While I'm vexed that Burt’s sour face has stayed that way since getting on the commercial airliner and even after the ride to the Bulgari Hotel, I know he’s mentally tallying up things to report to my mother. I'm 35 years old and Burt still goes back and tells mother everything. This has been his habit since I could crawl and look under females' skirts.
He swipes a white-gloved finger on a milk white glass lamp in the living room. “Aside from the dust, I cannot fathom who’d select this design scheme. Gaudy meets quaint,” he says, pointing to another lamp that's a chunky gold. Then his mouth opens wide, forehead rising–
“If you sneeze one more time, Burt!” I snap, coming down the three steps that separate the master suite from a v-shaped sunken living room. A grand piano is stationed on a black, marble platform. Glass walls extend from the floor to ceiling, giving us a 360-degree view of the entire downtown area, since we have the exclusive use of the Bulgari’s top floor. To one side, the Empire State building is a dominating historical force. Then the Hudson River is visible from another area, and tons of other landmarks.
“Do it. I’ll forgo a much-needed holiday and resign for good,” he mumbles at my threat after a few sneezes. “Actually, let’s kill Whitson before brunch.”
“Let's?”
“You do understand what I've inferred, Duke of Arlington,” Burt says. I mouth my title with the same irritation that Burt holds. Even though Burt takes no part in my hobby, he is up to speed on every aspect of my life.
“I know. Burt, you are an avid sharpshooter,” I reply after doing the last button on my black button up. I then pick up my diamond cufflinks from next to the “gaudy” lamp. I'm dressed in black slacks and shoes. All Burberry black, all me.
“I told you we should have opted for the vault.” Burt glares at my cufflinks.
“This is a five-star hotel, Burt. I’ve already given you charge to secure a realtor to purchase in the area. Yet, you refuse. How ironic, my butler refusing to do my bidding. Moreover, if anyone steals my cufflinks kudos to them.” I give a soft chuckle.
He blinks at me for a second, the lack of retort speaks volumes. Burt doesn’t think much of the States. I haven’t been compelled to return for other than the X-Member association. Hence the hotel. “Oh okay, I’ll get right on that, Victor. But something tells me you’d rather the instigation of staying at a hotel. I can see it now. Someone steals your cufflinks at this five-star hotel. Then you will find and shoot them because that's all you do. Bait and shoot. Bait and shoot.” His head moves back and forth with each word.
Bollocks, that is a rather accurate assessment. “Of course, I’d be obliged to pay that person back.”
I hear him scoff as I head down the private elevator with a black duffle bag containing my sniper rifle and all the equipment needed to put the good old Dr. Whitson out of his misery.
Once I'm in the backseat of the cab, I chuckle at how Burt would have felt even sitting where so many others have. Burt had purchased a Mercedes S550 and had it waiting at the airport when we arrived. Though not the crème de la crème of luxury vehicles, it boasts enough accommodations to be acceptable, yet discreet. Although not suitable enough for today, today requires the utmost discretion. I look up after putting on sunglasses and leather gloves. We're about two feet away from Bulgari. The traffic is atrocious.
“Thanks.” I pull out a Benjamin for the driver while opening the door.
“Thanks pal!”
I take to the streets like a loyal businessman. The streets from Bulgari to Gecko Technologies and blueprints have been imbedded in my mind during the plane ride. It takes a certain level of disconnect to delight in every aspect of murder. Though I won’t allow myself to become consumed with the kill, I want to scope out the scene and get a feel for Whitson’s schedule. I think as my father for a second. It’s been a while since I’ve done a cover up murder, one in which there is no denying that the death is self-induced or because of an ailment. Maybe, just maybe, that’s how I’ll take Whitson out.
This musing over murder has become one of my favorite pastimes. Just ruminating about a hit, not even to the point of completing the actual deed, that's the most fundamental, enjoyable part.
My father used to force me to go hunting when I was younger. Mother would always turn up her nose. He argument was that it wasn’t becoming of the future duke to parlay in such common activities. Father would scoff, and remind her that his blood boosted royalty, she boosted luck. Nothing on this green earth was untouchable or beneath him, unless he deemed it as such. Hunting quail had always been a pastime for royalty, but Mother knew Father was psychotic. He only delighted in the dynamics of taking lives. Human or animal, that was never important. How, now that was crucial…
His words are with me even now. “It’s all about opportunity. The kill is of no significance. Quality over quantity. Fine details all the way down to the most minute, now that’s what is fundamental.” Father’s credo had filled my brain as I took my first life. A quail. But a life nonetheless.
Then the stakes were higher...
About 15 minutes into my journey, I approach a skyscraper with mirrored walls that reflect the smoggy, gray skies. A swarm of beautiful, seemingly intelligent women are walking around in tight pencil skirts. This is hardly the day for death as one blonde in a particularly short red dress seizes the opportunity to give me the go ahead.
“Hey, whatcha got there?” she asks, twiddling her finger through her straight, platinum blond hair.
“A really big gun,” I state in a matter of fact manner, since I’m prone to telling the truth.
The blonde begins to laugh her ass off. I'm instantly turned off as she considers my statement the funniest comment of the year. I'm always aware of my surroundings, and notice this child... A flurry of shocking, spiral, copper-colored hair obstructs my view of her face. But she’s holding some sort of flowers while walking across a very busy street.
A bike courier zips through traffic, moving faster than the speed of light. My eyes roam from the child to the lean, agile rider. It takes a nanosecond for my mind to analyze the fact that the absent-minded girl will be hit at the current rate she’s walking.