Big remembers his first kill

However, that first contract had been too good to turn down. The money was excellent and the target was easy—so easy he’d used the kill as a training exercise.

All he’d had to do was drive to Macaripe Beach at midnight and do Stevenson, the unfaithful husband. He used an army gun. Since the army routinely did maneuvers in Chaguaramas, they easily took the blame.

Big savored the memory of the whispered double-tap shots from his semi-automatic, the blood splattering on the white upholstery, and Stevenson’s body flopping over. Everything about the hit electrified him: the smoky smell of the gun powder, the cozy feel of the gun, and Stevenson’s eyes staring in his lolling head.

That split-second power to end a life was seductive, orgasmic even. Whenever he went for a kill, feelings so good, so powerful, so alive overtook him that he lost himself completely in the moment, exercising that ultimate human power—to kill, to pull someone’s plug. He felt like God—or the devil, depending on how you looked at it.

Big took pride in being a professional whose hits were strictly business, unlike the serial killer, the passion-enraged murderer, the common thug, the religious terrorist. That first night he’d shot Stevenson’s Venezuelan lover, too. A bonus, another kill for the thrill? Hell no, just demands of the business—no witnesses, no questions. No loose ends.

Big laughed when an employer timidly asked if he ever felt conflicted about his profession, if he ever gave a damn. No way; why should he? He was simply providing a specialized service, a skilled worker integrated into a larger workforce. When you wanted good steak, you went to Peter at Prime. When you wanted great wine, you sought out Steven, the sommelier at Hand Arnold. For surreal sex, you contracted Maria, the high class call girl—and when you needed the orderly handling of murder, you contacted Mr. Big, the Cleaner.