It's Tough Being an Assassin in the 2020's

‘IT’S in Paris,’ Gregory pushed. ‘You love Paris.’

‘I love croissants, Greg. That’s not the same thing as liking Paris.’

‘You came to me and I’m giving you another chance when no one else will. Make like a straw and suck it up. I’ll speak to you when you get there.’ The dialing tone sang.

Oisín rolled his eyes, he really was back now. It had been three years since the most embarrassing fuck-up of his life. But now he was on a train through Europe to complete a job and find out if he missed the life he thought he missed.

The train began to slow gently like a large mechanical animal, its breath slowing and muscles easing with the sound of clicks and clunks. Oisín pulled his backpack down from the rack above and packed-up his book, his notebook, his canteen of water, and the remains of the sandwich he had grabbed in Zurich. He removed a small canvas wash-bag and zipped it open. Inside there was a brand new Apple Watch and Air Pods. Oisín fixed the Air Pods into his ears and began flicking through the iPhone which had been provided to him with the washbag upon arriving in Switzerland. His mark was a young lady. There were pictures of her crossing a street and sitting in a park smoking. She was not yet thirty. Her large eyes, although gentle, gave the impression that she wasn’t someone to be fucked with. Perhaps that was what had put her in the situation she was currently in, marked for death.

The irony that he was now a walking advertisement for Apple wasn’t lost on Oisin. He had resisted for years affixing himself with media he didn’t need, which in a way led to his downfall. He’d gone from being a Red Cross Volunteer, helping those bullied by corrupt regimes to assisting protesters to organize and learning how to shoot. The problem had always been the same, politicians and corporations. No matter what they said, they didn’t care about the suffering. They cared about profits and favors and no number of graves was too high for either; especially the one they tried to put him in. From there his career blossomed so fast it made him dizzy to think about it. He’d learned people weren’t to be trusted. He’d learned to be quick, cautious, and smooth. He’d learned how to leave no trace.

Oisín walked along the platform with the other passengers, observing everything. Tired facial expressions of weary commuters. The impatience of the youth trying to squeeze between bodies. Everyone glued to their phones as they headed into Gare du Nord station. His blue eyes caught reflections, sudden movements, and quickly assessed things that could be out of place. As he walked inside there was beeping in his ear and he looked at his watch. Petite Menagerie, South entrance. The message ran across the digital watch face like a line of ants. Oisín bit his bottom lip.

Hong Kong was a blunder. He had waited for his mark on a bench with his Glock positioned perfectly under a large overcoat on his lap, knowing the target would be cycling by on his way to work. He had been having doubts for months, an itch in the back of his mind. And when he saw his target cycling towards him with a small child balancing on the cross-bar, he began to shake. It wasn’t that the shot was difficult, he could make it in his sleep. But in his mind’s eye, all he saw was the child covered in his Daddy’s blood trying to shake a corpse awake. As the bike flew past Oisín stood up in a panic and took aim.

‘Excusez-Moi’. Oisín jumped at being touched on the shoulder from behind. He turned to see a young man looking at him, his eyebrows raised. ‘Eh sorry. Could you take a picture of me and my friend?’ The young man held out a phone as he awkwardly waited.

‘No,’ Oisín’s heart was pumping. The man walked away with a fuck-you painted on his face and Oisín removed a bottle of pills from his inside pocket and ate three. ‘Fecking smartphones.’

After he had made his miss in Hong Kong he looked around. In every direction was at least twenty people, and every single one of them had their smartphones pointed at him. What was he going to do … kill them all? He ran as fast as he could but within thirty minutes his face was spread across the city on large electronic billboards and eventually every global news outlet. He knew hunting, he knew trade-craft. But it was fucking Twitter that made him the laughing stock of the gun-for-hire community. That was going to change.

The little coffee-stop stood by the south entrance to Gare du Nord as the message had instructed, surrounded by a bumble of busy travelers getting their fixes of caffeine.

‘Looks like it might rain today,’ said Oisín to the barista as he slipped onto a stool.

‘Yes but I always carry an umbrella,’ the barista responded. ‘What can I get you, sir?’

‘Double espresso.’

The barista went to work with a series of clunks and grinding noises followed by the distinct gurgling of water. Oisín watched the man work, remembering his time slaving away in restaurants to pay for university. Students didn’t work anymore. Not really. Parents gave them everything they needed except a backbone. A small cup was placed in front of him and on the side of the saucer was a small key. Oisín palmed the key discreetly, clamping it with the cheek of his thumb, and took a sip of coffee.

‘Compliments of Gregory. If you would like to keep your bag somewhere safe sir, the lockers are over there,’ the barista chimed as he wiped the counter with a damp cloth. ‘Locker twenty-four has room for large luggage.’

‘That’s good information. Thank you.’

‘The pleasure is mine, sir. If you have a long commute I always find podcasts good to pass the time.’

Oisín drained the remainder of the tart espresso, wincing from the stinging inside his mouth. Locker twenty-four was long and stored safely within was a telescopic tube, the kind you saw architects running around with. Oisín quickly slung the tube over his shoulder. His Apple watch beeped again and he squinted at its face. 19 Rue des Abbesses. Oisín typed the address into his phone. Taking two Metro’s he would be there within thirty minutes. As he descended to the subway he scrolled through his iPhone and found a Podcast App labeled, Joe Shogun.

‘Booonnnjooouuurrrr mon Frere.’ The familiar voice called with an over-saturation of joy. ‘Welcome back to Paris. Of course, you must forgive me for forcing so much technology down your stubborn throat. But this is how the world works now and let’s face it your reputation needs a bit of a polish. Oui? Your mark is simple. A woman, twenty-nine. Something to do with her standing in the way of progress so naturally she must be snuffed. Not a sexy assignment but a good first step. You whack out a couple of these and in a few months I’ll pimp you out for something more to your taste. A dictator. A yakuza. An extremist. The bearded guy from KFC …. whatever.’

Oisín noticed passengers in the same carriage wearing medical masks. There was a disease that had begun in China and landed in Europe recently. Italy was closed and now people in France appeared to be literally wearing caution across their faces. People scuttle around the world with such worries and never think they could be standing next to an assassin. The corners of his mouth twitched.

‘I’ve rented you an apartment under the name on your Swiss passport. The apartment is on the second floor, across the street from the target’s house. You access the building by a small lockbox which will shit out a key when you turn the dial to 2709. How you do what you do is up to you. But do it fast … there is competition for this one. Lastly. You’ll see on your phone I’ve set you up on social media. You are following all her profiles so use it to your advantage. And that’s not a request … it’s an order. Happy hunting, Soldier Boy.’

