She's Daddy's Girl

She's Daddy's Girl

This story is dark, but sometimes that's what we need to appreciate the light around us. It developed backwards as some stories do. I imagined the final scene, or the next to last scene, and from there I developed the idea by moving backwards in time. I hope you like it.

>>> >>> >>>

The older man in the expensive suit had gone to great lengths to hold this meeting far from watchful eyes. He was Angelo Rossi, sometimes called "The Red Angel" when his name was spoken in hushed tones by men more afraid of him than respectful, and there was nothing angelic about him. Angelo was the head of an organized crime family that had their hands in all the illicit appetites of men from drugs to prostitution. He owned judges and politicians along with numerous cops, and still he lived in perpetual fear of the occasional honest cop or prosecutor who would make a name for themselves by bringing down The Red Angel. His life was lived in the shadows, rarely stepping into the light of day without first looking around and over his shoulder.

Nothing about Rossi's life was ever private. He was forever under the microscope, watched by law enforcement from morning to night, from the time he left his house until his return, and he suspected they even had spies in the house where he lived. Since it is unlikely that he could pass unnoticed anywhere he might go, he had chosen this place as it was owned by Tommy Marino, a childhood friend and someone from outside the life that Rossi had lived for so many years. Tommy was that rare breed that Angelo could never understand, a fundamentally incorruptible man who was content to make a modest income by running the family restaurant. Although Tommy was opposed to everything Rossi stood for, he valued the friendship that he'd held throughout his life choosing to remember the innocence of childhood rather than the corruption that followed, and he welcomed his childhood friend when he arrived.

Once Angelo was secure in the private dining room, the young man was admitted. The older man sat quietly taking the measure of the younger man with an experienced eye that few could appreciate. Angelo had known more killers than most men meet in a lifetime, but this man was new to him and new was always a risk.

"You come highly recommended."

The younger man just stood before him and nodded. He knew who had made the recommendation and felt no need to respond. The less anyone knew of him, the better he liked it. He was, in fact, Aleksander Krasniqi as the older man knew very well. He was a member of a prominent Albanian crime syndicate, and his family had their hands in the smuggling and distribution of illegal street drugs on every continent except Antarctica. However, Aleksander was not himself a smuggler. Aleksander was a killer. He killed for his superiors, and he killed for his family. That is how his syndicate viewed itself - as a family business united by unquestioned loyalty.

The older man had reached out to the younger man's family to ask for a favor. It would cost him dearly before this business was concluded, but he felt a need to sweep away the competition and create a safer climate for his children to someday run the business. One man had always been a thorn in his side. Rossi had tolerated him well enough, but last year there was an attempt on his son's life, and he knew full well who was behind it. He would put an end to it now once and for all. He would cut off the head of the snake and burn the nest.

"You understand the contract?"

The younger man nodded. He was surly, almost unpleasant, but sufficiently reserved to pass for aloof.

"Do you have any questions?"

The younger man shook his head.

Rossi leaned forward and handed Krasniqi a slip of paper on which an associate had written the name and contact of a highly specialized craftsman. "This man will provide you with what you need."

Looking at the name on the slip, Krasniqi said, "This man is an independent. He works for whoever will pay his price."

Now it was Rossi's turn to sit and nod.

Krasniqi looked again at the name before him. "How can you trust him if he has no loyalties?"

"He's the best. He's outside the business. He's untouchable."

Krasniqi thought, "Nobody is untouchable, and anyone will talk when given enough motivation."

The older man stared at his young associate. "Like I said, he is untouchable."

Krasniqi nodded but had no intention of heeding the older man's warning.

The meeting was over as quickly as that with hardly a word said. After Krasniqi had left, Rossi turned to one of his associates with his hands upturned as if to silently say, "Do you believe that?"

The associate smiled, shrugged, and said quietly, "You didn't hire him for his conversation skills."

Three days later Krasniqi was standing at the door of the address Rossi had given to him. He rang, was admitted, and inquired about the purchase of a highly specialized tool. As he spoke, Krasniqi first sized up the man and then looked around the room. It was orderly to the point of obsession and not a sign anywhere of the man's profession or family.

Carter listened attentively. When Krasniqi was finished, Carter asked, "What range do you expect you'll need?"

Krasniqi thought for a moment. "Perhaps 300 meters. Will that be a problem?"

Carter thought, "One city block." and shook his head. "I suppose you want it to break down for transport?"

Krasniqi nodded.

"Single shot reloadable bolt action, or semi-auto? You'll get better accuracy from a single shot, but more rapid fire from the semi."

Krasniqi was an assassin, not a warrior. He didn't hesitate to answer. "Single shot."

