Author’s Note
I don’t like all of my characters. And I particularly don’t like Michelle, the protagonist of Terms of Service. What I do like is a short story with the profile of a stiletto. So when I dreamed up Michelle, I felt obligated to give her the story she deserved. Did I clear that bar? You be the judge…
“Terms of Service” is included in my first short story collection, A Cold Day in August: Thirteen Tales of Criminality Most Foul, which is available on Amazon as a Kindle edition and a paperback edition. If you read and enjoy this story, I hope you’ll share it with family and friends, and perhaps even go on to read the other tales that comprise A Cold Day in August.
Terms of Service
A Short Story by Thomas Gregg
“I‘m curious, though. What kind of man—”
“Or woman.”
“Yes, of course,” the Senator said. “What kind of person do you look for?”
Dinner was over; coffee and cognac had been served in the study. The two men, one old and white with the profile of a Roman emperor on some ancient coin, one younger and black with a slightly crooked nose, souvenir of a botched college football play, were relaxing in a pair of comfortable leather armchairs. The lights were low.
“What kind of person? Now that’s an interesting question,” the Director replied— though it wasn’t interesting really, having been asked of him many times over the years.
“You…train them…I suppose.”
“Oh, certainly. But,” the Director went on, “though an individual can be trained to kill, how can you be sure that he…or she…will actually do so when necessary?” He sipped his cognac. “That’s always been something of a conundrum. So we look for a specific type of person.”
“You want someone who already has it.” The Senator’s expression was troubled; he was new to the Select Committee. “The killer instinct.”
“Yes. Considering the nature of the work, we can’t rely on conventional military-style indoctrination.” The Director permitted himself a small smile. “Our mission requires solitary operators, capable of ending a life without hesitation or remorse. Some take no pleasure in killing. To them, it’s just a job. Others have a taste for it and would kill for sport if we hadn’t recruited them, disciplining their impulses and directing them into a socially useful channel.”
“I suppose it’s important work,” said the Senator after a moment.
“Oh yes. Very important work. Very necessary work.” A sealed, buff-colored envelope lay on the table between them; the Director picked it up and handed it to his guest. “You should read this on the way back to the city. It deals with a matter of particular concern, and immediate action is required. Please convey that recommendation to the Committee.”
“Of course.”
“And now that the evening’s business is concluded,” said the Director, “may I offer you some more cognac?”
The Senator weighed the envelope in his hand for a moment; this was his first time representing the Committee in a meeting with the Director. Then, “Thank you,” he said, tucking the envelope away in his briefcase. “Yes. One for the road would be good.”
Five days later Michelle found a buff-colored envelope on the seat of her car. Assignments were always delivered in this casual manner; the man she knew as Mr. French had explained that complicated procedures risked attracting unwelcome attention.
“But suppose someone stole the car?” she’d asked.
“You needn’t worry about that.”
The envelopes arrived at irregular intervals; Michelle carried out the instructions contained therein and received payment, usually within a week. For the most part, method and timing were left to her discretion. Only occasionally were there supplementary instructions, for instance to make the target’s death look like an accident, a suicide, a disappearance.
Every five or six months, Mr. French would summon her for a debriefing in some anonymous motel room. To Michelle, their conversation always seemed rambling and pointless, Mr. French quizzing her about trivial details of her daily routine and personal life. Supposedly she worked as a freelance graphic designer; that had been her profession before Mr. French recruited her and now it was her cover. For the sake of appearances Michelle accepted some actual design work from advertising agencies and other businesses. But her income statements and tax returns were fraudulent, consisting mostly of fictional payments from fictional clients. The money she was paid for her real work went into an offshore account.
Michelle waited until she was behind the locked door of her Georgetown apartment before opening the envelope. It contained a photograph and three sheets of paper. She studied the former before reading her instructions, then laid the contents of the envelope aside. Not until later that evening, after a leisurely bath and some supper, did she pour herself a glass of wine and read through the instructions again.
The target’s name was Kenneth Adair. He was a US Army major on assignment to something called the Office of Special Assessment, located in an obscure corner of the Pentagon. Neither the OSA’s function nor Major Adair’s work responsibilities were specified. But the three pages of instructions told Michelle everything she needed to know to complete her assignment: the Major’s home address, his customary work schedule, the make, model and registration of his SUV, other details. Adair was married with two children, boy and girl. He was having an affair on the side with a female Army officer who worked in some other Pentagon office. The instructions stated that the female officer, though not a target, could also be terminated if necessary.
Michelle smiled: But of course it would be necessary.
She’d been given two weeks to deal with Adair: more than enough time to arrange for the Major’s lover to share his fate. So this evening she’d catch a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow she’d put the finishing touches to a design project she’d been working on and deliver it to the client. Then—Michelle smiled again—she’d treat herself to a night on the town. And the day after tomorrow she’d turn her attention to Major Adair and his unfortunate paramour.
“Hey,” the girl said.
“Hey yourself.”
“Come here often?”
Michelle laughed.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“After hitting me with such a clever pickup line? Absolutely.”
Her name was Hannah; she was twenty-four and worked for the Justice Department. “No, nothing exciting. Basically I’m a data-entry clerk.”
But she was hot. Not particularly pretty but she definitely had the look: long dark hair, hazel eyes under arched brows, straight nose, plum-colored lipstick. Hannah’s jeans were artfully distressed; her silvery sleeveless silk blouse left one shoulder bare. They were seated in a booth toward the rear of the bar where the lights were dim. When Hannah rested her arm on the table Michelle wanted to stroke it. But she restrained herself. Restraint was part of the game, of the hunt.
They ordered drinks — vodka on the rocks — and fell to chatting. Michelle unreeled her carefully structured cover story.
