The Meridians by Michaelbrent Collings
1.
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Adrian Vedstedder had been known by many names in his life. As a man who contracted to do certain things that others could not or would not do, he had to be willing and able to switch names and identities at the slightest hint of danger. But though he had possessed no fewer than twenty names in his life - all of them real, all of them supported by legitimate identification cards tied to real social security numbers, for Adrian Vedstedder only purchased the best when he was buying something for himself - though he had been known by many names and had had to reinvent himself many times, never had he lost sight of who he really was.
Adrian Vedstedder was a killer. And he loved his job.
Today promised to be a good day; a day that marked the start of a new contract. He got an email on his special account, the one that was based out of a server and a network located in one of the smaller European countries. The email simply gave a dollar figure, as most of them did.
The amount of money was more than enough, so Adrian emailed back, describing the location of a dead drop in a nearby park and giving the anonymous "donor" about one half an hour to get there. It was doable by anyone with enough power to get the money together that Adrian required to perform his special services, but not by local or even federal law enforcement agencies. That was the first line of defense against capture.
The second line of defense came when Adrian pulled up near the dead drop less than five minutes later. He watched the few people in the area carefully, alert for anything that smelled of this being an undercover or sting operation. If it was such an endeavor, the rules were simple: first, Adrian would make sure he could escape, and second, if he was able to he would put a bullet in the brain of every person involved in the trap.
There were no indicators that this was a trap, however, and in twenty minutes a man came up with a medium size paper bag that he deposited in the trash can. Adrian, who had come prepared, dressed lightly and wearing a pair of crutches, asked a passing jogger if he could throw away an empty Coke can for Adrian. The jogger obliged, and as he threw away the empty can, Adrian scanned the area for any movement or any signs that law enforcement was nearby.
Nothing. No walking lovers who appeared more interested in the trash can than in each other. No joggers on the verge of crashing because they were worried about the trash can and not where they were putting their feet. No glints of light in the trees nearby that would signal watchers with binoculars.
A few moments later, Adrian limped over to the trash can, acting like an itinerant wanderer interested in nothing more interesting than possible recyclables. He reached in and swiftly recovered the package that had been dropped there, then moved away without dawdling, but without moving overly fast, either.
Once back at his safe house - a ramshackle place in a poor part of the city - Adrian opened the package. Inside was a sum of money - the exact amount named in the email, in fact - and three photos. One man, one woman, one child. Each photo had a name written below it. The man: Scott Cowley. The woman: Amy Cowley. The child: Chad Cowley.
That was it. There was nothing else, no other indicators of what the money was for or who the people were. That was best. Even if Adrian were arrested at this point, he could claim that he was simply dumpster diving, just as many of the denizens of this part of the city were wont to do from time to time, and had simply found the cash. It was a thin story, and any cop worth his or her salt would know it was false - but knowing was not proving in a court of law, and Adrian knew that he would walk if someone came barging through his door at this point.
But Adrian did know what the photos were for, and what the money represented.
He turned the photos over. As was the custom for his jobs, the pictures were labeled, one, two, and three, setting forth the order of the extermination. The child was to be killed first, the woman second, and the man third. There were no other instructions, save on the last photo, which had a written statement to be made to the third target before termination.
Adrian turned on his computer, a surprisingly high-tech and well appointed model for such an otherwise dilapidated apartment, and began researching the family. It used to be much harder to conduct such searches, but with the advent of the internet, he could almost always find out what he needed to know - or at least find out a good place to start - by simply entering a search for the people in question.
After a few minutes, he had found his starting point.
The man was a police officer.
Adrian sat back, looking at the photo, and smiled. Killing police always had a special zest to it for him. They all thought they were so righteous, so perfect, that they seemed to think they were protected from the ills that plagued others. As though guardian angels watched over them.
But put a bullet in their brains - or as in this case, in the brains of Scott Cowley and the brains of his wife and child - and they bled and died just like anyone else.
***