At The Crossroads 1 - Target.

It was necessary to go back a few months, to be able to appreciate all the danger of the situation in which I had plunged in spite of myself; and more exactly, to return to the moment which was going to degrade my life for the worst.

"So? When can you handle it?" Asked the man facing me.

I had several photos in hand, as well as a folder of personal information sitting in front of me on the coffee table.

As usual, I had been called to a private room in one of the karaoke bars near one of the organization's branches, and I had been given the data on the next person who would be at my mercy.

My targets could be obstacles to be pushed aside or terrorized; or even made to disappear. It didn't matter what the job was, as long as the pay was good enough in my eyes.

"This is pretty urgent, and the boss wants to take priority over all your other jobs," he explained.

"In that case, I'll charge extra," I replied without any hesitation as I started to write on the back of one of the photos.

My interviewer winced, but I didn't care. One of the advantages of being well known in the business was that I was the one who had the last word, under any circumstances.

I slid the photo across the table to him, and after glancing at it, he excused himself to go make a phone call.

Organized crime paid well, and on time. The downside was that their cases could escalate quickly, and thus become complicated for me to handle.

Moreover, my notoriety in the business meant that I could choose my own contracts.

This did not always please the different rival families who called upon my services; so I had made it a rule never to take on contracts that would expose me to the wrath of two warring camps.

It was a matter of survival, and of common sense.

This contract, however, was going to make a lot of people happy, on both sides.

The murder of a prosecutor. No additional instructions, except for the deadline by which the mission had to be completed.

It was rather risky since it was a public figure, but that kind of thing didn't bother me much. I was sufficiently prepared to deal with all eventualities.

This self-confidence had led me to accept this job and to post myself in a place that my victim could not suspect.

Sitting in my car, I watched from the other side of the street as the lawman - he must have been in his early thirties and wore a badge around his neck specifying his duties - got into his car before starting to drive home.

This guy didn't even suspect that he was being followed. Well, how could he?

According to the file I had, the prosecutor who was my target had been taking bribes for several years, so it was no wonder that this man could assume he was immune to anything. He had relaxed far too much, not imagining for a moment the fate that would await him in a few minutes.

In silence, I started to follow him through the city.

I recognized the route to his apartment, which I had already spotted the day before.

Since he lived alone, I had chosen to intervene directly at his place: a quick strangulation followed by a hanging and a fake suicide note was ideal.

Quickly, his car entered the underground parking of the building where he lived, and I parked outside to avoid having my license plate captured by the surveillance cameras inside.

I had put on a police biker uniform - with a thick jacket, a motorcycle helmet under my arm, and a pair of thick gloves covering my hands - so he was not at all suspicious when I rang the doorbell of his apartment.

"Can I help you?" He asked me with a confused look as he observed my outfit.

He was probably puzzled to find a policeman in front of his door, and this just a few minutes after coming home.

"Ah, sir! The Attorney General has asked me to come and pick up an urgent file that may be in your possession!" I exclaimed with mock concern. "I'm sorry to bother you so late..."

"No, it's nothing," he said as his facial features relaxed. "Would you like to come in and sit for a moment?"

I awkwardly excused myself and entered the apartment after him, the door to the hallway closing with a sharp slam behind us.

The trap had closed perfectly on him.

"What file does the Attorney General need?" He asked absently.

"The one on the tax fraud," I replied promptly.

"That doesn't help much with narrowing it down," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"He said you'd know which one he meant," I elaborated.

He quickly invited me to sit on the couch in the living room, and began to bustle out of my sight into a nearby room that must have served as both his bedroom and office - surely to look for a file that in the first place had never existed.

"You must be tired after your shift, still having to play courier for the District Attorney's Office," he observed.

"I'm just doing my duty, sir," I replied, feigning a sympathetic air and beginning to slowly stand up. "Although I must confess that the day is getting long."

The door to the room he was in was ajar, limiting both my field of vision and his. Just the blind spot I needed to attack him from behind quickly and accurately.

"Still, you could have had a coffee in the lobby of the Prosecutor's Office, that's what the machines are for," I heard him say from the other room.

"Ah, I did have one, but I'm afraid it wasn't enough," I replied, taking an apologetic tone and starting to approach the room's door.

I could no longer hear the sound of documents and objects being moved, which told me that he had probably finished going through his things.

But strangely enough, I couldn't hear the sound of his footsteps either, a sign that he would have come back in my direction to leave the room.

"It's already late, but how about another cup of coffee before you go back?" he asked.

His voice seemed strangely too close to my position, and I barely had time to jump back when a large scissor blade passed through the doorway and arced in my direction.

Intercepting and twisting the wrist that held the improvised weapon with my right hand, I dropped the pair of kitchen shears to the floor with a loud metallic clang.

