Broken Rules
A Cole Barron Story
Hey all, haven’t shared anything here in a while and figured what better way to break that streak than with a free short story? This is the first in a line of stories I’ve begun writing featuring a character named Cole Barron. Cole is a…strange fella.
Hope y’all enjoy. Cheers.
-Mason
Cole Barron thought the man was a pompous little shit. The red neck tie around his throat was knotted so tight it was as if the small man’s head was going to swell and explode, and he had to keep it tied off like a water balloon. Under the tie was a disgusting beige short sleeve shirt tucked into too-loose khakis. He probably had a job working behind a desk tapping away at keys in a cubicle no bigger than a closet. There were probably framed photos of his kids beside his monitor in dollar-store frames. There were, most likely, unopened granola bars in his desk next to a Tupperware salad from yesterday. He struck Cole as the type of guy who eats out for lunch and tells his wife the healthy greens she packed him were to die for, really. His kids probably loved him but didn’t like him and it had been a lifetime since he last brought his wife to orgasm but yet he emptied into women whose time were bought and paid for by the same job that was killing him. Judging by the folds in his neck and the redness in his cheeks, and the way he breathed just trying to tell the waitress to bring him a beer, Cole didn’t think that death was too far off. Couple years, tops.
“So can you do it?” The man asked.
Cole looked up, realizing he had been talking while Cole faded away into his own mind, figuring out this strangers backstory. “Hmm? What?”
The man sighed. “I was told you were a professional. Did somebody lie?”
“No,” Cole said, shaking his head and nodding his thanks to the redheaded waitress as she reappeared with their drinks and passed him his whisky, “I just don’t care for details. They weigh me down. And you bore me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You mentioned the money. Let’s talk about that,” Cole said. He had a certain way with people that most folk would describe as off putting. He made people uncomfortable. In his line of work, there were pros and cons to that, he supposed, but for the most part he found little joy in mundane conversation, in the rambling chitter-chatter of everyday life. Sentences should be informative or they are wasted.
The man sighed. “I can pay you ten now. Ten when it is done.”
Cole put his glass down before taking the first sip and stood up. “Have a good night, fella.”
The man was taken aback. “Wait!” He stood and reached over the table, gripping Cole’s sleeve.
There was a static moment shared between the two men as Cole looked into his eyes, without saying a word. There’s an unspoken language used by animals that is communicated between predator and prey that exists to tell prey they are in danger. Cole was fluent. The pudgy little man released his grip and began nervously adjusting his tie and clearing his throat.
“I can do,” he coughed as if the words were painful and looked around to make sure no one was listening before leaning closer and turning his volume down to a whisper. “I can do twenty and twenty. Better?”
“Thirty and thirty,” Cole said.
The man grew somehow even redder in the face. He resembled a young Joe Pesci, if Joe decided he’d rather be a limp-dick office troll instead of the scariest man in the world under five-four. For a moment it seemed the man was going to tell Cole to go fuck himself. Cole would be fine with that. There were always more jobs. They chased him, it wasn’t the other way around.
“Fine,” the man spit through gritted teeth and motioned for Cole to sit back down. Cole did.
The man kept darting his eyes around the bar as if he was expecting someone, a cop maybe, to suddenly charge them and slap cuffs on their wrists, turning his pitiful life upside down. That fear was annoying but so common in his clients that Cole only noticed it if it were absent. When someone was hiring him for a job, a lack of nervousness was a sign that the person was one of a handful of things: used to this (which is usually okay), a psychopath (okay, can be a headache), or a cop (code red, worst case scenario, all hands on deck, mayday mayday mayday).
“So, here’s the—”
“Nope,” Cole said, taking a long swig from his whisky and cola. “Nothing here. Specifics are going to be on a flash drive. You’re going to leave it here,” Cole pulled a business card for a local sub shop out of his jacket pocket with a pen, clicked the pen to life and scribbled down an address, and slid it across the table to the man, “at noon tomorrow along with the first thirty. All twenties, nothing larger.”
“Oh, okay,” the man said. “A drop. A dead drop, right? That’s what they call this? I watched The Wire.”
