I Kill in Peace

Killing gets easier…with practice.

Peter Blades is, in every sense of the word, an ordinary man. Hard worker, father, husband, a man content with small-town life. Except for one small fact—he's slowly being turned into a ruthless killer.

Compelled by mysterious texts to murder, he's provided a fiery red Mustang and an ancient sword to carry out an ever-growing hit list. His jerkoff boss is victim number one. You always remember your first.

By the time his sword sings through the air to dispatch a would-be school shooter, taking lives is as easy as breathing. And if the world is going to hell around him, all the better. No one wants to burn alone.

I Kill in Peace

Hunter Shea

Dedication

For Jason Brant, a man who fully appreciates horror, writing, and the need for a good drink when discussing the two.

“But his head no longer sheltered ideas of how things could be and should be on the planet, as opposed to how they really were. There was only one way for the Earth to be, he thought: the way it was.”

—Kurt Vonnegut,
Breakfast of Champions

The Message

Chapter One

The instant message warning me that I was about to be fired came just as I was completing a competitive analysis that had taken me the better part of three days. The oblong IM box superimposed itself over my spreadsheet.

It read:

AO:
Marcellus is going to call u into his office at 5. He's laying u off.

The words were shocking, but I didn't know who AO was, so I closed the window, thinking it was meant for someone else. Quadrangle Corp was, after all, a large, multinational company with over thirty thousand employees. Searching the directory for an employee with the initials AO would take up the rest of my day. I did feel sorry for the guy the message was meant for though.

This was a few days after a tropical storm, that I'd been told never came to this area of Maine, had swept through the county. I mean, the words
tropics
and
Maine
had probably never been uttered in the same sentence before. Our systems were kind of fried, so of course, some wires had gotten crossed.

Concentrating on the price comparison column I needed to finish, the box took center stage again.

AO:
Peter, I'm not kidding. Be prepared
.

The pen dropped from my mouth onto the keyboard.

I wrote back.

PB:
Who is this?

I sat back in my chair, waiting for a reply. I thought,
if this is Fred messing with me, I'm gonna beat his ass.
Back before we'd been promoted to management, Fred and I spent countless hours pranking one another and our unwitting co-workers. That was two wives—one for each of us—several babies, and four promotions ago. We still dicked around, but outside the office. Since my transfer, I hadn't seen Fred in months. He was a flight away now. Hard to get together for drinks after work or weekend barbecues when the distance between us could be measured in hundreds and hundreds of miles.

Besides, this wasn't funny. I'd just moved to Quadrangle's Maine office and bought a house, transplanting my family all the way from Florida. It hadn't been an easy move and even though the cost of living was cheap, I was still balls-deep in debt. If I lost my job, I was screwed.

AO:
Someone who's looking out for u.

Crap. Was it someone from the Miami office who had an in with HR up here?

PB:
If this is a joke, I'm not laughing
.

AO:
Just wanted u to be prepared.

I stood up, the cubicle wall coming to my chest, and looked around. Everyone was at their desk, working on their computer or on the phone. Was this new guy hazing?

“Very funny,” I said. Several heads turned, waiting for the punch line. Feeling like an idiot, I sat back down in my special lumbar chair. The IM window had somehow closed itself.

It was three o'clock. I still had at least an hour to go on my report. The last hour of the day I'd spend catching up on email. I'd only met our Vice President, Marcellus Hanson, twice before. To be kind, I told people he wasn't my cup of tea. He was tall and assertive with a personality that was sometimes bigger than the room. But it didn't take much scratching to find that he was all fluff and no substance. I'd bet my four-year-old could beat him in Scrabble. I had learned his strength though. He knew how to savage a bottom line. So, in lieu of making money, he was the expert at saving it. Ethics be damned in his mission to be the top dog in the kennel of empowered morons. I'd seen his type before. I'd learned long ago to ignore them. I had my own life to worry about. As long as he signed the checks, I couldn't care less what accounts he was shifting around or which pretty project manager he was screwing.

It was my wife, Candy, who'd taught me to pray for people like him. It took a lot of convincing at first, but in the end, she was right. It was easier to pity the guy than rail against him. Kept my blood pressure at a healthy level to boot.

I was down to my last three emails when Marcellus Hanson's secretary called me to come to his office. I looked at the clock.

5:00.

Oh shit.

I checked my computer monitor, hoping for an IM telling me this was all just a joke. My Outlook inbox was the only thing looking back at me.