A black iron gate, far from the powdery-white buildings of the city center, stood in front of Oisín like a formidable centurion. He popped the lockbox to reveal two silver keys and pushed into a little courtyard with an enthusiastic fountain. Oisín paused seeing doors in every direction. It was a gated community. Communities were nosey … communities had eyes … communities were curious. This could be a problem.

Up a winding staircase to the first-floor veranda he went and found a wooden door with turquoise paint starting to chip. The apartment was old with hand-carved furnishings filling a living-room meshed with a small kitchen countertop with two stools. The fridge gave off a light bee-like buzz. A round table was positioned at an expansive window, catching the shimmer of the high sun. Oisín looked out. He could see directly into the top floor of the house across the street. This would do nicely, he mused as he tossed another pill into his mouth and chomped down.

With a squeaky bounce, he tossed his luggage on the bed and began to unpack. Two black t-shirts, two white. Two pairs of black jeans. One pair of army green shorts. His dark blue jumper which he took everywhere since it was gifted to him. A dark purple beanie. From the tube slid out a collection of metal objects. He assembled the Glock 22 first. Fishing through the parts as if he were assembling something from Ikea. He liked the weight of the Glock, probably because it was the first weapon he ever fired. The weapon he had fired the most. He smiled to himself thinking he shared more beds with Glock’s than he had a woman. There was a 45 Colt thrown in for good measure which was particularly greasy. And then there was the CZ 308. A sniper rifle that Oisín could put together in the dark with a series of smooth clicks and insertions. He immediately held it up to his eye and gazed through the scope. The sight was good, clear. It was lighter than it should be which meant Greg had had it modified. This would mean the kickback would be more concentrated; but nothing he couldn’t handle.

Tiredness from the long journey was starting to catch up on Oisín, seeping in in the form of heavy eyelids. The kill could wait. He closed the wooden shutters and washed the day’s travel from his body. The stinging in his mouth continued as he meticulously brushed his teeth, picturing every tooth in his head as he went. Looking in the mirror, he pulled his bottom lip forward. There was no part of the inside not chewed and blood protruded from the gnawed flesh as if trying to flee a fleshy prison. Oisín touched it with his finger. It stung violently. He touched it again. He touched it many more times before crawling under the covers of the bed, and gently squeaked his way to sleep.

The rain fell in loud wet thuds as the kamikaze water droplets raced to the concrete. Oisín’s phone bleeped from under the pillow. The screen listed notifications across what looked like multiple applications. Oisín clicked on one. There was his mark smiling right at him. She was in her kitchen kneading dough and giving instructions. She’s a baker? Oisín wondered as he continued to watch the Instagram video a little longer. He looked at the profile Greg had created for, Mr_O. It was full of stunning pictures of nature Oisín had not taken. The profile picture was the same on his new Facebook and Twitter accounts also. The profile of a man standing on top of a mountain out towards the rising sun. He took a moment to look at it, the blues and burnt orange. It was real. Taken years ago when he was on a job in Cape Town. How the hell did Greg get his hands on that?

In the kitchen, no coffee was to be found. He threw on some clothes, tied his thick ombre curls in a tight ponytail, and slipped out of his would-be-home. It was 6:30 am, the iPhone told him, and a violet sky hung above the little courtyard. Why did he check his phone when he had a perfectly good watch, he mused? The rain broke the surface of the fountain’s pool in sharp spatters through the tight opening above the courtyard that created a mini tsunami.

‘Who are you?’

Oisín nearly jumped out of his skin, breaking into a tumble towards the nearest shadow and turning to face his attacker. He blinked. There was nothing. Did he imagine the voice? Was his phone talking to him? ‘Siri? Alexa .…?‘

‘You're funny,’ the voice giggled. A boy sat near Oisín listening to music. He wore a school uniform and sleepy gloss across his cherub face.

‘George,’ said an impatient whisper coming towards the two of them. ‘You forgot your bag.’ A girl no more than sixteen tossed a satchel on the ground by her brother and gestured for him to stand up. ‘Oh,’ she said, noticing Oisín in the dark. ‘are you ok, sir?’

‘Forgive me, your brother gave me quite the scare,’ Oisín said as he came back into the light.’

‘It is a talent he has.’ The girl regarded little George through slitted eyes. You must be the new guy in number thirty? It is nice to meet you, my name is Florence but you may call me Flo. Everyone here does.’

‘Oisín. But people call me, O.’

‘Ush-een?’

‘It’s Irish,’ Oisín smiled.

‘Ahoy, I see. Your French is good. I would not have thought you foreign but … your eyes.’

‘My eyes?’

‘Yes. Stormy blue ... you are not Parisian for certain.’

Oisín coughed a laugh at the confident girl. ‘Would you be able to point me in the direction of a cafe, please? I fell asleep before I could do the shopping yesterday.’

Flo didn’t hesitate. ‘There is a bakery nearby … at the other side of the park. They will be open at this time. I can’t think of anywhere else.’

‘This sounds perfect. The park?’

‘Ah.’ Flo’s quick fingers snatched Oisín’s phone right out of his hand and flicked through the apps. Oisín felt somewhat invaded.

‘Here it is,’ Flo pointed on the digital map. ‘I’ll set the directions to take you there.’

‘Oh … thank you.’

‘I see you’re on, the gram.’

‘The what?’

Flo pointed to Oisín’s Instagram account. ‘These are lovely. Here, you can follow me…’

‘Oh, that’s not neci …’

‘It’s cool … we are neighbors now. And in this little square that practically makes us family.’

With hardly five seconds of finger-play, Flo had followed her own account with Oisín’s and handed the phone back to him.

‘I should really get this one to school. Come on George.’

George with a touch of a sulk followed his sister towards the iron gate, stopping and turning to face Oisín.

‘Do you know what the red planet is called?’

‘You mean, Mars?’

‘Yes,’ George giggled.

‘Do you know the names of its moons?’ This question seemed to confuse the little boy. ‘Phobos and Deimos, named after the horses that pulled his chariot.’

‘Don’t be silly. A planet can’t own horses.’

‘Well, I think that will be a lesson for another day. Now be gone, after your sister.’