Cole didn’t answer. Behind the man, the redhead waitress was talking to a man that looked incredibly similar to a wrestler Cole liked as a boy. A big, mean son of a bitch with a bald head and a gut the size of a tractor tire. He had the same goatee and all. In fact, Cole could be quite sure it was the same guy. So sure in fact he was tempted to go over right now and ask for an autograph.
“Hello?” The man said, snapping his fingers in front of Cole’s face to grab his attention back to him.
“I’m not a dog. Snap at me again and I’m prone to snap back.”
The man stared at his own hand as if it had betrayed him. He had been raised, it seemed, in a house without consequences. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
Cole finished his drink and dug around in his coat for his wallet. “I need a name, address, place of work, personal details, physical descriptions. Photos if possible and any links to their social media would be a boon. Anything you got, I need. After you get it on the flash, clean it from your hard drive. Clean it well.”
“Okay yes I can do that.”
“Can you?”
“Mhmm,” the man nodded. “Yes I can.”
Cole studied him for a moment, leaning forward on his elbows. The man squirmed under his gaze. “Can you?”
The man looked down at his hands and fiddled his thumbs. He thought for a moment, really turning the question over in his mind. When he looked back up, Cole was pleasantly surprised to see the tiniest bit of steel and determination in the man’s eyes. “Yes I can.”
Cole nodded. “Alright then.”
He made to stand and leave, and almost forgot himself. “One more thing.”
The man looked up at him.
“I have rules. When I get that drive, you better hope you don’t break any.”
Again, the man squirmed in his seat. He looked like a little boy trying not to piss himself. “Like what?”
“Break one and you’ll find out,” Cole said. The man looked confused. Cole didn’t have a problem with that.
The man tried to stand but Cole slowly brought his hand down to tell him to stay. “Wait ten minutes at least before following me. Drink your beer. Enjoy yourself.”
The man did what he was told and took a shallow swig from the bottle. Cole motioned to the big guy behind them. “He look familiar to you?”
The man didn’t understand. He turned sideways in his seat. “That guy,” Cole said, “big one with the chrome dome. He ring any bells?”
The little man studied the big one and then shook his head. “No, I can’t say he does.”
Cole jingled some coins in his hand before tossing them on the table. “Damn. Too bad.”
Cole Barron left, leaving the pompous little shit alone and bewildered, with only his beer for company.
The next day at noon, Cole was sitting underneath a maple tree in the park on top of a picnic table. He sat with his ass on the table itself and his feet perched on the seat. He gripped a steaming cup of gas station coffee in a flimsy paper cup. Cole drank plenty of coffee, maybe too much if he were being honest, but he didn’t drink it for the flavour. He needed the caffeine and had long ago surmised that if he wasn’t going to enjoy it anyway, there was no need to pay good money for it. Eight bucks for a dairy filled, too-sweet artificial mocha-frappa-bullshit just didn’t make sense to him. Shitty instant java from a dispenser next to the chips and day-old hot dogs was good enough.
About ten yards in front of him was a tall wrought iron fence. Its black bars were ancient and most were either rusted, coated in splats of pigeon and ‘gull shit, or covered in spray paint. On the other side of the bars was Stanley Street, a mostly commercial road that sliced through the back of the city and looped up and around the edges of the park, framing it before joining back up with the highway on the other side. On this end the buildings that lined the sidewalks across from where he was seated were small and old, built at the beginning of the city’s life. They were made from brick and wood, not the concrete and steel of the newer ones. Most were small clothing boutiques, electronic stores, and a single book store. That always made Cole sad—there weren’t many things in the world more pleasurable than an afternoon spent in the stacks, loading up a cloth bag with new and used books, perusing the sections you knew like the back of your hand and gazing in wonder at the ones you didn’t. But they were a dying breed now and he knew in his heart that eventually there would come a day when the very idea of a physical book store will be just a fanciful memory.
The particular shop he was watching wasn’t the book store. It was a coffee shop. Not the massive chain with the scantily clad mermaid on the cups, but a local shop that brewed their own blends and while they still charged more than Cole preferred and he rarely ever patronized them, he still gave them his respect. Running a small business is hard stuff, Cole knew this first hand.