“Wow,” said Hannah. “Creative people always blow me away.”
“Sometimes it’s not all that creative.” Michelle shrugged. “Commercial architecture, you know?”
She could tell that Hannah was checking her out. So after they ordered another round Michelle did stroke the girl’s arm, which caused her to shiver and take Michelle’s hand, entwining their fingers.
“So…” Hannah breathed.
“So…” Michelle replied in a whisper. But after a moment Hannah took her hand back and sighed.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” she said. “Look, I want to…and I hope we will…but tonight I have somewhere else to be.”
“Another date?” Michelle experienced a jolt of anger, rushing the blood to her cheeks, but she controlled herself. “No problem!”
“It’s nothing like that.” Hannah put on a contrite expression. “It’s actually a family thing. My sister’s in town, just for tonight, and I promised I’d have dinner with her.”
“Oh. So why…?”
“If you knew my sister, sweetie, you’d understand why I needed a drink, maybe two, before dinner.” Hannah laughed and after a beat Michelle joined in.
“And hey,” the girl said, “I wasn’t planning on meeting anyone tonight…but then I saw you and…so maybe we could get together tomorrow? For dinner? There’s this bistro around the corner from my place…?”
“All right.” Michelle was still angry but she didn’t let it show. She leaned across the table to place a delicate kiss on Hannah’s cheek. “Where and when…?”
After the girl left, Michelle ordered another drink. It was hateful, the feeling that came when the quarry eluded her. She wanted to scream, to hurl her glass against the wall, to hurt someone—but Michelle was a controlled person. Back in college, when she’d discovered her true calling, it came with the realization that control was essential. She knew that without control, the hunger would first enslave and then destroy her. So when Mr. French approached her, Michelle had been thrilled. Here, she thought, was the solution to her problem. Here was a man who would pay her to kill—and shield her from the consequences of killing.
But it hadn’t worked out that way. Michelle found that working for a bureaucracy, even one so shadowy, lacked savor. It just wasn’t the same, having her victims chosen for her.
She missed the hunt.
Michelle had killed three people, one male, two female, before Mr. French appeared with his job offer. The first two killings had happened years apart but after the second one she knew in her heart that she’d kill again. And again. And again. And though Mr. French made no reference to her murders, which numbered seven by the time he recruited her, she suspected that he knew all about them.
“We understand one another, I trust,” he’d said, sipping the club soda that, she was to learn, he always drank when they met.
“I think so,” Michelle replied. At that initial meeting she’d tried to use sex on him, dressing in a way that showed off her legs and cleavage, her blonde hair on bare shoulders. But he seemed unaffected. “Yes, I’m sure we do,” she said.
“That’s fine, then.” Mr. French stood and offered his hand. “Welcome aboard, Michelle,” he added, as if she’d just landed a job at some advertising agency. “We’ll be in touch again soon.”
“Oh, darling…” Hannah breathed.
They’d dined well and now behind the door of Hannah’s apartment they were on the sofa, in one another’s arms. The fever was on Michelle and she knew that to the girl it would look like conventional sexual passion. Ah, but it was so much more…
“More wine?” Hannah asked when their lips parted.
“Mmmm,” Michelle agreed. She’d do it here, she decided, in the girl’s own apartment. An hour of psychological terror with some physical pain thrown in, then the delicious pleasure of watching the light fade from Hannah’s eyes as they became fixed and flat. Nothing particularly messy, just the vicious, visceral thrill of extinguishing a young life. You kept things simple, you didn’t get greedy — that was how you maintained control.
Hannah returned with two full wineglasses. She handed one to her guest and sat back down, laying a hand on Michelle’s thigh. They sipped, each savoring the moment.
“You know,” said Hannah, “I was thinking about what you said last night, that your work isn’t always creative.”
“Well, sometimes it is and sometimes it isn’t,” Michelle replied with a smile. “You take the assignments as they come, you know?”
“I do, I think. More wine?”
Michelle said no—or thought she did. Then she realized that her tongue lay numb in her mouth.
“And when you do get bored, I suppose you’re tempted to look elsewhere for that creative thrill.” Hannah took the glass from Michelle’s hand and placed it on the coffee table that fronted the sofa. “Which was a mistake.”
Michelle turned her head to stare at the girl. It seemed to take a long time to complete the motion.
“The terms of your service were made clear to you, Michelle.” Hannah’s voice was light, conversational. “Such a shame that you chose to violate them.”
Michelle made a sound in her throat, soft and deep and desperate.
“No extracurricular activities. That was made very clear,” said Hannah, patting Michelle’s cheek. “But last month you killed that young girl. I suppose you knew that she’d just turned nineteen. But that’s your thing, isn’t it? You like them young.”
She stood and walked around the coffee table. With considerable difficulty Michelle moved her head again, tracking Hannah’s movements.
“Mr. French regrets to inform you that your employment contract has been terminated,” Hannah said with a smile. “Oh, and he asked me to thank you for your service.”
Michelle blinked. Once.
“The drug induces muscular paralysis, then cardiac arrest.” Hannah went to the closet for her coat. Michelle screamed inside her skull when the girl passed out of her field of vision. “I’m told that it’s more or less painless, and in any case it works quickly,” Hannah added.
Michelle sat motionless, staring with wide-open eyes at the nondescript watercolor that hung on the opposite wall.
“Sorry to leave you here like this,” Hannah said. “But what the hell, as you’ve probably guessed this isn’t really my apartment. Goodbye—darling. So nice to have met you.”
Michelle heard the apartment door open and close. She sat rigidly on the sofa, frozen faced —until a sudden mist obscured her vision, a brief bolt of pain passed through her chest, her muscles spasmed and she toppled forward, smashing her face into the coffee table. But that was all right. Michelle never felt a thing.