An Exercise in Friendship

The Conspiracy

I'm nervous.

I would never admit that to the rest of the squad as we stand waiting in the back of our truck. The signs on the side of the truck say "Speedy Delivery" and beneath that "Your package in a flash." Even though we're not a shipping company, we certainly deliver.

My team and I only get called in when there is no room for error, no second chances. And today we're supposed to neutralize some scientist guy who crossed the wrong people. The details are pretty sketchy, and to be honest, I like it that way. When we make problems go away, I don't want to know the problem's name or how many kids he has or whether he prefers vanilla ice cream over chocolate. I just do my job, and I do it well.

But today I'm nervous.

Something doesn't feel right. From the moment this job came down the wire, I got this feeling in my gut that I couldn't shake. And instead of going away, that feeling just keeps gnawing at me worse and worse. Every fiber of my being is screaming, "Turn around, call this thing off," but I suppress those urges because I don't have any other choice. The people I work for don't take no for an answer. I take a deep breath and signal Lopez, the point man.

Lopez opens the back door of the truck, and we coil out like a striking snake. Once we start moving, the training takes over, and there's no more conscious thought, just instinct and reaction. There's no time to think and there's definitely no time for nagging doubts about what we're going to do.

My team is already stacked against the door. Normally, I would have them blow the door open and they'd storm in like the devil's legion, but this job requires subtlety. Even the local cops who generally have their heads up their asses are gonna suspect foul play if the front door is blown to bits with military grade explosives. So I have Lopez pick the lock.

The door opens with the slightest click. We listen. We can hear a voice inside, frantically raving about something. I distinctly hear the word "ketchup." No time to wonder why. I send the squad into the house.

After that, everything happens quickly. There is very little noise. The man we had come to kill was a small, bookish man. He never even heard Lopez creep behind him and inject the neurotoxin into his neck. The injection works instantly, and the small man's body slumps to the floor. His eyes stare off into the distance, unblinking. But he is not dead.

I don't know what this man did to piss off whoever he pissed off, but they wanted him to suffer before he died. This neurotoxin is particularly nasty because it stimulates all the pain centers of your brain as it kills you. Theory has it that the pain is so intense, every second feels like an eternity of torture, and it takes an hour for the poison to kill an average-sized man. You do the math. I've killed hundreds of men in hundreds of different ways, but from what I understand, there is no more painful way to die.

We had to wait for the poison to finish the job, so my team began preparing the scene to look like a suicide. I stay with the body, and because the action is, for the most part, over, I start to get that nagging feeling tearing through my gut again. I look through the the papers scattered around the room to try and get my mind off of things.

I start reading, and I can't stop reading. Periodically, members of my squad come in and ask me questions. I wave them off without even hearing them. Could this be real? Could this be true? I should have realized. I should have listened to my gut. This secret is too big, too important to bury alongside the scientist we just killed. I need to tell someone. I need to tell the world. The truth must be heard.

And that's when I feel the needle in my neck. My muscles lose control and I'm falling. I guess someone had orders to kill anyone who was exposed to the scientist's work, or maybe someone just turned on me. It happens in this business. I just have time to wonder if Lopez was the one who killed me. Then the pain ignites, and I'm in hell.