Cole checked his watch as he surveyed the scene. 11:58am. The sidewalk was alive with commuters on their lunch breaks. Mostly men in work shirts and the occasional button-down with a few suits and coveralls splashed in for good measure. There were women dressed in pantsuits and blouses. The door to the shop chimed and a woman in her mid-20s or thereabouts stepped out into the sunshine pushing a stroller with a smiling baby boy strapped inside of it. The little boy had what Cole’s mother had called a puzzle-piece smile. His cheeks were coated in the sticky chocolate of the donut he was wetly chomping into as his mother watched and smiled. Hers was the kind of smile Cole called a put-you-on-your-ass smile. The kind that didn’t care whether the person wielding it was a man or woman, it would and could charm you right on to your ass. The men and women who frequented Cole’s bed—there weren’t many these days, admittedly—almost always had those same smiles. He has a type, he supposed.
He watched the woman walk away and checked his watch again. 12:01pm. Late. The little man was late.
A short cramp of frustration began to surface in Cole’s chest but he quelled it for now. He was punctual as a rule—every second mattered and if one couldn’t respect that, then Cole did not need to respect them. He understood however that things happen. In his youth, this would have been the drawn line. A single moment of truancy and he would already be in the wind. But with his years of experience he developed an ability to understand that not every human was like him. Sometimes folk had a watch or phone set to the wrong time. Sometimes there was traffic. These excuses never applied to him because he didn’t allow them to, but he was an outlier in this.
So maybe the little man’s watch was slow. Or maybe he was stuck in construction, God knows this city is seemingly always under damn construction. Cole would allow him a few more minutes.
But that was it. And if the little man did show up, Cold considered if the price was going up. Cole Barron was not the type of man who enjoyed having his own time wasted.
Just as he was getting ready to let the frustration win and leave, he spotted the little shit coming up the sidewalk. He almost laughed at the sight. The man was hurrying like he was on the cusp of sprinting, a brown paper bag clutched to his chest with both hands. He was dressed the same as he was the day before—bland colors and lifeless fabric—except now he had on large black sunglasses and a Maple Leafs cap pulled down tight across his forehead. He looked how he probably imagined he should look, just as the movies had instructed him. But to anyone with a single ounce of common sense he looked like the exact type of person about to perform a dead drop. Cole laughed and drank the last bit of the acidic black gas station coffee.
The little man made his way to the trash bin outside the coffee shop and began looking around as if he were afraid he was being watched. Cole was hoping the little man would spot him and they could share a polite wave. He could see the humour in that. But the little man did not see him and quickly stuffed the bag into the trash before turning and damn near running away.
After the little man was gone, Cole got up and went around the iron fence and jogged across the street, raising a hand to thank the taxi that stopped to let him cross. Once at the trash bin, Cole reached in with the coffee cup, exchanged it for the bag, and left.
It was as if he were never there.
Cole’s house was nothing to write home about and that was completely on purpose. Hiding in plain sight was his motto. If one gave no reason to be suspected, they never would be. It worked for him so far and he was a firm believer in not fixing what wasn’t broken. It sat off the side of the road in a neighbourhood no one would think was rich, but where nobody would be scared to walk from their car, either. His house was surrounded in hip-tall hedges and shrubs. It was a single story ranch style that he bought for way under asking price. He was a haggler when he needed to be.
The attached garage was the biggest selling point for him. He liked being able to slip his car inside and step out into heat, especially in the colder months or at night. The cold never took to him no matter how experienced in it he became.
Cole was sitting in his office, eating a peanut butter sandwich and scrolling through the files on the little man’s USB drive. Generally speaking, Cole usually has his mind made up at first glance. Usually just a single photo, a base description, sometimes just a name is all it would take. Deciding if he wanted the job really was quite simple.
And this time was no different.
Even though he knew his next move, he still liked information. That was the key to his success. No manner of training or experience could ever possibly beat plain and simple knowledge. So he read on, and he ate, and gathered. He learned addresses, workplaces, hobbies, and family members. By the time he reached the end of the last document he had a full grasp on the situation. But he went back up to the top and started scrolling again. He repeated this three times.
