Empirita Sanchez de Uvalde

1

The one time I nearly botched a job, it was because I rushed my original plan.

That was in Barcelona, just a few months and a hop, skip and a jump away from here.

And it was different.

I mean, all the norms were in place. It was still a target and someone still thought it was necessary and it was still someone I didn’t know. But it was also a female.

Not that I have a gender bias for most targets.

But this female was exceptional.

The situation was even eerily similar, though her schedule and my assignment didn’t involve her walking. Both pivoted only on her parking her car in a certain location at the same time each day. My instructions said she would pull up, open the car door, get out, then turn away and look down at her remote keyless entry system as she locked the car.

Then she would walk around the front of the car, step up onto the sidewalk and disappear into a building.

She did all of that.

But the instructions didn’t say she was absolutely stunning, nor should they. Physical appearance has no bearing on a hit. And even if the instructions had mentioned her physical attributes, they couldn’t have addressed my reality in the moment.

I caught only a glimpse as she stepped out of the car and turned away.

Physically, her long, raven hair framed a perfectly oval face above a trim, athletic body that seemed poured into her dark-brown, dark-blue-pinstriped skirt suit. Under the waistcoat she wore a soft white blouse, probably silk. And I’m aware, that description would suit many young, attractive women.

But beyond the physical— Well, beyond the physical was something more. My reality in the moment.

The woman was stunning in a way that far transcended the physical. I thought my heart would lurch out of my chest.

It was as if my spirit knew hers, recognized hers, and reached for her, yearning to be reunited.

In the first instant after she exited her car, I suddenly realized I actually hoped she’d turn and look across the street. I hoped she would look up to the third-story window in which I was framed. I hoped she would deign to notice me.

If she had, that would have ended my mission.

And if she had so much as smiled at me or rippled the fingers of one hand in my direction in a flirtatious wave, it probably would have ended my life. I probably would have passed out and fallen 30 feet to the street below. And I wouldn’t have cared. To die as a result of such a magnanimous gesture on her part would have been well worthwhile. I would have died happy, even smiling if I were able.

But she didn’t.

As the instructions said she would, she turned to face her car, glanced down at the device in her hand to make sure she hit the right button—I found that adorable—then walked around the front of her car, stepped up onto the curb and headed for the door.

A man happened to be exiting the building as she was going in, and he stopped, stepped to one side and held the door open for her.

She looked up at him and plainly said, “Thank you” around a huge, authentic smile. The most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

And I felt a pang of jealousy.

The man nodded quickly, released the door after she entered, and walked across the street to get into his own car.

It was almost like she was the second shift, arriving just in time to relieve him or something. But no matter. I hated him.

I usually surveil my targets a minimum of three days and no more than five, including the day of the hit.

But the rush of emotion that assailed me as she stepped out of her car—

The depth of emotion that saturated every fiber of my being as I watched her step up onto the curb and cross the sidewalk—

The surge of jealousy that struck as that man appeared and received her smile—

Those conspired to convince me I’d better pop her the next day and be done with it.

Or I could just walk away with the memory of her disappearing into the building and out of my life forever.

Forever.

That thought pulled me back on track.

I suddenly remembered why I was there.

My job, the job I’d hired on to do, was to initiate that lovely woman’s transition into Forever.

Nausea wracked through me.

I stepped back from the window and sagged into the lightly padded wooden chair I’d moved earlier from the desk to near the foot of the bed.

And I sat right there for a horrific half-hour, gripping the sides of the seat with white-knuckled hands, my arms tense and trembling as the thought of her shuddered its way through my body. From what I remember from watching films about crazy people in asylums, I was probably rocking back and forth too.

As it turned out, only my extreme discipline enabled me to do my job at all.

I had to let the scenario play out in my addled mind, of course. You can’t allow something like that to hang around without dealing with it and seeing it through to the end.

I didn’t dare rise from the chair until the dream ran its course. That chair was my only anchor on reality.

2

While I was in that chair in Barcelona, my every urge was to race across the street, catch the remarkable woman coming out of the building, and plant myself on my knees in front of her. I saw it all just as if it were actually happening.

I reached up to take one of her dainty hands in both of mine. I kissed it as if it might break, then looked up at her with a heavily wrinkled brow. In a rush, I explained to her as fervently as I could that her life was in danger. That I myself had been hired to kill her, and that if they’d found me they would find another. I begged her to marry me, to let me take her away from all this. I told her I loved her, that I had loved her since time immemorial. That her death would be an unpardonable sin, a crime against humanity, even if she lived to be 100 and died only of worn-out cells. And her death would be particularly grievous if it occurred at the hands of any human being because all of them—all of us—were sorely lacking in comparison to her.

