As soon as the last of the targets had been incapacitated, he walked to the thermostat and dropped the temperature to its lowest setting. He wiped his brow with the arm of his coat, dabbing at the beads of sweat that had already developed. He was roasting, he thought, as he stepped into the dining room. He took off his long black coat, and gently draped it across one of the chairs. He took a brief look at the table, with its three place settings, and dabbed at his forehead again. He looked up at the air vent overhead, and could feel the cool air as it began to blow. Better, he thought, as he turned and re-entered the living room. The father lay on the hardwood floor by the front door, face down with his arms sprawled out. As he approached the prone figure, he could see that he had already begun to show signs of recovery. He nudged the body with his foot, and the man groaned softly. No time to waste, he thought, as he bent down and grabbed the man’s feet. It was only a few yards from the front door to the large couch in the living room, but the unconscious man was fairly large, and manipulating him was not easy. In a few seconds he dragged drug the body to the couch. The man moaned slightly as he was heaved up, and tossed onto the couch. The tall man positioned the body into the far right corner of the couch. He pulled his gun from his shoulder holster, and took two steps back. He closed one eye shut, as he aimed down the barrel. He squeezed the trigger. With a brief flash of light, and a silenced whine, a bullet hole appeared in the center of the man’s forehead. His body became still.
The tall man slid the gun back into the holster as he headed for the kitchen. He stepped over the woman on the floor, and turned the burners off on the stove. Curious, he lifted the cover on the pan, and sniffed. Bouillabaisse. A smile entered his expression, as he made a mental note that French would be an excellent choice for dinner tonight. He sat the lid back down, and opened the oven. Just as he expected from the strong smell of garlic, he found a pan of sliced bread toasting in the oven, covered in a creamy rouille. The oven suddenly began to beep. He closed the oven door, and reached over and turned off the timer and the oven. He glanced at the woman on the floor. She lay face down, her blonde hair sprawled around her. Her figure was drawn up into a near fetal position. He nudged her with his foot, and she moaned softly. She would wake up soon, he thought, as he bent down and grabbed her by the hair. He quickly hauled her body into the living room and hoisted her up onto the couch beside her dead husband. He stepped back and raised his gun, just as she suddenly slumped to the side. He emitted a sound of exasperation, as he lowered the gun, stepped forward, and repositioned her. Satisfied with her placement, he stepped back, raised his weapon, and fired. Her head moved ever so slightly when the bullet entered her brain. Another perfectly centered shot. He smiled. One more to go.
He left the living room, and went down the short hallway to the bedroom area. He entered the first bedroom, and flicked on the overhead light. He disliked the putrefying pinkness of the walls, and cringed inside at the whisps of lacey purple fabrics that hung from the ceiling and surrounded the bed. Even the rainbow painted on the far wall turned his stomach. He was not opposed to color, he liked color in fact. But something about this combination had always made him react this way. He assumed it had something to do with his sister. He rarely thought of her anymore, and almost never dreamed of her. Not since he had killed her that night so long ago. The same night he had killed his parents.
He did his best to ignore the pinkness as he stepped over to the bed where the little girl lay, and swept aside the revolting lace. She lay there quietly, still unconscious. Her blonde curls were puddled around her face angelically. He took a deep breath, grabbed her around her waist, and gently lifted her into his arms. He flipped the light off as he left the disgusting room, and a smile began to edge back into his expression as he walked towards the living room. He felt better just being out of that horrid room. He gently positioned the little girl on the couch next to her dead mother. He took the mother’s arm, and wrapped it around her baby in a loving position. His smile grew as he stepped back and glanced over his art work. The perfect family, he thought, as he pulled his gun and raised it.
He closed one eye, and looked down the barrel. He inhaled, and then slowly began to let the air seep out of his lungs. His finger tightened on the trigger as he began to squeeze. He watched carefully as the front blade of the gun sight wavered ever so slightly and rhythmically in the framing of the back sights. The pressure reached its pinnacle, and the firing mechanism released. The firing pin struck the primer cap of the shell casing, and the explosion forced the pressure inside the casing to ignite the gunpowder. The ensuing fireball forced the jacketed hollow point bullet out of the shell and down the barrel, where it spiraled through the silencer, crossed the few feet of air, and found its target.
A small and perfect hole appeared in the center of the little girl’s forehead. Her expression did not change. He holstered his weapon again, and stared at the couch for a few minutes. The perfect family, he thought, as endorphins rushed through his body as they usually did after a kill. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly, as he embraced the feeling. A minute or two passed, before he walked into the dining room and grabbed his coat. He put it on as he came back into the living room, and pulled his phone from the pocket. He activated the camera application, and turned it sideways. He tapped through the variety of image special effects until he found his favorite, and tapped the sepia tone feature. The framed image turned into shades of brown, like the antique photos he remembered from history books. He smiled as he tapped the shutter button, and the image froze. He tapped the phone’s screen to share the image, and sent it to an email address stored in his contact list. His client would be proud, he thought, as he slid the phone back into his pocket.
Chapter 3