When finished—of both his research and his sandwich—he closed his laptop with a plan fully set in his mind. Sometimes his job required additional research outside of what is usually contained within the initial dossier. But the little man had proved to be quite adequate in gathering information and Cole didn’t need to consult maps, building blueprints, bus schedules. Nothing like that. By the time his laptop closed, he knew every single move he was about to make.
He went to his garage.
Bolted to the far wall was a workbench, above which hung all manner of tools one would expect to find in most garages. Hammers, saws, power drills. Things of that nature. The only real difference was Cole was a bit more organized than your average home craftsman. Every item had a place and he couldn’t bear the thought of something being hung in the wrong spot. When he was neck deep in a project he could reach up without looking and know exactly where the intended tool would be. His palm would touch it and his fingers would wrap around the handle without his eyes ever leaving his birdhouse or flower box.
The current project was a medium sized lighthouse he was building for his front lawn. So far he had only finished the base of the tower but he was hoping to have the rest finished by the end of the week. Therefore, the bench was littered in pieces of lumber and sawdust. Seeing his space so filthy and unorganized made his skin crawl but there was only so much he could do about that, yes? Only so many hours in the day.
He knelt under the bench removing a blue camping cooler. It was empty and light. He slid it out of the way. Behind the cooler was a plastic milk crate stuffed with old tools and bits of scrap metal. That too he slid out of the way. The entirety of the garage was unfinished walls with patched holes and crack-filled lines and indentations. Paint cans sat against the wall to the left of the entrance atop sheets of plastic. He had begun painting the garage five years before when he bought the place. It would be finished when he retired. For now, he needed the space to seem unfinished, a work in progress.
It would give him a reasonable explanation for the square chiseled into the wall behind the milkcrate.
With a light, quick smack of the back of his hand, the square fell out of the way revealing an alcove cut into the wall. Cole reached in and gripped the hard plastic shell of the case and pulled it out. It was rectangular in fashion and resembled a carrying case for some brass instrument. The kind you see school children lugging on to buses.
He stood with the heavy case and placed it on the bench next to the lighthouse base. He winced at the twinge of stiffness in his back and tried not to ruminate on what that might mean for his longevity.
He popped the latches and opened the box. Inside, pressed into a memory-foam mould that perfectly folded around the metal, was a Beretta 92 pistol and two magazines. Besides the gun and ammo, there was also a matte black carbon steel tomahawk. Its head was thin and pointed in the rear, with a bearded front blade. Cole took out the Beretta and checked the chamber, making sure it was clear—of course it was, he never stored it incorrectly—before looking down the barrel and checking the sights. He did not think he was going to need the gun, most times he didn’t, but he had a firm belief in being ready for whatever. He would rather have all his tools, and have them all in complete working order, and never need them than to find himself in dire need of one and have it jam or otherwise malfunction. Preparedness kept him alive, among other things.
Satisfied with the shape of the pistol, he palmed a mag into the grip and set it to the side on the bench. Next was the axe. It was a deceivingly heavy thing. Being so short and thin, it looked as if it should weigh close to nothing. Being a tomahawk (or throwing axe) it was light relative to full sized axes, but it still weighed much more than one would think. Cole spun it in his hand, transferred it to his off hand, tested the weight. He ran a finger gently along the blade and was not satisfied with its edge.
There was a whetstone and leather strap in the toolbox next to the bench. Cole retrieved it and began sliding the axe up and down the stone before honing it on the strap. When done, he traced his fingers along the edge again and smiled as a thin layer of his flesh peeled away with next to no pressure applied. It fluttered to the ground like a freshly shaved piece of parmigiano reggiano.
Cole loaded the items back into the case and brought it into his house. In his bedroom he placed the case on his bed and turned to his closet. He cycled through the rack and grabbed the clothes he knew were waiting for him, the same he wore for every job. A black long sleeve shirt, black jeans, and on the floor a pair of black steel toe boots. Besides the colour, these clothes were generally not suited for his line of work and he had colleagues in the past rib him for it. But if things went sideways on the job, he preferred to be dressed like any other Joe Blow out and about at night. A tactical vest and cargo pants would give him away. A middle aged man who hated bright colours was a much easier sight to sell.
Once ready, he did what may be the part of this ritual he hated the most. With his pistol slung in its holster under his armpit and the axe clipped to his belt just under the small of his back, he hit his knees under the open window in his bedroom. Outside, the moon was full and stared back into him like a watchful eye. The void of night watched over him thickly and he could feel its touch on his skin.
