A frustrated tension filled the smoke filled conference room Jack Deerson used to conduct his meetings. Twenty men, ranging from an antsy sixteen to an aging quickly eighty-nine year old, all stood in silence as Jack peered at them over his thick rimmed reading glasses. The brown of the frame matched the hue of his eyes, that's why he wore them. His eyes were just fine, vanity was a necessity he couldn't do without. Imagine the thumping of twenty-one heartbeats, each slightly off from the other, the unnerving of it all. The sounds of failure sunk to the floor with each breath. On the other end, the mission was accomplished, neatly or not, it was done.
Before addressing the room, it was Jack's responsibility, no, duty to make sure the severity of the situation was understood and clearly discernible.
They stood around a gorgeous maple conference room table. No one dared to sit, not even Jack. The men often mimicked their leader's stance as a sign of respect. Jack always took the head of the table, he was the leader of this group of rag-tag men and as the leader he would be heard, loud and unmistakable.
Jack cleared his throat and adjusted the stance of the brown reading glasses that balanced on his nose ever so eloquently, "Eric, you used the wrong knife. You used the wrong knife!" With a clinched fist and raised arm, Jack reinforced the correct knife to his pupils. Knuckles white with anger, a thumb madly pushing down the index finger causing all the other fingers to tighten up and grip with ferocity.
The alligator grip he held on the handle of the blade had spread his flesh ever so slightly on to one of the teeth of the black powder-coated blade. He did not flinch, nor did he grimace, his strength and leadership was unwavering.
His crimson blood, the life fuel as some called it, slowly snaked down his forearm and settled on his rolled up sleeve. The men watched him, waiting for something, wanting the silence broken.
The knife, a matte black SOG spring activated serrated blade, shown dully under the single bulb basement light fixture. Maneuvering the knife through twists and turns with a simple engagement of his wrist, Jack barked, "This is the knife gentlemen. One knife, we all have it, one knife, we all use it. How can that be interpreted any other way?" His eyed danced from man to man, each dropping his head as Jack scoured at them, all of them but Eric Williams. Eric 'the fuck up' Williams.
The men took turns accomplishing missions. This mission was Eric's. He owned it and all that came with it. The success of the kill, the failure of the methodology.
With a quivering voice and a trembling body, Eric bemoaned, "Mr. Deerson, Uncle Deerson, sirā¦I cut her in the right spots, I did everything by the book. I dropped the black matted hair next to the body, left the King of Hearts half in and half out of her open chest, I even got the her wedding ring and finger right below the second knuckle." Eric's posture was tightening up, reassuring himself that he hadn't messed up too terribly much.
It's true, Eric had performed the killing with precision and skill. After barging into Sarah Fisher's home Eric spoke a few mumbled words, nervousness no doubt, and quickly incapacitated her with a closed fist to the temple. Sarah was then bound with single insulated wire, common in every hardware store, and Eric waited for her to wake.
After about ten minutes or so, Sarah groggily came back to Earth from her La La Land trip and realized her reality was not a drunken hallucination. Once she was fully back to one hundred percent, Eric didn't hesitate to open her chest with speed and aggression. As he eyes rolled back into her head, she involuntarily shit herself, a common body reaction to meeting death.
Eric cracked her sternum with the butt of the knife he used, a glossed wooden handled deal, cheaply made but uncommon to the area and time frame. This knife was a replica of a World War II infantry man's blade. That is the gist of the problem.
The bone of the sternum, once crack, sprung open like a Venus Fly Trap ready to feast on the unlucky fly that chose to land on it. The casino grade King of Hearts was then placed in the same resting place as all the previous killings. The ring and finger was easy, but again, the wrong knife was used.
As he began to continue on, "I justā¦"
Jack blew flames from his throat, or so it seemed, "You fucked up the one thing that HAD to happen! The knife! We use the same knife!" The team worked in unison, same method, same knife, same everything. That was how this group would remain as one and no one could pin any one person down.