Under a canopy of trees, Oisín strolled through the park sheltered from the rain. He listened to the rain try to penetrate the branches above and the crunch of his boots on the gravel. On the edge of the park, right by another exit onto the surrounding streets, stood a small stone building surrounded by sets of tables and chairs made from a heavy-duty cast iron curved and weaved with detailed floral patterns. Quaint, thought Oisín. At one side there was a large hatch in the wall for take-away’s at which there was a queue and at the other a door into the caffeinated-cottage. As Oisín approached his nose began to twitch. By the entrance, there was a fellow roasting chestnuts and the rain was dropping onto the hot coals one sizzle at a time.

‘Good morning,’ the fellow said to Oisín as he stepped inside. The bakery was small with a low ceiling and the warm smell of dough. Coffees and wrappings of wax paper were being handed out to the eager line of patrons, but inside Oisín found himself to be the only customer.

‘Can I help you?’ A young lady dusted in flour asked. She wore a white tank-top under a blue shirt that was far too big for her with the sleeves rolled up above her elbows. Her dirty-blonde hair was tied high, though two silky strands hung either side of her face, framing her kiwi-green eyes.

‘Yes please,’ Oisín blinked frantically. ‘Could I please … eh … have a croissant and coffee.’ She had a little button nose and a single light freckle above her right nostril.

‘You order this side only if you intend on having it here.’

‘That is what I intend.’

‘What coffee?’

‘A double espresso.’

‘Are you on your way to work?’

‘No.’

‘Then I will bring you a press.’

‘Not my espresso?’ There was something about her he could not pin. She was cute, yes. But that wasn’t it.

‘No. You are not in a rush and this isn’t Italy so I will bring you a press of our house brew. Take a seat outside.’

‘It’s raining.’

‘The trees will shelter you. In Paris, rain is to be enjoyed. It’s not the same in England I think.’

‘I’m Irish.’

‘Same difference.’

It hit him like a sheet of ice in the face. He hadn’t noticed at first, but there she was. His mark. Shooing him away with her eyes.

‘Anything else?’

‘No … no thank you.’

Oisín found the strength to locate himself a seat outside and fumbled out his pills. This was fine. This was not weird and this would not impact his goal whatsoever. While he waited for the coffee-nazi he watched the man roasting his chestnuts, smiling at passers-by in the hope they would become customers. He wore fingerless gloves and rubbed his hands together from time-to-time. He had the look of a man who had seen many tough times but greeted each of those times with a smile.

‘Your breakfast sir,’ the mark arrived. She had a piercing hugging her septum which tinkled in the morning light. It wasn’t in any of the pictures Greg had provided. ‘‘The truffle is complimentary, something I put together this morning. It will give you a boost.' A single ball of chocolate stood guard beside the croissant and a small french-press was placed down with an empty cup. ‘Take your time, slow mornings are the best mornings.’ She smiled before returning inside. As if the smile itself added the full-stop to her declaration. She was right of course. Slow mornings were the best mornings and Oisín leisurely ripped from his pastry and sipped his coffee. Birds cawed and he listened to them and eventually, Oisín noticed he was thinking something he hadn’t thought in a long time, which was nothing at all. Blip, blip, blip. Oisín looked at his phone and saw notifications. He had been followed by many people. He began scrolling through the device, not recognizing any of the names. They were liking his pictures. Even writing little comments on them. “Wow” … “nice to meet you” … “welcome.” They were all his neighbors from the little courtyard. Flo and George’s parents and other smiling faces. ‘Ugh … what have I gotten myself in for?’

Upon returning to his apartment, Oisin abandoned a small bag of shopping on the kitchen table. He opened up his laptop at the kitchen bar and perched himself on a stool. Silently he cursed himself. He didn’t pick up coffee so he knew eventually he would have to go back out into the ever watching world. His fingers stabbed the name of the bakery into the search engine and a moment later he was scanning their website. La Renaissance Boulangerie, opened every day at 6 a.m. Meaning the mark got there a lot earlier. Her complexion smiled out at him from the screen dressed in crisp chef whites and not covered in flour. Her name was Charlotte and she was a graduate of the School of Culinary Arts. She worked at The Hôtel Esprit Saint Germain in Paris before moving on to The Sofitel Brussels Le Louise in Belgium. She returned to become the assistant head-baker at The Ritz Paris and then after two years took the top job in The Four Seasons Hotel George V, Paris. And now, she was the baker in a park bakery in the quietest district of Paris. ‘Hmmmm. Curious.’ Oisin clicked on the Facebook symbol and the screen jumped to the bakery’s Facebook page. Oisín blinked as though suddenly engulfed in an epileptic fit. This time looking out at him was a picture of himself sitting outside enjoying his breakfast. He was smiling and staring out at distant statues placed like chess pawns across the lawns. The caption read, start the day right. ‘Jesus Christ … not again.’

Knock, knock, knock. Oisín jumped backward off his stool and pulled his gun aiming it at the front door. His eyes darted to the open windows, the rain continued to fall softly. Knock, knock, knock. With steady steps, he moved towards the front door to the beat of his strong heart. ‘Can I help you?’ He called.

‘Mr O?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am your next-door neighbor. My name is Fanny.’ The name was familiar, she had commented on his Instagram. Oisín stuffed his Glock into his jeans and pulled his t-shirt over it.

‘Good morning,’ he said as he opened the door. ‘So nice to meet you.’ People were a menace to be avoided at all costs.

‘Indeed so nice to meet you Mr O. I stopped by earlier but it appears you spent your morning in the park.’ As she spoke she admired the sporadic placement of tattoos along his arms. Momentos of times and places he wanted to keep with him always. ‘Oh my … how lovely.’

‘Thank you. How did you kno …’

‘The children of course.’

‘Ah.’

‘Here.’ Fanny said as she thrust a dish covered in cloth into his arms. She was a stout lady with ruby red hair and bright blue eye-shadow painted high and wide. ‘They’re glutton free,’ she winked.

‘What?’ Said Oisín, who lifted the cloth to see a clan of cookies emanating with heat.

‘In case you're a celiac.’

‘What’s a celiac?’

‘Full of shit if you ask me but I try not to judge. All I’ll say is if you meet one, walk away fast … that’s all I’ll say.’ Fanny laughed. ‘Are you single?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Are you single? I promise if you tell me now you will save yourself a lot of trouble. I know all of Paris.’

‘I … I…’

‘Excellent. And you're Irish. You're lucky you arrived now. There’s a rumor of them shutting down the airports.’

‘Shutting down the airports?

‘Indeed. Because of the virus. It has hit China hard. The Chinese have always walked to the beat of their own drum a little too much if you ask me … Not that I dislike the Chinese … after all, it’s not like they’re celiacs.’