There were many Gods in the history of man. In truth, that history was coloured with the blood of those who chose the Wrong God, the Right God, and the nonexistent Gods. As a species, humans have worshiped and killed for an innumerable number of them. Cole found this absurd. There were many reasons to kill a person. Many reasons to plunge a blade into someone’s chest. Some did it for vengeance, for rage, for money, for the glory of a nation that would never glorify them back. But to kill someone because their God was different from your own? That was ludicrous.
Cole prayed. His God was not one of substance, or of traditional worship, or one of prayers at all, really. His was the darkness between blinks, the hole at the end of the universe. The pauses between breaths. The gaps in memory where the demons we repress lay dormant and waiting. Cole’s God was the one behind us all. And His order, the order to which Cole dedicated himself all those years before, they were His true conduits. Cole did not kill because his God demanded it—he killed because he was good at it. His God was the absence of life and he prayed only because his offering needed to be known and seen.
All of this, every time, was just another offering.
If he was being completely honest, this job wasn’t that difficult. The movies and books liked to make it seem like he was working against the odds all the time, going up against the worst of the worst, the most dangerous monsters this world had to offer. Although there were exceptions — and trust him, those exceptions were big — the majority of his gigs were no harder than any other freelance position. After a while, it was all muscle memory.
The house was in a middle-class cul-de-sac. Mostly double story houses with neatly trimmed lawns and above ground pools. Some had Christmas lights up perennially along the gutters so that they’d be ready for next year. One had a Liberal Party election sign staked beside their driveway while another had a Conservative Party sign. They were neighbours, and shared a paved driveway.
The end of the road, the loop, was still in development and had no houses lining it. There was a new foundation surrounded by bundles of lumber and parked construction equipment and the rest was brush, trees, and a field of stones and brown gravel. Across the field was an elementary school that stood harsh and red against the night sky behind it.
The majority of the street was lit from arc sodiums that bathed the old grey pavement in soft orange light that didn’t dare stretch into the shadows of the lawns. A single section of the loop, next to the field, had no lights. This is where Cole parked. The house was a few doors up the road but while someone may see him walking, that was less noteworthy than a strange car parked outside of the house of the recently deceased.
Hiding in plain sight was the plan. Cole walked up the street, hands in his pockets, smiling. He expected to pass someone out on their step having a smoke, or someone walking their dog one last time before bed. But fortunately, he passed no one. The night was still.
When he arrived at the house, he quickly surveyed it to see if there were any changes between it and the Google Maps image he found on the web. Besides a new rose bush beside the front door, everything looked more or less identical. Two floors, a slanted roof, 6 windows in the front; 4 on the top floor, a wide picture window for the living room on the first along with what Cole assumed was probably a dining room window. The upstairs lights were on. The dining room was dark. Flashing pale lights came from the living room, indicating someone was watching television. The curtains were drawn preventing Cole from ascertaining any specific details.
That’s okay, though—it means they can’t see him either.
It doesn’t take him long to get inside. The security system wasn’t armed as people were home. Cole did his due diligence and made sure there were no outdoor security cameras or the ever popular Ring doorbell cameras. Sure, he could wear a mask and render these worries moot, but again, he was hiding in plain sight. Masks messed with that. And he just didn’t like them. They irritated the sensitive skin on his cheeks.
It took him all of thirty seconds to pop the lock on their backdoor. A moment later he was in their dimly lit kitchen. He listened intently and caught the opening song to a popular 90’s sitcom coming from the living room. He could picture the main cast falling over one another in a fountain and he almost found himself clapping along when the song called for it. Muscle memory was a bitch.
He pushed himself against the kitchen wall and slowly, slowly, peeked around the corner. A sectional couch divided the room in half. A woman and a young girl sat on opposite ends, both facing away from the kitchen. He knew the girl was 13 from the dossier. She was lost in her phone. The woman, the girl’s mother, was sipping a glass of rosé and watching the mounted flat screen.
He took a moment to look at them. This would probably be their last somewhat happy moment for a long time coming. But they didn’t know the service he was offering. They didn’t know the gift he was bringing them.
