Gilliam Eagler: The botched job
Toronto.
The job was supposed to be easy, go in, pick up this guy, this sleazeball and his family, escort them stateside. The problem being this guy was on the run from the police, some kind of gangster, but he was gonna pay me handsomely. I flew in, the usual smuggle and bribe your guns past customs, and met this guy. He was huge, like he'd eaten the china buffet, foundation and all. Met his trophy wife and his daughter, telling me they were the greatest treasure to him, the usual family man deal. Then he let me lounge around the house until they were ready, packing suitcases of clothes, money, and drugs; it's a living I suppose, I'm one to talk.
The shit hit the fan the next day. Officers stormed the place, but they weren't expecting a veteran with an assault rifle to greet them. I held them off, telling the client to get out the back while I bought him some time. But there was no response, he yelled from the bedroom, saying he had a better plan.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion, a second wave of cops came in as he strode out, his daughter and wife in front of him, a pair of pistols in his hands, pointing them at their heads. "I've got hostages!" He shouted, my blood ran cold.
The cops started yelling in a panic, telling him to drop the guns, let them go, that he had nowhere to run. I was frozen.
Then he did it, he sent a message that he meant business and that he only cared for himself. He pulled the trigger on the gun to his wife, it was over in an instant. Everything froze. Nobody was sure what to do, I reacted. I hefted my rifle up to my shoulder, took aim at the fat man and peppered him. I fired off several rounds at the cops before jumping through the kitchen window, the expression on that poor girl's face engrained into my mind.
I guessed then was as good a time as any to retire.
The job was supposed to be easy, go in, pick up this guy, this sleazeball and his family, escort them stateside. The problem being this guy was on the run from the police, some kind of gangster, but he was gonna pay me handsomely. I flew in, the usual smuggle and bribe your guns past customs, and met this guy. He was huge, like he'd eaten the china buffet, foundation and all. Met his trophy wife and his daughter, telling me they were the greatest treasure to him, the usual family man deal. Then he let me lounge around the house until they were ready, packing suitcases of clothes, money, and drugs; it's a living I suppose, I'm one to talk.
The shit hit the fan the next day. Officers stormed the place, but they weren't expecting a veteran with an assault rifle to greet them. I held them off, telling the client to get out the back while I bought him some time. But there was no response, he yelled from the bedroom, saying he had a better plan.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion, a second wave of cops came in as he strode out, his daughter and wife in front of him, a pair of pistols in his hands, pointing them at their heads. "I've got hostages!" He shouted, my blood ran cold.
The cops started yelling in a panic, telling him to drop the guns, let them go, that he had nowhere to run. I was frozen.
Then he did it, he sent a message that he meant business and that he only cared for himself. He pulled the trigger on the gun to his wife, it was over in an instant. Everything froze. Nobody was sure what to do, I reacted. I hefted my rifle up to my shoulder, took aim at the fat man and peppered him. I fired off several rounds at the cops before jumping through the kitchen window, the expression on that poor girl's face engrained into my mind.
I guessed then was as good a time as any to retire.