Another Job

Ominous black clouds hovering over the city in the early morning portended the day ahead. The clouds matched his mood—dark and brooding.

Moreau steered toward the right bank of the Seine River and docked his small, narrow riverboat, which he secured to a small dock. He glanced around the industrial stretch of the river. The directions he had been given were explicit. He knew precisely where he was going but not why. The why didn't matter to him. He had a job to do.

He hopped out of the boat and took the steps to the road. The mix of modern and old never ceased to amaze him. In some places, they had done it very well. Paris was a most exciting and eclectic city, and he wished he could stay for a visit.

It didn't take him long to find his destination. A warehouse a block from the river. He avoided workers sneaking out for a smoke and slipped into a freight elevator to take him to the second-floor offices. Within seconds, Moreau found the office he needed. A man sat at a desk—head bowed over a ledger. With a gloved hand, he knocked on the door, and the man yelled for him to enter.

“Monsieur Louis Barbier?”

"Yes, how can I help you?" Barbier asked as he started to stand.

He pulled out a small pistol with a noise suppressor longer than the gun screwed to the barrel. Barbier's face instantly changed to horror as the reality of what was about to happen.

He aimed the small pistol at the center of Barbier's chest and squeezed the trigger twice in a rapid session. Both bullets entered Barbier's chest within a half inch of each other, instantly stopping his heart.

As Barbier slumped back into his chair, blood oozing across his starched white shirt, he tucked the gun back into his jacket and retrieved both shell casings. He was out of the building undetected in less than five minutes from the time he entered.

Moreau took an alternate route back to the stolen boat, slipped it from its moorings, and headed upriver. He had a car waiting at a private dock outside the city and would abandon the boat there.

Moreau removed the wig and beard he was wearing and tossed them in the Seine. He grabbed a bag he had stashed on the boat, which contained a change of clothes, a new passport, and a burner phone. He burned his Moreau passport as he placed a call.

"It's me. It is done."

An electronic voice sounded in his ear. "Good, your money is being wired to your account now. It is a pleasure doing business with you."

"Until next time."

He hung up and tossed the phone and the chard remnants of the passport into the river. He laughed as he exited the boat and walked toward his car. There is always a next time.