‘Eh … ugh …’

‘A man of few words, I like this. I will leave you to your business. You must have so much to do having moved so far. Stop by my apartment anytime.’ Fanny danced away like a pastel-tornado and Oisín returned to his computer. She wasn’t exaggerating. The news was reporting on stages of lockdown. He had some experience with stuff like this in Nigeria, but he sighed with relief seeing there were no indication trains or planes wouldn’t be operational. The rain continued to fall outside the window, the mark wouldn’t be home for hours, he would wait.

Waiting was something he had done often. He had waited in trees, in cars, in water. He’d watched people looking for the right opportunity to make them not exist. Employers rarely cared about the, how, and the circumstance. But Oisín had formed rules over the years which he followed. Never in front of children. Always quick and with as little mess as possible. He remembered times when the job was easier and then something happened … it fizzled out. The targets became less evil. Assholes to be sure, but less evil. Looking at himself in the mirror became a little harder but what else was he to do in this world. Too much time had passed. He would make this work. He would get back on track.

Oisín played solitaire at the table with a clear view of the street. If she had come home, he hadn’t seen her from his perch. The shutters were open, but no life ever whizzed by them. He furrowed his brow realizing it was looking more and more that the CZ 308 would not be required. The sniper rifle stood to attention leaning against the table with an expression of sorrow as if sensing what Oisín was thinking. ‘Sorry,’ he said to the gun, and slid it under the bed.

The summer days were long in France. Not as long as Ireland, but the warm glow of the setting sun burned the sky till almost nine-o-clock. The courtyard was empty on day three as he slipped in and out of the shadows, pausing briefly when he noticed the thin mist rising from the fountain. He knocked on the door of the mark’s neighbour. A man well into his sixties opened the door wide with a curious smile.

‘Hello … can I help you,’ the man said. He had a few thin wispy hairs combed across his head and he blinked at Oisín through a pair of thick spectacles.

‘Hello Sir. Forgive my intrusion. I just moved in across the street and I think there may be a leak in my roof. I don’t have a ladder to check and I wondered if I could perhaps …’

‘But of course,’ the man interjected. ‘You might be able to get a clear view from the spare bedroom. Go on up and I’ll put on the kettle.’ Oisín stepped in meeting the man’s smile and bound upstairs. The building was tall. There were three bedrooms. Two at the front with one and at the back. Oisín peered out a back window. There was a row of little square gardens and the mark appeared to be growing vegetables in hers. But the entrances into the gardens were what interested Oisín. They came up as if from a basement. Maybe she came and went this way and that was why he never saw her. Oisín followed the sound of a kettle whistling to a door ajar under the staircase. He should’ve snuck out but this lower floor intrigued him. The entire basement was the kitchen and as Oisín entered the old man was pouring two cups of tea.

‘Good news or bad?’

‘Huh … oh … good I think.’

‘Aha. Perhaps you should check your attic for a leak in your boiler.’

‘That’s a good idea. Thank you. Can I ask …. do all the houses have the kitchen in the down here or just yours?’

‘They all do. It’s not common anymore but the buildings are old and at one point servants would cook down here and remain out of sight. So when they converted them to smaller homes they gave us all little basement kitchens. Oh my … your fingertips … they’re smooth. You have no fingerprints?’

‘Oh, you have good eyes.’

‘No … just good glasses. How is this so?’

‘Chemicals. I work with them.’

‘Interesting. You should become a spy,’ the old man giggled to which Oisín could only smile. ‘Have you seen much of your new neighborhood?’

‘I took a walk through the park to a bakery of sorts, but that’s it so far. I just got in on Monday.’

‘Ah yes. Such a wonderful place. We’re all hoping it stays.’

‘Stays?’

‘Yes. Leah the owner doesn’t have long left. Cancer I believe. Her niece Charlie works there now, I’m sure you’ve seen her. She lives next door as it happens and I always hear her rattling around till all hours baking away. But the rumor is that an industrialist wants the land. I keep my fingers and toes crossed for them both. They are talents for both the belly and the eyes,’ the old man winked.

‘Yes ……. I have no doubt. Thank you for the tea, but I really must go.’

‘Of course of course. Do you mind if I ask you something before you leave?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Do you know anything about, Tinder?’

In less than seventy-two hours he had twenty-seven new social media connections, his face published on a bakery’s Facebook page, and helped an old age pensioner choose a profile picture for a dating app. Oisín knew he needed to escalate his exit from this place and find a secluded white-sanded beach in the middle of a technological armpit as soon as possible. As he approached his front door he noticed it was open, the light from within forming a long crack the length of the frame. Gently, he pushed the door forward with the slightest of creeks. Was there competition for the mark already or had an old foe heard he was active? Immediately he heard the noise of water splashing. Oisín moved to the right, slowly bringing his hand around to his Glock which was still cradled at the base of his back. Aim for the chest, he told himself. The bathroom door was wide open and a man about Oisín’s age was standing at the toiled with both his jeans and boxer shorts nestled at his ankles.

‘Excuse me,’ said Oisín.

The man looked awkwardly back over his own shoulder. ‘Ahem … hello.’

‘Take your time.’ Oisín removed his fingers from his gun and walked back to the kitchen. He cracked open a small bottle of beer from the fridge as his guest began to shake and noticed the slowing of his own heartbeat. Stress was a bigger killer than bullets.

‘Terribly sorry. My toilet is broken and Marie never minded me stopping by.’

‘Marie?’

‘The last tenant. Lovely lady, I still have the spare key and when you didn’t open up I took the liberty. I’m Jack by the way,’ said the man as he adjusted his zip.

‘Ois …’

‘Yes, Oisín. An Irishman. Top of the morning to ya … aye?’

‘You have a spare key?’ asked Oisín, ignoring the joke he’d heard again and again.

‘Indeed. Oh by the way … do you like saunas?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Saunas … to sit in … to relax … to exfoliate … it’s great for your lungs too.’

‘You know it’s been a while since I’ve been in one.’

‘I happen to have a sauna-suit for sale if you’re interested … family price of course.’

‘A used sauna suit?’

‘Yes indeedy.’

‘I’ll have to think about that if it’s ok Jack,’ said Oisín as he gestured towards the door. ‘Now if you don’t mind.’