"Very well. I'll need to take your measurements and then it will be ready in a week."

Krasniqi had been measured for a custom weapon before, so this was no surprise to him. Then with his business completed for the time being, he departed to study his target.

After the Albanian left, Carter began making notes. There were no surprises in this contract. He had built over a dozen weapons like this. As he made notes, his mind wandered. He'd met a hundred killers in his career and despised them all. They were arrogant and always thought themselves invincible and somehow better than the men they killed. Nobody is invincible and very few assassins live long enough to retire. Even then, the past catches up with them eventually.

Something about Krasniqi troubled him more than most clients and that made him think about his daughter and the rule he had laid down when she was very young. There had been that one client who took too much interest in his baby daughter. When he picked her up, Carter wanted to scream, "Take your filthy hands off my daughter!" Since then, she was never allowed in or even near the house when a client came. She was grown now, lean and athletic, but from the time she could walk she had followed him around watching and learning from everything he did. She was daddy's girl. Carter smiled at the thought of her. She was the one bright spot in a life filled with regret.

The week passed quietly. Krasniqi learned the routine of his target, where he ate, who he met, and the best place to wait for him. Most of Krasniqi's targets were young. This one was older and more experienced, but even the most experienced targets develop habits that can be used against them. He was hard to get close to, but easy to reach from a distance.

With his plans made, Krasniqi faded away to prepare. He would make his kill with a long shot and be gone before they knew where he was.

It was seven days to the hour when Krasniqi found himself standing at that same door and ringing the same bell. Carter brought him into the shuttered dining room and showed him the custom weapon he'd built. There was still no observable evidence that he built highly specialized weapons other than the single device before him. Carter assembled and disassembled the weapon paying special attention to the scope mounting that was both lightweight and precise like every aspect of the rifle. The silencer was the last piece in the assembly. It was a work of stark beauty and perfect engineering. This weapon looked like nothing any deer hunter might own. This was an assassin's weapon. Then Krasniqi repeated the process twice. He silently admired the weapon. For a moment Krasniqi entertained the idea of taking it back to Albania with him, but he knew that at best it would never get through customs and at worst it would be hung around his neck as proof of his guilt.

Content that the Albanian understood the construction of the weapon, Carter turned to open a drawer and produced the custom ammunition made especially for his creation. As he described the precise grain size and mix of powder used, the weight of the bullet, the muzzle velocity, and the distance it would fall in 300 yards, he turned to close the drawer. Krasniqi took that opportunity to load a round into the assembled rifle. When Carter turned back to face the Albanian, he was staring at the wrong end of his own deadly instrument.

Carter looked at him with contempt. "You won't get away with it."

Krasniqi had an evil snarl on his lips and said, "Nobody is untouchable" and then fired the weapon. With less sound than a popped balloon, the bullet hit Carter dead center throwing the older man to the wall where he collapsed. Krasniqi trusted no one and Carter could lead the police back to him.

He packed the weapon into the cleverly designed shoulder bag that made him look like just another college student. With one last glance at Carter and an overwhelming sense of invincibility, he carefully placed everything back as it had been and wiped away his prints. With luck, it would be days before anyone found the man and Krasniqi would be out of the country by then.

Exiting the building and locking the door behind him, Krasniqi paused. He looked up and down the street and into the windows before him until he was confident that nobody saw him. Snow was falling and the world was quiet. That suited him. The Albanian started down the street with just the muffled crunch, crunch, crunch of new fallen snow under his feet and was about thirty yards from the older man's door when he felt the hit. It was more than a tap. It was less like a bullet to the chest and more like a baseball thrown from third base and it knocked the wind out of him stopping him dead in his tracks. He was more startled than anything. Looking down, he saw the red bloom in the center of his chest as he rapidly bled out. Up and ahead, he saw the shooter stand deliberately intending to be seen on the rooftop a block away. A crooked smile came to his lips as he thought, "Nobody is untouchable" and then collapsed to the ground dead.

Nobody heard the shot and nobody, but Krasniqi saw the shooter. Thirty seconds later a young woman with a ponytail and her yoga mat slung over her shoulder was making her way through the building and out the back door. Anyone who saw her would think she's just another college student. Only the tears falling down her cheek would give her away.

It was just two days later when police knocking on a young woman's dorm room broke the news of her father's murder. They expressed their condolences. The apparent killer was dead, and there was no explanation. As the female officer spoke to the young woman with a ponytail who answered the door, the senior officer looked around the dorm room. It was orderly. The books were piled by the small student desk, the bed was neatly made with a stuffed bear sitting by the pillow, and there was a shoulder bag with a yoga mat leaning against the corner of the room. He knew the type. She's daddy's girl.