Codename Trilogy

Three hours. 

That’s how long I’ve been lying in the back of this SUV. Thank god it’s clean or that would have only added to my irritation. But come on! Three goddamn hours? How long does it take to bang a hooker?

Martin Allard: thirty-five was born December 13th, 1985, at Perry County Memorial Hospital in Tell City, Indiana to Bruce and Sandra Allard and is their only child. He has an MBA and a Bachelor of Arts degree in International Relations from Roanoke College and is currently the CFO of Alke, a sports merchandising company based out of Columbus, Ohio. He’s married to Lacey Allard, née Taylor and has no children. 

On paper, this guy is squeaky clean. He donates to charity, is a pillar of the community and is highly sought after in his field. But appearances can be deceiving. Little do people know, Mr. Allard is a very naughty boy. When he’s not busy winning awards for his business prowess and humanitarianism he’s at home beating – among other things – his wife for fun. But he’s a generous abuser; he gives her Thursday nights off. On Thursday nights he goes to the Silver Linings Motel, room eleven, to screw whichever hooker he picked up that night. 

A month ago, I was contacted by Lacey Allard through a third party as no one contacts me directly. We met at one of the usual locations I use for meetings and had a sit down where she hired me to kill her husband. I’m not picky when it comes to the jobs I undertake, but I can’t deny I’m going to get some extra satisfaction from this one. You may think hiring a professional killer is a bit extreme and divorce would have been better, but alas, that is a no can do. 

Going into this marriage Mrs. Allard signed a good old-fashioned prenup, but being young and in love, didn’t read the fine print. In the event of her divorcing her husband, she doesn’t get a single cent. If she cheats on him, she would have to pay him alimony to the sum of $20,000 a month for the rest of her life. But here’s the kicker. Nowhere in the prenup do these rules apply to Mr. Allard. No consequences would befall him should he divorce her or be unfaithful. Mrs. Allard explained she had signed the papers as a good-faith gesture believing it to simply be a test. What she didn’t realise, was that it was simply a form of control; something to make her think twice about leaving him. Which brings us to me lying in the back of Mr. Allard’s SUV. 

I always do thorough recon before a job, not just on my target but on the person who hired me. In this line of work, rule number one is: don’t trust anyone. After digging into Mrs. Allard’s history and finances, I can’t say I’m surprised she wants her husband dead. The couple met when she was just fifteen and he was twenty-nine. The young thing thought she was falling in love, but in fact, she was stepping into a deadly trap. The man groomed her good. He convinced her to drop out of school and cut her off from her family all while wooing her with a luxurious lifestyle. The classic signs of a controlling abuser. He hit her for the first time when she was sixteen, broke her first bone on their honeymoon when she was eighteen, and it’s been a black-and-blue marriage since. 

In the event of his death, however, she gets everything. But before you go off labelling her a gold digger, let me correct you. This woman came from humble beginnings and doesn’t seem to give a damn about money. That being said, after years of abuse at the hands of this man, she feels she’s earned some recompense and I’m inclined to agree. She only had two requests for me, she didn’t care how I did it, just make sure it was slow and it ruined his reputation. Wanting the man dead was a good step. Wanting to ruin the image he built and coveted more than anything? Now that’s a woman after my own heart. Fortunately for her, slow deaths are my speciality. 

I check the time on my watch again. Four hours. He’s been in that hotel room for four goddamn hours. Based on my logs from surveying him, he rarely ever stays longer than two. Thanks to where he parked his car I have the perfect view of the second floor of the motel and room eleven, so I definitely haven’t missed him coming out. That being said, I’m getting bored from all this waiting and my back is starting to cramp up.

Just as I’m shifting to stop my left leg from falling asleep, I see the motel door open and out walks Mr. Allard doing up his fly. He couldn’t have done that while he was in the room? The young woman he hired for the night comes to the door to say goodbye and he responds by giving her left breast a hard squeeze, causing her to wince from his rough touch. She doesn’t look of legal age. Then again, knowing his past, she probably isn’t. Sick perverted fuck. Looking relieved to see the back of him, she quickly closes the door as he struts away putting on his navy-blue business suit jacket like he’s the cock of the walk. 

He’s an overall good-looking guy. Lean, six-foot-tanned body, soft brown eyes, and chiseled jaw with a dusting of stubble to give him a rugged look. He has short wavy sandy blonde hair parted on the side, with the product he uses to keep it neat and presentable made redundant thanks to his four-hour fuck session, resulting in his hair now being a dishevelled mess. 

He takes his keys from his pocket as he approaches the car and with the push of a button, the car unlocks. The seedy motel parking lot is pitch black, and thanks to being dressed in black from head to toe, I blend into the SUV’s interior quite nicely. Rule number two of this business: know your prey.