for the 35th floor. The stranger asks Mr. Orr, “What floor do you need buddy?” Mr. Orr is shocked that the stranger still hasn’t shown any familiarity with him. He smiles, “You know it’s the craziest thing I really can’t remember.” He gives a slight hint of laughter, “It’s either the 20th floor or the 25th floor. I’m not too sure though.” Annoyed the stranger presses the buttons for the 20th floor and the 25th floor and turns to look at Mr. Orr, “Well I guess we will just have to find out than.” The stranger turns away from Mr. Orr. The stranger checks his watch and grips his brief case tighter.
Mr. Orr hasn’t taken his eyes off the back of the man’s head. He knows this has to be the mark from his past, but the man has no recollection of him. The stranger has no signs of a scar on his face where the bullets should have passed. Maybe he never hit him at all. Mr. Orr begins to question his memory of the events. Can this be the man he thinks it is? He decides he can’t take the chance or risk. All things have led to this very day.
“No weapons beyond this point. Have you been checked for a weapon yet?” The rather large door guard asks. “You know, you’ll think that this funny,” the noise admitted from the gun was more of a whisper than a bang. “I didn’t,” the door man falls face first on to his desk admitting a heavy thud.
Mr. Orr waits a moment with two silenced pistols stretched out aimed directly at the back stair well door. Nothing comes out and nothing lies on the other side of the door except the stairs. He moves at a fast steady pace up the stairs. He has no way of knowing what lies ahead at the top of the stairs. He was lucky enough to find a disgruntled employee willing to tell him the best way to get in after a few drinks. Mr. Orr place one gun into its holster and knocks on the door at the top of the stairs. “Who the fuck is it?” Answers back. “You weren’t buzzed by Smith.” “By Smith do you mean the rather large fellow watching the door? Cause he seemed rather busy with what looked like a nice piece of ass and just told me to go right on up.” The door opens, “That lazy piece of shit can’t ever get anything right.” The skinny man behind the door drops to his knees, yet another victim of Mr. Orr’s pistol. “Timmy who the fuck was it?” A second man asks. The man reaches for his pistol as Mr. Orr takes him out. The man squeeze one round off into the floor on his way down. The sound echoes through the tiny hall way giving away any surprise entrance to the party in the next room. The shot not only interrupt his plan, but those beneath them as well. He can hear the screams of panic, the sudden rushing of footsteps, and the overall chaos begin below him. It’s seems that the illegal gambling hall will be closing early tonight. Whether it was the second man’s poor attempt to kill Mr. Orr or a scared patron from down stairs the ceiling’s fire sprinklers begin to release water all over the room. The sound of the fire alarm is nearly deafening coming from the stair well, but somehow Mr. Orr is still able to hear the sound of the door opening at the other end of the hall. “Whoever the mother fucker is make sure they’re dead,” comes from the room at the end of the hall. Mr. Orr’s mark is more than aware of his presence even if he has no idea who he is. Mr. Orr takes out the first man with a clean shot. The second man manages to fire two whole shots before he too drops to the ground. The third man however manages to get off a whole clip. Missing with every shot as Mr. Orr takes cover behind Timmy’s old desk. The third man rushes towards the desk unaware that he is only pulling the trigger on an empty gun. With all the time in the world Mr. Orr shoots the charging man square in the chest stopping him dead in his tracks. A man at the stair well door barely misses Mr. Orr’s head before taking two of his own bullets to the chest and falling down the stairs. The door slamming behind him. “Close, real fucking close,” Mr. Orr says to himself. Mr. Orr reloads both weapons before proceeding any further. “No one dies am I understood,” he says in a mocking tone. “No one dies.”
Part 2 coming tomorrow…