Keith DaCosta Story of an hour

1/15/07

The Man Without a Name

The Man Without a Name walked down a dark ally. He looked up at the quiet starless sky for a moment, took a deep breath of the cool air, and looked slowly down at his watch. 1:30 a.m. He didn’t have much time, and the sun would be rising in three and a half hours. Not much time to find a safe house. He continued to walk slowly as he thought of what he’d do with the money. He then snuck into an old run down building. He wondered why he was given only an hour, but in his profession, it was good not to ask questions, to just get the job done. He ran up three flights of stairs. He investigated each floor to make sure no one was there. He stopped for a moment and looked through the window trying to see into the building next to him. Everything was clear.

He slowly crept up to the fifth floor of the building. He peaked around a corner and saw the dark outline of another man. It looked like he was wearing a black trench coat then again, it was dark in the room. The dark figure had what looked to be a note pad in one hand and a pistol in the other. The Man Without a Name crouched behind his corner. He slowly pulled out his pistol with his right hand while his left hand reached for his silencer. He quickly and quietly attached it to his 9mm. He snuck around the corner, aimed his gun to the man’s head, and with a quiet whistle of air, he was dead. The Man Without a Name walked over to his kill as he put away his gun. He took the man’s pistol and the note pad. He flipped it opened and read the one line, “When he gets there, kill him.”

The Man Without a Name thought to himself, “This is either a set up, or some guy trying to steal my kill.” The Man Without a Name looked through the dead man’s pockets. He pulled out a wallet. He flipped through it quickly until he found what he was looking for. The dead man’s I.D. The I.D read “F.B.I”. “Shit, I just killed a god damn cop. He must have been waiting for me. I guess I should hurry things up a bit he may have called for back up.”

The Man Without a Name noticed a broken window. He looked through another window of the building next to his. He could see him. The man he was meant to kill. The man was lying on a bed but by the looks, he wasn’t dead, just drunk. Beer bottles scattered everywhere and the light was still on. He must have just dropped where he was standing. The Man Without a Name quickly pulled out an M4 rifle which was strapped to his back. He swiftly pieced it together. He aligned his rifle to the drunken man’s head. He released the safety and put his finger over the trigger. “Wait!” he thought to himself. Something wasn’t right.

He tried to remember what his employer had told him. He thought for a moment. It came to him shortly after. “He told me to wait for his girlfriend to show up in his room. That way, she gets to see him die.” The Man Without a Name never liked having to sit and wait, but in his profession you do what you’re told, and nothing but. The Man Without a Name put his rifle down on the dusty floor beside him. He leaned against a wall, where he could still see into the man’s bedroom. The Man Without a Name waited several moments wishing he could just take the man’s life and clock out early for once. He looked into the room again.

He sat alone in the dark, gloomy room. He pulled out his pistol again and played with it for a while. He practiced aiming it and wished he could shoot something. As he was putting his pistol away he suddenly saw her. A young woman entered the drunken man’s room. The Man Without a Name looked at her tensely. He slowly picked up his rifle. His hand shook slightly. “Another day, another death...” He looked at his watch. “Right on time...”