Something - perhaps our discussion, or some other such detail - must have tipped him off. It was not a surprise attack, considering the wielding arm that had tried to hurt me a few seconds earlier

I didn't have time to think more about the detail that could have given me away, because my target had immediately burst out of the room - revealing his entire body - and sent a lightning punch towards my stomach. I was too close to him to dodge, and I took the blow head-on.

He had shown an impressive strength that surprised me at the time. Perhaps he had practiced boxing during his studies.

However, he had made a serious mistake by stepping out of the room and bringing his other arm in close proximity to my body, because the next moment, I threw a violent headbutt right at his forehead, which made him stumble backwards.

He fell from his full height to the ground, and quickly sent a kick towards me to drag me in his fall. This time, I dodged with a disconcerting ease; the wound that I had inflicted on his skull having surely hindered his vision and his management of distances given his desperate gesture.

Leaping on his chest, my right forearm was placed on his throat. I began to exert against it an almost mortal pressure by crushing it with all my weight.

I had restrained his right arm along his body with my left hand, his right hand clutching the sleeve of my biker jacket with the energy of desperation.

He pulled so hard on it that I heard the seams at the shoulder junction snap.

Feeling under my buttocks and between my thighs his torso twisting from side to side, I understood without even having to turn around that he was trying to bend and unfold his legs to make me tip over on my side and escape. But it was no use, because I was positioned too close to his neck for this maneuver to have any chance of success.

I could feel his breathing becoming more and more difficult, and his revolting eyes, which were staring at me in horror, seemed to glow more and more. He was beginning to lose control of his movements, and the responsiveness he had shown earlier on the doorstep.

Soon the grip on my sleeve began to lose its intensity, and his body movements faded.

He was unconscious, and pulling my forearm away from his throat, I began to work.

The fake suicide note - typed in advance on the computer - was placed on the coffee table. A dozen ties tied together in a colorful noose were passed through the ventilation grate in the kitchen ceiling.

Finally, I took a picture of the still unconscious man on the floor - proof of the contract's fullfilment to be sent to my client - before I began dragging the man to his short, fateful future.

The noose lying on the floor was passed around his neck, and then slowly I began to pull the other side of the strange rope as if I were raising a banner on a flagpole; the man's body straightening itself into a sitting posture on the floor with each length of tie I pulled.

I was about to pull the ribbon of ties again, when the unthinkable happened.

The front doorbell rang.

This guy was supposed to live alone, so who could be visiting him this late?

No, that wasn't the point.

I had to finish the contract, and find a new way to escape, since my main retreat route had just been cut off.

"Hide, are you there?" Said a female voice from the other side of the door, followed again by the doorbell.

Shit.

This guy probably had a girlfriend, and I couldn't be bothered to be found out; especially if I wanted to make it look like a suicide.

As bad news goes, my victim began to regain consciousness, his fingers twitching and his trembling eyelids opening slightly.

I could also hear several concerned voices outside, and the distinct sound of a set of keys being handled.

Damn it.

With a sudden gesture, I finished hoisting my target, his toes barely touching the floor.

It was enough for him to finish suffocating.

Then, I rushed towards the bay window of the living room giving on a small terrace.

Once outside, I spotted an air-conditioning duct that I could grab onto, and quickly descended the three floors separating me from the ground.

I could already hear exclamations of fright from the bay window left open, and hurriedly hid under one of the trees planted on the sidewalk.

A figure had leaned over the railing of my victim's terrace.

I didn't think anyone could see me, but this movement was far too quick to be random.

Keeping my composure, I waited for almost a full minute while the figure continued to scan the street; looking for something, or someone.

I had a strange feeling that what this individual was looking for was me.

Fortunately, someone seemed to be calling that person inside, and the figure finally disappeared, allowing me to quickly get to my car and leave the area.

Stopped at a red light, I sent the target's picture to the sponsor, and a few seconds later, a text message informed me that a transfer had been made to my bank account.

Perfect.

Despite the minor setbacks, I had still completed the contract. It deserved a new custom-made suit in my favorite store.

The light turned green, and I was shifting into first gear to get back on the road, when a bright light from my right blinded me.

The next moment, a huge crash of twisted and bent metal and shattered glass momentarily disturbed my hearing, and I felt my stomach turn upside down as my car was thrown on the side in several rolls.

The steel and plastic carcass came to a halt a few meters away before the horrified eyes of passers-by and other drivers, and all I could smell for a moment was the pervasive odor of blood.

I was still belted into my seat, but I could feel something new holding me in place as well. My reflection in the rearview mirror showed me the image of my face being scratched by tiny shards of ice, and looking down at my torso, I could hardly realize what I was seeing.

Something was piercing my chest, protruding grotesquely between the folds of my clothes in the middle of my chest, and as I began to lose consciousness, I heard a man's voice.

"That piece of shit's still alive."