After Jack left and turned over his key, Oisín nervously checked everything in the apartment was as it should be. People weren’t to be trusted, plain, and simple. Even Greg would sell him down the river at a moment’s notice. And there it was. A light, across the road where there had been no light before. Oisín bound to the window to make sure. Yes, it was from her top floor window. Perfect. There would be no need to break into her home after-all. He dove under the bed and grabbed his rifle, aiming its barrel across the street; one eye squinted. The window was open and emitted a large yellow glow and Oisín waited patiently for a silhouette to appear. The rain softly splattered the pavement outside and a couple of pedestrians could be heard coming up the street so carefully Oisín brought in the nozzle of the gun a little. There was a flash of shadow by the window frame. An arm maybe. He remained perfectly still, his heart again thundering like a jack-hammer. This was what he had been waiting for. To prove he could still hack it, to prove that he wanted this life and the stirring in his gut was nothing more than a passing of doubt. He liked the job, the loneliness. The always being careful and sleeping with a gun under his pillow. It was who he was and he wouldn't change it for all the margaritas in Mexico. Her death was his vindication. The trigger was taut. Oisín stroking it ever so slightly. The mark stepped into the line of fire. She looked out at the street while Oisín was safe from her eyes in the darkness of his home. As she leaned on the window sill, he inhaled in an almost zen-like fashion and pull…. beep-beep-beep-beep … beep-beep-beep-beep. The noise made him jump to the side. He raised the gun as it went off. Pew pew. Two barely audible shots to the sky. Oisín looked at his apple-watch and tried to turn the beeping off. An alert flashed telling him his heart rate was too high. ‘What the fuck,’ he growled as he unlatched the watch from his wrist and threw it across the room. There was a scream from outside. ‘Shite … not again.’ Fearing the worst Oisín eased closer to the window and peered out. The mark was still there. She was gazing down at a commotion on the street. Oisín looked out over the ledge. An old woman with two small dogs like cotton wool with legs was being consoled by passers-by. She was pointing and gesturing with her arms. Pointing at a headless pigeon which the dogs were sniffing suspiciously.

‘It’s the end of the world,’ the mark called over at Oisín.

‘Excuse me?’ Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck … why why why why why.

‘Birds falling from the sky. The end of the world. It’s from the Bible I think … or maybe Ghostbusters,’ she shrugged.

‘Oh. Ghostbusters I think. It sounds familiar and I’ve never been religious.’

‘I thought you Irish were stoic Catholics.’

‘You remember.’ Of course, she remembers!!! Would life be too easy if she hadn’t?

‘You stand out,’ she took a drag from a cigarette and let out a thin blast of smoke. ‘Sorry if I was a bitch today. Service can be a bit stressful. ‘

‘That’s ok.’ Oisín didn’t know what else to say. ‘I met your neighbor today,’ he blurted. ‘He says you’re very talented.’

‘He’s sweet. This is my aunt’s house … he’s been her neighbor a very long time.’

‘It’s nice to have good neighbors.’

‘It is. Had I known you were also one I would’ve been on my best behavior. Stop by for breakfast tomorrow, why don’t you? ‘ And with that, she closed her window without giving him time to say no.

On Day five Oisín arose early and began doing push-ups to clear his head. If he went to the cafe today it would not be because she invited him, it would be for work purposes only. Sweat shone off him like the polish on a new car and his hair was thick with wetness. This was the day, this was the day. The mark’s home would be empty. He showered and ate and got dressed. George was sitting by the fountain as he came down into the courtyard, the little boy was frowning.

‘What’s the matter … it’s Friday, you should be smiling no?’ Oisín enquired.

‘One of my AirPods fell into my cereal.’

‘Oh I see.’

‘They were a present. I can’t tell Papa.’

‘I know how you feel little man. I’m sure he’ll understand.’

‘I don’t have homework today so after school, I’m going to see if Mr. Gerard can fix it.’

‘Mr. Gerard?’

‘He is the electrician. Are you going for breakfast at the bakery?’

‘No no … I’m just going for a walk.’

‘You’ll be back for tonight though won’t you?’

‘What’s tonight?’

‘We all eat together on Fridays.’

‘Do we now?’

‘Yes. You must come.’

‘Well … we’ll see about that.’

‘Tell me something else before you go.’ George pleaded.

Oisín flicked through the pages of his mind for some sort of obscure information a young boy might find of interest. ‘Do you know what the word camera means?’

‘It takes pictures.’

‘Yes but the word. What does it mean?’

George scrunched his nose and pouted his lips and looked to the clouds. ‘It means … computeeerrrr … computer painting!!’ He declared proudly.

‘Not bad. It means, chamber.’

‘So why did they call it a camera.’

‘Maybe because they thought of the device at the time as a chamber in which to catch a moment in time?’

‘Maybe ….. yeah maybe ……‘

Oisín passed the dead pigeon as he marched down the street in search of the laneway which ran behind the mark’s home. The walls were high with coiled barbed wire decorating their top like a form of festive tinsel. The gate that led into the marks back garden was secured by a padlock and a thick chain. This wouldn’t be a problem. Back out onto the main street, Oisín returned, scanning the shopfronts. The grocery store, a pharmacy, a tobacconist, a cheese shop, a quaint little pub, a rundown hardware store; Oisín stopped. ‘Bingo.’ The door opened with the ping of a bell and a sleepy old fellow with caterpillar eyebrows looked up from his morning newspaper. ‘Bonjour,’ he uttered before returning to the sports page. Possessed with urgency Oisín attacked the ails looking up and down. A series of wrenches dangled in front of him. He plucked a medium-sized one from its perch and inspected the metal, gently hitting it into the palm of his free hand. It was heavy, thick, and durable. He placed it on the counter, conscious to be as affable as possible. His mentor had always said to him, in this profession you need to be a person people like but also forget immediately after you’re gone; though with this sleepy-eyed fellow Oisín didn’t think he’d have much to worry about.

Back in the laneway, he made certain the coast was clear. He looped the chain around the wrench and began to twist, turning it like it were a hatch in a submarine. The steel became tighter and tighter until it locked. And with a final effort of brute force, Oisín pushed and pulled until there was a deep snap. He unhooked the broken link and pulled the chain off the door effortlessly.

‘What are you doing?’ Oisín turned slowly. Looking up at him were three small children no more than George’s age.

‘Hello, kids. I’m going into my house of course.’

‘That’s not your house.’

‘Ahem yes … that’s very true. It’s my friend’s house. I’m visiting from another country.’ What are they, a team of midget-paparazzi?

‘What country?’

‘Eh … Narnia.’

‘That’s not a real country.’

‘Yes … yes it is. Lamppost and all. Now feck o …’ The child was pointing his phone at Oisín. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m sending a video of you to my mom. She’s told me about strangers.’