Cole moved fast and soft through the room and up the stairs, the sound of the television fading below him until it was nothing but the whispers of familiar strangers on the other side of the floor. Moving up the stairs, Cole knew this was where it could get messy. Ascending stairs was dangerous work. It gave any potential enemy the high ground and the ability to see or hear him before he saw them. So he moved quickly and reached to his armpit, palming the gun. He wasn’t concerned with drawing it now and keeping it bared and ready; he was quite positive that should he need it, he’d have it ready before the enemy even got close. Muscle memory, again. He would be faster.
He made it to the top of the landing without needing his firearm. The hallway was dark and lined with pictures of a happy family framed in matching silver. He noticed every picture was professionally taken. No candids. If this family was naturally happy and not artificially, there was no photographic proof in these portraits.
The photos told a story he was already well aware of — a husband and wife, a son and daughter. The son was older than his sister but not by much, being 15. Cole counted five doors in the upstairs hallway. Two belonged to the children (one had the glow of rainbow lights coming from underneath and the sound of machine gun fire so he knew the boy was behind it) and the remaining three were most likely the master, a bathroom, and some sort of spare room or office. This last room had light spilling from under and he figured that was where the target was. He hoped it was the master or office, he truly did not want to catch the man on the toilet.
Cole put a hand on the knob and turned it slowly, making sure to take as much time as possible. Slow meant quiet.
He pushed the door open. The room was small and painted plainly, the walls lined with empty shelves and dusty encyclopedias. A single lamp on the desk illuminated the room in yellow light. Besides the occasional family picture (copies of the same ones in the hallway) the only other thing on the walls was a signed and framed Maple Leafs jersey.
Behind the desk, the little man typed away.
He didn’t hear Cole enter and it was only when Cole closed the door gently behind him and spun the lock on the knob that he looked up. The colour drained from his face like a plug had been pulled in his ass and it all leaked out. His mouth fell open and gaped like a trout, his lips working to say something. Cole shook his head and made his way to the chair opposite the desk.
“Don’t be too loud. I didn’t exactly knock,” Cole said, and then motioned to the chair, “may I?”
The man looked bewildered. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and nodded. “Uh, yeah. Of course.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cole said and sat, unsheathing his ax and placing it on the desk so he wouldn’t sit on it, “you are a scholar and a gentleman.”
The man began to sweat and eyeballed the axe. Cole caught this and clicked his fingers, bringing the man’s eyes back up to meet his own. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Not yet, anyway.”
“Why are you here?” The man finally said. “I did everything you asked. Was there not enough? I made sure to count it three times.”
“It was all there. Who signed that?” Cole nodded to the jersey. At first confused, the little man turned and looked at the jersey.
“Oh, uh, Mats Sundin.”
Cole leaned back and smiled. “No shit? Weed himself signed that?” Cole regarded the jersey for a moment. “Well goddamn.”
“Why are you—”
“You know my brother was there when he scored the 500th against the Flames. Now that was a moment.” Cole shook his head. “What a sport.”
“Please, if my wife—”
“If your wife what? If she hears me?”
The man nodded.
Cole leaned forward. “What if she does? You want me to do it, but you don’t want to see it, is that it?”
The little man seemed to shrink even more as he collapsed back into his chair. Cole could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to formulate an answer. He continued. “What did I tell you at the bar?”
“You uh, told me a lot of things.”
Cole picked up the axe and used it to point at the little man, which made him squirm even more. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t—”
“I told you not to break my rules.”
‘You didn’t tell me what they were, how could I have known?”
“You couldn’t,” Cole said, “that's the whole point, yet that doesn’t matter, and that’s the point. Do you know there’s a term for what you hired me to do? That it has an official name?”
The little man shook his head, his eyes never leaving the axe.
“Family annihilation. That’s what they call it. Now usually this term is used for husbands and fathers who, for some asinine reason, snap one day and slaughter their entire family. Usually they take themselves out as well. But this is a bit different, because you didn’t have the balls to do it yourself.”
“You don’t understand,” the little man said, his eyes getting wet, his voice shaky. “I can’t do this anymore. They’d be better off.”