But—

I didn’t do any of that.

When I was finally able to release the dream and push myself out of the chair, I raced out of the room. I stumbled and fell twice before I was able to get out of the building. As I crashed through the door onto the street, I averted my gaze. I didn’t want to risk seeing her come out. I hurried back to my hotel room.

And I spent the next 22 hours going over all the ways that particular woman was despicable, all the reasons she deserved to die, and at my hand. I made up stories of all the times she’d driven men insane, ending with the man at the door, whom I was certain harbored a strong desire for her. How could he not? How could any man not? She was obviously an angel.

No. She wasn’t an angel at all. She was a devil. And all those men she drove insane, she hung around so she could laugh as they were hauled away in straightjackets. Of course she did. Because she was just that terrible. She was just that much of a blight on the earth. That much and worse.

I thought of all the wings she’d pulled off helpless flies. Of all the small animals that had endured torture at her hand. All the terrible things she did at night with and to other men as the rest of the world lay innocently sleeping.

She was a dealer in drugs to pre-teens. And she was the worst kind of sadist. She crept into the rooms of sleeping babies at night with lopping shears to free them of their limbs. She had received and retained her looks only as the devil’s part of the bargain for having sold her soul at a bargain rate. She couldn’t even experience orgasm because her own body reviled her. And on and on.

And finally, during the first half of the 23rd hour, I assembled my rifle, made sure it was working perfectly, then disassembled it and made ready to leave.

By the time I assumed my nest, I was calm and I was ready.

I would take her out, relieving the world of her evil presence.

I would do it quickly, with one quick bullet to medulla oblongata, that place at the back of the head where the brain meets the spinal cord.

Because I’m a good and merciful person at my core (my mind sang, And because I’m hopelessly in love with her) I would take mercy on her worthless wasteland of a soul and turn her off like a light switch. No matter all the hell she had caused everyone else.

That was almost enough to get me through. Almost.

Then her car pulled up, right on time, thank God, since I hadn’t bothered to surveil her arrival more than once.

She got out of the car.

It was time.

I sat in the chair, steadied my rifle on a pillow on the window sill.

She closed the car door.

I gripped the stock. Eased my finger along the trigger well.

She turned away and bowed her head (as if to pray?) as she looked at the remote in her hand.

I’d forgotten how endearing that was. I shook my head to deny it. It was just another trick of the demon.

I squeezed.

And in the last instant, my finger trembled on the trigger.

The bullet slapped into the roof of her car just above the driver’s side door and just past the right side of her head.

And she didn’t scream or duck or run.

She turned around.

She looked straight across the street, a frown on her face—her beautiful, cream-complexion face—and then raised her chin.

She looked straight at me.

And the demon vanished.

The lines on her forehead smoothed out as if she recognized me.

Or as if her spirit recognized mine.

Her blue eyes glistened.

With joy?

Her lips began to stretch in a smile.

Her right arm started to come up. Was she going to wave to me?

It was all I could do to squeeze the trigger a second time.

A small dot appeared directly between her beautiful eyes and just above the ridge of her eyebrows. Her right hand slapped across her forehead as if she’d forgotten something.

Or maybe to hide that offensive mark from the man who loved her so very much.

I turned away on rubber legs before she fell.

I did remember to wipe down the rifle. I’m a credit to my profession.

I dropped the rifle on the bed and walked quickly from the room, my legs jerking and jittery, and down the stairs and back to my hotel room.

In a trance, I packed.

Somehow I got to the airport. I don’t remember my flight being called.

But sometime later I was in a first-class seat and the plane was lifting off.

3

All during the flight, I was twisted with doubt.

I prayed the woman was the right target.

And I prayed she wasn’t.

But which would be easier to live with?

The next morning, I accessed my Swiss bank account. The payment was there, which meant the job was successful, which meant she was the right target.

Somehow I wasn’t relieved.

As I was about to turn off the computer, a report from a news agency scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

A report from Barcelona.

I reached for the mouse, my hand trembling, and clicked on the message.

A photo of a woman accompanied the article, which I could only skim.

*

Empirita Sanchez de Uvalde was assassinated from hiding yesterday on a major street in Barcelona as she exited her car.

Ms. Sanchez was beloved in Barcelona, a respected attorney and a champion and defender of children. She was an only child, and is survived by her parents.

She was 28, unmarried and had no children of her own.

According to her mother, she was waiting for the right man.

*******