‘What!?’ Oisín panicked, quickly he stepped forward and snatched the phone from the child. The three pairs of eyes looked at him as if he were a monster. He didn’t know what to do. It was Hong Kong all over again. Without much thought, he threw the phone as hard as he could and ran away. The kids shouted after him. ‘He’s a baddy …. he’s a baddy!’

The cafe was busier than the last time Oisín was there, perhaps because it wasn’t raining today. He collapsed in a heap of failure in one of the outside chairs. This is ridiculous, he thought to himself after wandering the streets for hours. He was thirty-three and somehow felt too old for the times he lived in. There were videos everywhere. Everyone and everything was online and his marks were no longer those who profited from child prostitution but bakers with a witty sense of humor. Oisín began to wonder if he had missed that day in Hong Kong on purpose. As if his own body was trying to tell him something he already knew.

‘Here you go.’ Charlotte sat down without asking, placing a coffee and croissant on the table between them both. ‘I miss the rain.’

‘Sometimes I do too, but only certain types of rain.’

‘There are different types of rain?’

‘I don’t like muggy rain. When it’s so humid the water feels like oil. I don’t like rain teaming up with wind. I like rain that takes its time, like a stroll, falling down on a slow day.’

‘Are you doing ok?’

‘Yes. I think I hate my job. And if that true I don’t know where I fit in this world.’

‘Oh I see. You’re one of those brooding types who like to talk about his feelings.’

‘Not at all to be honest. Just a strange week. I think I’ve spoken with more people this week than I have in the last decade. People are approaching me, asking questions, putting pictures of me online. I’ve never been an online kind of person and I don’t get it. And on top of all that I seem to be losing my touch with something I was once very good at.

‘People wanting to connect with you isn’t a bad thing. Sure, everyone has boundaries and they must be respected and when people learn your boundaries they do tend to respect them. Questions are just a way of showing interest, it’s not to find ammo for judgment. And as for the online stuff … well, I’m sorry I put up that picture of you …’

‘… no I didn’t mean tha…’

‘Social media is funny. It’s good and bad and bazaar and of course no one fully understands it. It has helped set up businesses, it has helped people bully others. It’s aided in mental health, it’s shone a light on important issues. People post what’s important to them. They post pictures of families and friends. They post creative pictures, they post words that make them and others laugh. They display themselves in ways they want others to perceive them. They share images of things and people they love and hold dear. I don’t think it matters if you’re on social media or not. Just try not to think about it. It’s more important that you don’t judge or set imaginary rules on what kind of people post online and what kind of posts are appropriate. Essentially, it’s like life. And I guess people want to be a part of yours.’

Oisín digested the words slowly, chewing them all the way to the marrow.

‘As for losing your touch … we’re all getting old, man. That’s enough Oprah for today,’ Charlotte stood up. ‘I must return to work I’m afraid. Enjoy your breakfast.’

Oisín kept his eyes on her until she was out of sight. He ripped off pieces of his pastry, taking his time as if he had accepted the defeat of the day. For someone who was supposed to be good at all this, he sure did find it easy to keep messing it up. He drank his coffee and tried to think about getting back into her house but his mind kept drifting. Perhaps because he was embarrassed at being outed by a prepubescent video crew or perhaps his mind genuinely just wanted to be elsewhere. But ultimately he knew deep down, he simply didn’t want to kill her. Not for money, not for any reason. Once he’d finished self-diagnosing, he went to pay. It was that lull in the day between morning and noon so it was calmer inside the bakery than when he’d last been. The mark was at the till grimacing at a customer. The man had the smell of a private prep-school off him. Oisín waited, pretending to look at a particularly large custard donut.

‘We will get what we want eventually and then the slice of pie we offer won’t be as big as it is now,’ the man said. ‘You hear me, putain?’ He growled from under a greasy comb job. Oisín whipped his head around. Don’t get involved, he said to himself. But Oisín hated bullies. Plain and simple, he hated them.

‘We’ve offered you a small fortune. You and your aunt could set up a chain of bakeries.’

‘I believe I have made myself clear, Sir. Please leave our humble establishment. Unless I can interest you in a hazelnut protein ball?’

‘Listen,’ he grabbed her by the wrist. Oisín shot the flat of his foot into the back of the man’s knee. As the man dropped to genuflect, Oisín cupped fiercely under the man’s chin from behind, stepped to the side, and threw the man back far against the wall as if he were a tennis ball. The man folded like an accordion on to the floor, his meticulously gelled hair not moving a centimeter. When he looked at Oisín he did so with stark, wide eyes. Fear swirled in his head and he wasn’t sure what to do. Oisín had seen the expression before. The man was scared to move in case Oisín went for him again. He was scared to stay still for the same reason. He was confused as Oisín still hadn’t spoken, so right about now he was working up the courage to run. Not a second later the man, rose to his feet and with enough speed to levitate, flew through the front door.

Oisín walked over to the mark, her jaw almost at the floor. ‘I didn’t pay Ms,’ he said as he removed notes from his pocket and without looking placed them in front of her. He walked away with mixed feelings of embarrassment and failure within the cocktail shaker that was his head.

‘It’s Charlotte, ‘ she called out. Oisín paused and turned to face her.

‘Good-day Charlotte.’

Oisín walked. He only realized how long he walked when he reached the Seine. He passed hagglers outside antique stores and ladies selling beautiful buckets of seasonal flowers and friends enjoying lunches and sharing cigarettes until he saw the water before him. Along the river’s wide bank some were drinking wine and had pulled their coats over their heads to hood themselves from the light rain that fell. Others took selfies, carefully coordinating Notre Dame into their background. Oisín’s eyes rested on a couple, waltzing in each other’s arms to music only they could hear. He watched them for a while. The world had gotten smaller and him less angry. But it was more than that. It was not the case that the world did not suit his life, it was that his life did no longer suit him. As he walked away from the bank he tossed his container of pills into a rubbish bin with a death rattle. When he returned to the courtyard he was greeted by the warm glow of fairy lights and the sound of a guitar being strummed lightly. It was full of people. Flo and George with their parents. Fanny laughing and many more. They all sat out of the rain’s reach with paper plates of food. Calls of hello were ushered in Oisín’s direction and Jack, dressed entirely in a silver onesie waved eagerly.

‘Ahaaaaa you must be our new Irish neighbor. Welcome,’ a fellow stepped forward putting a glass of wine in Oisín’s hand. ‘My own vins de garage. It’s not Guinness but I hope you like it.’ Oisín sipped the wine.