My hands shook as I took my jacket off the back of my chair. Marcellus's office was on the floor above me. I had to take the stairs because all of the elevators were going down as my (former?) coworkers filed out.

His office was at the end of a short hall. I was out of breath, more from panic than the one flight up the stairs. I had to lean against the wall for a minute to calm down.

Taking several deep breaths, I strode into his office, a fake smile plastered on my face. He had a view of a small pond in the back of the building. It was an unassuming office, but then again, I'd learned that being ostentatious was a trait that would get you drummed out of Bridgton, Maine. If there were any quaint, all-American towns left, this was it.

“Have a seat,” Marcellus said. I noticed he hadn't bothered to paint on his own fake smile. His bald head bore several odd creases, as if he'd been in an accident in the past. A thick, bristled mustache kept his upper lip warm. I'd heard him refer to it as his flavor saver.

“I finished that competitive analysis today,” I said, hoping he couldn't hear the quaver in my voice. “I'll have everything ready for you in the morning.”

He leaned against his desk. “That won't be necessary.”

My stomach dropped to my tightening sack.

Oh my God. It's really happening.

“Pete, we're going to have to let you go.”

Blam! Like a bullet to the heart, he just let it all out at once. I couldn't find any words to retort.

“You know we've had a tough quarter. It's nothing personal, Pete. We just need to trim some headcount. We'll give you three weeks severance and I'll write a glowing recommendation for you.”

“Three weeks severance?” I said, the words clawing from my throat. I'd been with the company for over a decade and had even relocated to stay with it.

“You're a bright guy. I bet the moment you drop your line in the water, you'll have more fish than you'll know what to do with.” He pushed away from the desk, staring at me.

“That…that's it?” I said.

“I'm afraid so,” he replied without an ounce of care or contrition. “Now if you don't mind, I have several other people I need to speak with. Any questions can be brought up with HR. They'll meet you at your desk in a bit.”

And with that, I was dismissed. He turned from me to his tablet. I was a ghost to him in less time than it takes to sneeze. I had a hard time getting out of the chair. It was an effort to get my knees to unlock.

I passed Yolanda in the hallway. She was pale and biting her fingernails.

When she saw my face, she grabbed my arm. “Peter, what happened in there?”

“Marcellus just laid me off.” Saying it aloud still didn't make it seem real.

“What? You're the best marketing director we've ever had. Oh Jesus, does that mean he's going to let me go too?” Tiny tears sprang from the creases of her eyes.

“I…I don't know. Hopefully not,” I stammered, walking to the stairwell. I liked Yolanda and wanted to help her out, but I couldn't think, couldn't feel.

How will Candy react? She's going to flip out. I know it.

There was a cardboard box on my desk. No one from HR was around. It sounded like they were going to have a busy night. Numbly, I started to fill the box with my marketing books, picture frames, doodles from my daughter, and other things I'd brought from home to make my workspace cozy.

Blung!

I looked at my computer.

AO:
Are u OK?

I wasn't sure if I was legally supposed to use my computer, now that I'd been shit-canned.

What are they gonna do, fire me twice?

PB:
How did you know?

AO:
I know a lot. Are u angry?

PB: Of course I am. Being fired is one thing. Being fired by a dumbass I don't respect is another.

AO: Good.

PB: Why is that good?

AO: Because u won't feel so bad when u kill him
.

Chapter Two

I backed away from my laptop as if it were a venomous snake. The IM window blinked out of existence just as Edna from HR arrived at my desk.

“I'm so sorry, Peter,” she said. She was young and pretty and had really taken to the empathy courses they'd given her at corporate. I almost believed she cared. “I just need to go over some paperwork with you to make sure you get your severance and we can talk about Cobra insurance and your 401K.”

Staring at the blank monitor, all I could muster was, “Yeah, sure.”

The rest, until I got to my car with my box under my arm, was a blank.

I dumped the box of my belongings, as well as my severance and benefits folder, into the backseat of my Lumina. The old Chevy had been with me a long time and had borne witness to my highs and lows. This was one for the Lumina's record books.

The drive down Route 302 to my street took less than five minutes. I made sure to catch every light, waiting a little longer at each stop sign.
Where's a slow-footed moose when you need one?
I thought. I dreaded going home. Candy would be devastated, which would, in turn, break me. Maine wasn't exactly humming with job opportunities—not unless you could swing a hammer or had a medical degree. I was shit out of luck on both counts.

I was two blocks away when my phone started buzzing. I pulled over to view the text, hoping it was Candy asking me to stop at the store to pick up something at Hannaford. Hell, I'd go into New Hampshire if I could to avoid the inevitable.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw a text from the mysterious AO.

