“I want you to kill my husband.”

Most clients beat around the bush for a good half-hour before getting to the point. Alec appreciated the bluntness.

“Mind if I smoke?” She said it like it wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Alec smirked.

“How about a drink then?”

“Sorry, fresh out.” She paused, considering him. This wasn’t going how she pictured. Alec loved it.

“Don’t you want to know why?” She sounded disappointed. How adorable.

“Save the why for your priest, Darlin’. All I care about is when and how.”

Her eyes were cold, searching for something she could use to her advantage. Unsurprisingly, she found nothing. “You know, you’re nothing like I imagined.”

“Thank you.” It felt like a punchline. He was almost disappointed when she didn’t laugh.

---

She was right. Her husband wasn’t very good at this. He’d used his real name and spoke freely with people he should have known not to trust. If you’re going to play the game so poorly, you can’t be surprised when you lose.

Alec flipped the room key over his knuckles while he watched, sipping scotch that was bottled before he was born. Picking pockets was so much easier than picking locks. The mark looked younger in person. Smiling will do that to you. He stumbled when he stood, spilling his overpriced martini on his overpriced date. He’d be lucky if he still had his wallet by the end of the night. But luck was hardly in this man’s cards.

The gun sat warm and heavy against Alec’s side, hidden by expert tailoring and dim hotel lighting. That was always plan B, in case things got messy, but Alec was in the mood for something more intimate tonight. A straight razor, perhaps. Or the delicate dagger strapped to his calf. He did love the glint of metal against blood-soaked skin. There was a time when he’d done this with a voice in his ear. A firm hand at his back telling him who, when, where. But freelance was much more his speed. And he’d never looked that good in camo green.

The elevator was slow, but Alec didn’t mind. He enjoyed this part. The watching. The waiting. Wondering how it would go. Would they beg? Cry? Offer to double his fee? It’s funny; the things people think matter, in the end.

He watched from a distance as the man sauntered to his room, completely unaware he was being followed. Alec wondered what it would be like to be so blissfully ignorant. To not see the dangers waiting in the dark. Alec had never had the luxury. Perhaps he’d ask the guy, before the night was through, what it felt like to be blind. What it felt like to live. What it felt like to die.

Come morning, this place would be swarming with cops, dusting for prints and cataloguing blood splatter like it mattered. But tonight, it was quiet. Peaceful. The calm before the storm.

Time for Alec to have a little fun.

---

This story was written for the January 2024 Not Quite Write Prize for Flash Fiction, for which it was longlisted and received an honourable mention for the opening line.

The NQR competition challenges authors to create a 500 word story in 60hrs, based on two writing prompts and one ‘anti-prompt’- which is a standard rule of writing you’re supposed to break. For this piece, the prompts were: 1) The story must feature the word ‘punch’, 2) It must include the action of spilling something, and 3) It must break the rule “avoid cliches”.

As always, I thoroughly enjoyed the chance to play around in a different genre and have a go at breaking the ‘cliché’ rule we so often live by. And now, I’ve met the mysterious Alec, who orders whisky by the year and thinks blood looks better on the outside. I can’t wait to find out what he has in his future.