‘It’s delicious thank you.’

‘Would you like some quiche? It has bacon and leaks in it. It will put hair on your hairs,’ the fellow cracked Oisín so hard on the back that he nearly dropped his wine. ‘Bahahahahahahaha.’

‘Usheen .. Usheeen,’ ran over George. ‘Did you know that France is one of the few countries where people also spoke your language?’

‘Oh?’

‘Oui … aye. In the north. North of Paris there are places that spoke Gaelic. So we are from the same …’ George raised both his eyes as if he had written a cheat note on the inside of his eyelids. ‘ … the same … clan!’

‘I see,’ Oisín smiled appreciatively at the small boy as he bent down on his hunkers to meet his eyes. ‘Here,’ he whispered. And discreetly handed George a small white box. ‘Now you don’t have to tell your Dad about the AirPods.’ He raised a finger to his lips.

‘My man. Good to see you.’ Said Jack, looking like an overgrown piece of tinsel.

‘What are you wearing?’ Oisín stood up and shook Jack’s hand.

‘The sauna suit man. Showing off the goods. Are you interested?’

‘Not at all. Is there a sauna somewhere in this complex?’

‘No no. For that, you’ll need to go to Stockholm.’

‘So why did you buy one?’

‘Well,’ Jack came in close as if to dispense the location of the holy grail. ‘I had a job interview you see. But there was a bit of a drug test. Needed to sweat the stuff out asap if you catch my meaning. So I found this puppy online and cycled for as long as I could.’

‘Did it work?’

‘In a sense. I collapsed on the Boulevard Périphérique from dehydration so they postponed the interview until I was released from the hospital.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you very much. The pay is good and I get dental.’

‘Come on Georgie … it’s time for you to start winding down.’ George’s father, a large version of the little boy, stepped in and shook Oisín’s hand. ‘Thibault, nice to meet you. I hear you're part of my son’s morning routine now,’ Thibault smiled.

‘He’s a good kid.’

‘That he is. Too smart for his teachers. And for me and his mother for that matter.’

‘But Daaaaddddd …. we’re from the same clan.’

‘And does this clan like donuts?’ Charlotte appeared with a big brown bag. Oisín’s eyes widened and he stood up straight.

‘Not for this one Charley,’ said Thibault. The sugar will keep him wired to the moon all night. Come on little one. Everyone will be here tomorrow.’

‘Good night Ush-eeennn …. farewell Jacky … so long Charli-see-maaa.’

‘I saw you had your eye on this earlier today.’ Charley grinned at Oisín as she unruffled the bag.

‘Oh … eh … yes. I am a sucker for custard.’

‘I’ll try to remember. You're becoming quite the regular you know.’

‘Yeah. I saw your photo on Facebook. It’s a good one Charley.’ said Jack eyeing one of the donuts for himself. ‘Why haven’t you accepted my friend request?’

‘I don’t really go on Facebook, to be honest.’

‘Yes, you do. I’ve seen your social media. You’ve got a good eye.’

‘Often, I mean. I don’t go on it often. But I’ll happily accept your request man … and lend online support to my local bakery.’

‘We need all the support we can get.’

‘Your neighbor mentioned you work for your Aunt,’ Oisín bit into one of the donuts causing a volcanic eruption of creamy yellow.

‘How is it?’

‘Sticky and gooey.’

‘That’s what she said,’ Charlie giggled to which Jack joined in. ‘Yeah, it’s me and her. Hopefully for much longer but … well … we’ll see.’

‘Here here. The area wouldn’t be the same without you. If you’ll excuse me I think I’ll get out of this thing, I’m starting to feel a little flush.’ Jack sped away fanning himself.

‘Thank you for today by the way.’

‘No problem. Ex-boyfriend?’

‘No no … nothing like that thankfully. A construction firm. They want our land.’

‘The cafe is always busy, I’m sure you don’t need to sell if you don’t want to.’ Said Oisín. Uncomfortably remembering Charly’s predicament and that his new view on life didn’t change that her’s might end soon.

‘I don’t and I don’t. But they are making things difficult. My aunt is old and not well and I returned to Paris when she was put into a nursing home. The business took a bit of jazzing up which was fine … who doesn’t love a little jazz from time to time. And now the firm that wants us is scaring off our suppliers somehow. I have to buy from further away which is more expensive and … well … everything adds up you know.’

‘Lots and lots of little things.’

‘Yes. But what about you? Are you feeling any better?’

‘I am. Thank you. I think a change is on my horizon. One that will shake me for sure.’

‘Change always appears to be the wrong time but the beauty of it is that there is no right time. If there was a right time we wouldn’t feel so good when taking a chance works out or learn when it doesn’t.’

‘You are a wise baker-philosopher.’

‘Bahahahahahaha,’ she clasped her hands together and bowed. ‘I’m afraid I must go again. I have to be up early to bring my dough to life. Stop by again … after-all … in my shop, your money’s no good.’

The next morning was so sedated with uncertainty, Oisín felt as though he were moving in slow motion. He had slept in. He hadn’t woken after 8am in ten years. With the strong taste of merlot in his mouth he got dressed and walked back down to the scene of the crime; the courtyard. It was busy. The man who had plied him with so much wine was collecting empty bottles as Jack swept the cobbles with a thick bristled garden brush. Fanny sat facing an opponent, a chessboard on the little round table between them. She was staring at a piece so intensely it was as if she were trying to move it with her mind. “King’s Knight to B6” Oisín winked as he passed. She shot him a quick smile that even her hangover couldn’t subdue. Thibault exited his ground floor apartment with a large press and some cups dangling from his finger. He handed one to Jack.

‘Ah good morning Oisín. Can I get you one?’

‘No thanks T. Thought I’d grab one at the park.

‘Please give Charlie our best won’t you?’ Thibault grinned.

Charlie’s neighbor was out front cleaning his windows. He took a break from his task to give Oisín a wave. The main street was the busiest it had been in a week. A Saturday morning rush not hampered by rain. It had finally happened, He saw as he passed the tobacconist. The newspapers declared France was beginning to lockdown. All travel in and out of the country were to halt and news on procedures to affect Paris would be announced later in the day. There was a strange comfort in learning he had to stay exactly where he was.

‘Hello sir,’ a man said to Oisín as they passed on the path.

‘Good morning.’

‘Did that wrench work out for you ok?’

‘Oh,’ it took a second for Oisín to realize he was speaking with the man from the hardware store. ’You know what it did. It was exactly what I needed.’