AO:
Marcellus lives on 189 Alyssa Lane in Wyndham. His wife is in New York visiting family. Be there, tonight, at 9. That's when he leaves to hit the bar.

“Who the hell are you?” Realizing there was no way the mysterious AO could hear my frantic voice, I texted my confusion.

AO:
Bring your car to the Food Mart lot at 8:30. You'll see a red Mustang with the keys in the ignition. Take it to Marcellus's house. I'll give u further instructions along the way.

I wrote back:
Just leave me alone! I don't want anything to do with Marcellus Hanson. And I'm not getting into any car you leave in a lot. You won't even tell me who you are!!!!!

The phone stayed silent. I wasn't in the mood for games. Sure, AO had the heads up that I was going to be canned, but this was getting ridiculous. How the hell did he—or she—know my cell number? Was this all some sick game someone in HR was playing on me? Only an HR person would know I was going to be fired and have my personal information. I seethed, dreaming up the lawsuit I was going to slap on the company. I tossed the phone into the box.

Gotta settle down now. Just step back a little and breathe
, I said to myself as I pulled into my driveway.

When I walked into my house, I was tackled by my daughter Katie. She wrapped herself around my knees. Candy, holding a bowl of steaming mashed potatoes, came over and gave me a quick kiss. Her black hair was in a ponytail and she was wearing her cooking sweats. She still looked gorgeous to me.

“You feel all right?” she asked.

I picked up Katie and held her to my chest. Her chestnut hair smelled like strawberries. The wattage of her little smile could power the International Space Station.

“Yeah, why?”

“You look a little pale,” Candy said. She pressed her lips to my forehead. “You don't have a fever. I just saw on the news that there's some terrible virus going around.”

“Honey, I'm pale because I'm starving,” I lied.

It was an effort getting every bite down, waiting for the moment to tell her. Not with Katie around. A dull throb birthed itself in the center of my skull, getting worse by the minute. After dinner, I loaded the dishwasher, settled Candy and Katie in the family room with the promise of watching
Frozen
for the hundredth time, said I had to go to the bathroom, and threw up everything I'd ever eaten. With each heave, my head felt close to ripping in two.

Was this how my body punished me for lying to Candy?

Stop being dramatic. It's stress. Plain and simple.

I'd always been an honest man, sometimes to a fault. Wiping gray goo from my mouth, I flushed my stomach away.

Leaning my head against the cool bowl, an image of a roaring fire flickered against my closed lids. The more I concentrated on the fire, the more my head hurt. My stomach cramped.

There can't be anything left!

I opened my eyes, wishing the fire and pain away. It actually seemed to work. My stomach settled down and I washed myself up. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My face was the color of Wonder Bread, and my receding hairline was still in retreat. Other than that, I looked the same as always—like a grown version of the kid who got sand kicked in his face by the beach beefcake.

By the time I got back downstairs, my wife and daughter were asleep on the couch. Olaf the snowman was doing his schtick on the TV.

A little chime beeped from my iPad that I kept on the end table. Katie liked to use it to play games. I rarely touched the thing.

Swiping the screen to life, I saw there was a message waiting for me.

I made a dry swallow when I saw it was from AO.

How the hell does this guy have all my info?

I opened the email.

AO: Food Mart in ten minutes. Your family will stay asleep until you come back. Don't worry about them. Worry about yourself.

I dropped the iPad on the floor, cracking the glass.

Had this sick fuck somehow drugged Candy and Katie?

The image of the fire came to me again with a lancing pain in my cranium that brought me to my knees. I tried to breathe through the agony while listening to Princess Elsa sing. I wanted to die.

“I'll go,” I muttered, though couldn't recall thinking it.

The pain stopped, but my ears still rang.

I was slow to get up.

I thought about reneging on my assent to do what AO had told me. The instant it flashed in my brain, a bright explosion of rippling agony flittered behind my eyes. My bowels almost completely let go and I wanted to vomit. The pain passed and I staggered, holding on to the back of the couch.

How was this being done to me? And how was it affecting Candy and Katie? Through my stumbling and heavy groans, they didn't move a muscle. If for nothing else, I had to go along to get to the bottom of it.

Ten minutes, AO had said.

That gave me seven minutes to get to Food Mart.

I didn't know what the hell was happening, but was too afraid to not do what AO had told me and feel that torment again. Slipping on my jacket, I grabbed my keys from the bowl by the front door and left.