Thick aroma of cigarette smoke filled the room. A TV twitched at a corner as it displayed movie scenes from The Good the Bad and the Ugly. There's a glass with some drink and ice in it sitting on a stool next to the sofa arm. The ash tray next to the drink was already filled with cigarette ash and butt. A sheet of paper lies next to the ash tray, half soaked with liquor.
Tension and desperation reigned in the room. The individual sitting before the tv looked calm but wore a grim face. He suffers from an unpleasant sense of failure and set back with a possibility of losing a job he's good at.
So good was he on the job that some of his clients call him ‘the ghost’. He was flawless and accurate. Hell, he got the heart and body for it and he used them to the fullest advantage. But for the first time, he had failed.
Fucking bitch! The phone rang one time and he picked it up.
"X" he said.
"You failed me," said a deep voice from the phone. "I thought you were good."
"Situation got a little complicated, boss."
"Is that right? A harmless woman got it complicated for you; someone you could've silenced in a second"
The X was quiet. He knew he can take her down with a single strike; hell, he couldn't explain what happened back there.
"It is unacceptable X; I can't trust you with this anymore."
"It's a slip! I slipped and I can take care of the job." X replied.
"Well; how?"
"It'll be easier this time. I put the bitch in the hospital; no one is in the house right now. I'll just get in there and get it."
"What if someone is there? The cops were there earlier."
"Then anyone in there will be as good as dead."
The deep voice paused for a second. "You have twenty four hours."
And the phone went dead.
The X put down the receiver. That's all he wanted. Now he just got another chance to make it right. He will make it right this time.
He stood up and walked to the drawer at a corner of the room. He drew it out and brought out a .45. He needn't to check to see if it's loaded; it is, always. X cocked the gun and slipped it into the back of his pants. He strode back to the sofa, took the glass on the stool and emptied it in a single gulp.
He glanced at the soaked sheet of paper on the table. Though wet, what's written on it is still there. X has it in his head so he didn't waste much time on it.
The same poorly handwritten numbers read 7 2 2 5 6.
As he walked out of the door, he prayed silently for a chance— any chance— to find that woman in the house again. He got a score to settle.