The sound of shuffling broke the awkwardness of the scolding. Anxiety? Sympathy? No, no, it was a part of the rules. Theron Kelliem and Michael Brooke had navigated behind Eric. They were just waiting for the signal from their leader. You break the rules, you're off the team. It's a fairly civilized concept.
Theron was a father of three that worked sixty hours a week at the lumber yard sorting stripped trees into piles by species. He enjoyed the group and appreciated the chance to break up the monotony of his everyday life.
Michael on the other hand, was a young man, twenty-three or so. He bar-tended at the local night club and has always held a deep loathing in his heart for society. It was breed into him, passed down from a family of people haters and embedded into his subconscious.
Jack smiled and took off his glasses, gently placing them on the table each man was gathered around. That the signal, fairly simple but beautiful in its own right.
Suddenly and without warning, Theron and Michael pounced on Eric with the prowess of an African lion that hadn't eaten in a week. Michael swiftly slit Eric's throat but not before Theron was 4 inches deep in Eric's back, right under the shoulder blade with an upward thrust to reach the heart. The combination of his surprised exhale and chill producing gurgling ensured the rest of the room; the other nineteen men received the message, first class, shipped over night, urgent open now message.
The rules are the rules. Period.
The sound of suffering subsided as the shock of it all attacked Eric's racing brain. Now the room was filled with the echoing steady flow of a fuck up's blood raining to the floor covering the black combat boots on Theron and Michael's feet. They were Wal-Mart brand, faux leather, common and part of the uniform.
A tear was not shed, nor an objection heard. This is what the group signed up for and they all knew deep down inside that they too could be in the position of elimination if they lapsed in judgment, even on the smallest of details. Details, big and small, are what get you in trouble. Details are what get you caught.
The fall to the ground, limp and wet, didn't stop Jack from beginning a new, "Folks, we have fifteen minutes left with the room before the local seven four seven girl scouts have their meeting. Get this cleaned up and make Mr. Williams disappear forever please."
The group nodded and barked orders to one another to expedite the process. The room must be as clean as a freshly built home in less than fifteen minutes. No sign of trauma could be left. The girl scouts could sense those sorts of energies. Little bastards.
While all this was happening, the cleaning, the dragging of the body, the room preparation, Jack motioned to Jeremy Smalls, "Pastor, may I have a word?"
Pastor Smalls was a petite man, small framed and weathered skin. Jack towered over him like a father looking down at his three year old waiting for the little tyke to figure out the words he wanted to use to explain what he wanted. His boots, the Wal-Mart ones, were barely purchasable. He almost needed a kid's version, if they existed.
Jeremy's face, dimpled from age, laid static as he waited for the word from Jack. Nothing else mattered in this moment to the Pastor. He just waited, that is obedience dashed with a willingness to assist the group at any and all cost.
Craning his neck, Pastor Smalls peered into the eyes of their leader and awaited the word that had been requested. His robe hung neatly, straight and pressed. The cross around his neck sat freely on his chest. The Pastor often clung to the cross when things turned difficult or unsettling. His hands remained at his side the entire meeting. The rules are the rules.
Jack pushed his black peppered hair back from his head, resetting his mood and relieving the frustration of it all, "Pastor, I need you to help me with this. We need to either make Sarah Fisher vanish or correct the errors of our now removed team member. Your wisdom and guidance will be much appreciated. What do you think?"
"Well, we planned hard for this one and I'd hate for this kill to go to waste, Jack. I'll take care of it tonight. If done correctly, I can modify the wounds using the appropriate blade and all should be right with the world." Pastor Smalls was confident this was something he could accomplish. His small hands didn't waver as the blood rushed through his raised veins. "Jack, correction is the key to success."
With that, they shook on it, Jack's hand swallowing the Pastor's.
Eric's body was dragged out through the large back double doors directly into a waiting open trunk. He would end up in a meadow, beautiful and full of life, dead as a doorknob without a care in the world.
"Meeting adjourned."