‘Aha splendid. If you have any pictures of your work I’d love to put them up on our Instagram … especially as you’re a local.’

‘Well, I can maybe take some tonight and get them to you.’

‘You’re so kind. Thank you.’

The park was alive. Dog walkers, couples, and commuters were all drawn to it today for a brief flash of sun in the tranquil surroundings. The sprinklers danced and the thrushes swooped. When he arrived at the cafe there was a queue, a big one. He joined the end of it and took out his phone to read the news. A notification flashed on his screen, he had been tagged on social media yet again. This time by Jack and by Thibuld who had also followed his profile. A collection of snapshots had been posted of last evening’s events. He was in almost all of them. Eating, talking, laughing. At one point it even seemed like Jack was trying to get him to try on his sauna suit, Oisín smiled as the memory leaked into the forefront of his mind. As he shuffled into the building he noticed a sign taped to the inside of the window, Barista Wanted. This wasn’t a surprise as Oisín watched Charlie, once again dusted in flour, zip up and down serving pastries and bread while orchestrating the whizzes and gurgles of the coffee machine.

‘Ahoy, when you didn’t show this morning I did not think I would see you.’

‘I overslept … the wine.’

‘And you Irish are supposed to be so skilled with the bottle.’

‘Well, I met my match with some of that homebrew.’

‘Yes … he makes it in his bathtub you know.’

‘I did not.’ Said Oisín, immediately imagining a pair of purple feet. ‘Can I have …’

‘The usual?’

‘Yes, please. No rush … you’re very busy today.’

‘Weekends are manic. Unless you’re offering to make it yourself. That I would like to see.’ Her cocky glance morphed into a curious surprise when Oisín walked behind the counter. ‘Oh my god, do you have any idea what you are doing?’

‘Worked in restaurants to pay for college.’

‘Customers are different in Paris.’

‘How so?’

‘They are always wrong.’

A receipt stuttered out of a printer above the coffee machine. Oisín ripped it off and read. ‘Two double espressos and two pain au chocolates.’ The pair got to work. Charley plated the pastry orders while Oisín streamed coffee and steamed milk. It took a while for his muscles to remember the techniques. Tilting the jug so that the nozzle swirled the white liquid till it became thick and glossy. He even took some pictures of his creation and put them up on the bakery’s social media with a proud glint in his eye. When service calmed down a little Charley told him to take a break. He filled a glass with ice water and sat outside. There were streaks of white in the sky that didn’t move which he studied as he held the glass to the side of his neck. He took out his phone and found Gregory’s number. He stared at the blinking screen, uncertain how to say what he wanted to say.

‘You can go home now if you like. It’ll be quiet for the rest of the day.’ Charley appeared placing a double espresso on the table. ‘Thanks for the help.’

‘You think you will fill that barista position?’

‘I’m not sure. I can’t offer much right now which I know is discouraging.’

‘You know … I’m not struggling financially.’

‘Wow. That’s nice of you to say. Thank you.’

‘No no. Sorry. What I mean is. If you’d be willing, I could help out for a bit. Provided I don’t kill any of your customers.’

‘With your fist or your coffee.…?’ Charley smiled thoughtfully ‘Can you be here at midnight? I’ll need to show you how to set up.’

Oisín nodded enthusiastically

‘Good. Then you should go get some sleep. You know what twelve sharp is?’

‘Midnight?’

‘11:45! And not a second later.’

The rest of the day was spent in bed trying to nap but mostly thinking. At 11:15 he walked out of his apartment as if it were the first day of school. Nervous, but this time with a touch of excitement. The tips of the branches of the trees in the park glowed. They were decorated with fairy lights which Oisín had never noticed in the daytime. It gave a welcome feel of fantasy to his commute. Before he reached the bakery, he saw the smoke. It flicked a switch in him that made his eyes narrow and put him into an immediate sprint. As he ran he was hyper-alert, seeing and cataloging everything. Assessing for threat or danger. There was a glow of orange through the window panes but the roof was still intact, the flames hadn’t traveled. Without stopping he charged at the door, crashing through it with his shoulder. Charley was on the floor, blood streaming from her head. She wasn’t moving. Oisín held his ear above her nose, feeling and hearing a subtle beath. As if she were a bag of sugar he scooped her up and carried her outside, gently placing her on the ground before running back into the fire. The flames were young. They were given life in the storeroom and had not yet spread. Oisín grabbed as many hand towels as he could find threw them in the sink under the running tap. When the towels became saturated he carried them into the storeroom and methodically began saturating the flames at their most intense sections. The sizzle was loud. The heat approaching intense. But the fire was starting to die and Oisín poured water from coffee jugs over the more persistent flickers. When it was clear the danger was almost snuffed he exhaled. It was then he heard a smash. The kind of smash someone made when needing to break glass but trying not to be heard. Oisín darted to the bathroom. The window had been kicked through and a dark figure was sprinting away. Oisín followed, not so much without hesitation but with the determination, a bull has when it sees red. His strides were long and quick. His mark wasn’t nearly as fast as he was. He watched the figure clunkily climb over the park fence onto the street. Oisín leaped up, grabbed, leaned over, and then flipped both his legs like they were a fish’s tail. He hit the ground silently, his breathing timed like a metronome. He sprinted across the empty street and around a corner and ducked. The mark had waited there, waited for Oisín. The bulled missed and the mark cursed. Oisín leaped up driving his knee into the man’s chest, piledriving him into the wall. With his left fist, Oisín struck the man’s ribs and when he reached for the pain Oisín hooked his right elbow into his opponant’s cheek. The assassin countered, thumping Oisín’s torso and attempting an uppercut only to miss when Oisín stepped back. Sure-footed, Oisín side kicked the man’s knee and he dropped his long enough for Oisín’s quick hands to remove his flick knife from the waist of his jeans and thrust it upwards into the man’s chin. Both men paused. The blade had gone through the chin and into the man’s mouth which hung open drooling blood. He blinked at Oisín, prepared for that final blow. But the final blow wasn’t going to come. Oisín released him from his grip and his opponent dropped onto his knees, looking up at the victor as if in prayer at his feet. Oisín sensed the man’s confusion as it matched his own.

‘This woman is not to be hurt … her family is not to be hurt … her business is not to be hurt … or I will rain down on you so hard you’ll think you got fucked by a train. Tell your friends. And if the name means anything to you … tell Gregory.’

‘Uhhhh … arrrrrr … uuuuuuu?’

‘I’m the fucking barista.’

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