“And what about you? You got some sweetie on the side, maybe some grand dreams of hopping the border and heading down to Florida to fuck your brains out all night and play golf all day?”
The little man was quiet. Cole nodded. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’m not far off, and I’m equally as sure any excuse you give me to prove the contrary will be so stupid my mind will begin to evacuate my skull and leak out my ears.”
“She’s cheating on me,” the little man said.
“And that’s a death sentence?”
“It should be.”
“What about your kids? They have a second father they’re running around with behind your back?”
The little man sat up straight, a nerve having been struck. “It isn’t like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“They’d be…how could I…” The little man leans forward, bracing his elbows on the desk, lacing his fingers together and wringing them through one another. “How could I make them live with losing their mom like that? And I can’t raise them after having…done that. How could I look them in the eyes?”
“I need to be honest, man,” Cole said, “I’m having trouble believing that you even believe that crock of shit.
“Tell you what,” Cole continued, interrupting the man as he began to reply, “you be honest with me right now, and I mean 100% honest and open, and I won’t put a bullet between your eyes tonight.”
The man looked like he was about to throw up. His lips quivered. “Oh Lord, Oh Christ, what have I…”
“Don’t start that. You knew what you were getting involved in when you reached out. This is a train you’ve set in motion. And buddy-boy, your stop is here. Tickets, please.” Cole tapped the axe down on the table. “Truth. Now.”
The man swallowed. Nodded. “Okay,” he loosened his tie and breathed. “She’s fucking her hairdresser. I thought the prick was queer or something. Then I found pictures on her phone. Dumb bitch doesn’t understand the Cloud—we have a damn family account! Our kids could have seen what he was sending her.” He paused. “What she was sending him.
“After everything I gave her, everything I’ve sacrificed. I’ve raised two spoiled, ungrateful kids with her who, by the way, hate my fucking guts. Do you know what my son called me the other day?”
Cole was quiet.
“He called me a pussy. Me! His own father. That kid has everything he ever wanted or could want. My own daughter won’t look me in the eye. They know; I don’t know if she told them or what, but I’m half a man in their eyes. They don’t respect me. Do you know what I do? I’m an accountant. I type numbers into a spreadsheet all day. I wanted to be a goddamn—”
The axe interrupted the man. Before he had even known what was happening, Cole had sprang forward and planted it in his skull dead-centre between the brows. The man gasped and mumbled, his eyes going cross to look at the blade. Cole released his grip on the handle and the little man fell back into his chair, making this awful wet clucking sound as his body began to tremble and his hands swatted at the axe. They missed it completely, merely batting at it like a cat as his motor skills failed. Damage to the frontal lobe will do that to a man.
Blood began to dribble down from the wound like a solitary tear. Cole straightened his back, felt a few pops, and groaned. He really was getting old, huh?
Behind the desk, standing over the little man (who was trying his hardest to stare up at Cole, his eyes wide in confusion and fear), Cole had his hands on his hips studying the jersey.
“Mats fuckin’ Sundin,” Cole shook his head and smiled.
He met the dying man’s eyes and grabbed the axe handle, momentarily holding the man’s shaking skull still. He gave it a gentle pull and raised the man up as if he had a handle built into his dome. The man groaned, unable to form words or loud sounds. “I told you I wouldn’t shoot you,” Cole said and planted a foot on the man’s thigh and gave the axe a hard yank. It came out of the head with a wet crunch and all the blood it had plugged and kept at bay spilled out over the man’s face.
As the little man began to seize and his mouth to foam, Cole put one leather glove-clad hand on the man’s balding scalp and pushed it back, exposing his throat. He spun the axe around and in one clean, quick motion, swung the spike up and through the man’s jaw, nailing his mouth shut. He held the man like this for a little over a moment and when the man finally succumbed and choked to death on the foam and blood, Cole removed the axe and let the body go limp. It slowly sank off the chair and fell into a lump on the floor.
Cole bent down and used the man’s shirt to wipe the blood from the blade. He dipped a fingertip in the blood and used it to draw a half—circle on the man’s cheek and dotted each side of it. His God’s sigil. He said a silent prayer and then cleaned his finger off.
Before leaving, Cole doubled back and took the framed jersey off the wall.
His brother would love it.