They say a lot of stuff. Most of it wrong. Like blood. Blood washes off really easily, especially with a touch of detergent and a few moments scrubbing. The proof is swirling down the drain even now while its former container cools on the bed in the next room. After this many years its second nature to scrub it off. Backs of the hands first, then between the fingers. Rinse and reapply. Palms, wrists, scrubbing beneath the nails and the creases and rinse. Reapply and up to the elbows, rinse and the sink as well. Its comforting, the little habits, the little things that have to get done. Washing blood off my hands, cleaning a trigger action, bribing customs, its all the comforting little rituals life has for someone to appreciate.

The pisser is that small comforts are it for now. Yeah Gina, no chalet for Christmas, no beach trip for New Year. The whole retirement plan I had for that job in Argentina? The client caught wind during the exit, so don’t go trying to tap our savings. Probably have half a dozen flags on it by now and you don’t want these people to come looking for you, sweets. Just lay low, blend in. Its what I’m doing.

Yeah, yeah, I know. So much for the plan to retire gracefully. I took a look through the corpse’s belongings and there’s a slim chance for an alternative, but not much of one. It’ll probably be back to making people talk and pay up and bleed before the month is out, sweets. I know we’d hoped for something different, but at this point in the game it may be too late for this old dog to learn a whole new bag of tricks.

Oh, and sweets? Don’t bother crawling the search results, looking for news clips and images. That fucking surgeon in Columbia either didn’t listen or my Spanish just downright sucks these days. I asked for a few alterations, enough to throw off security. He apparently decided a face lift was called for. Hey, at least I got a great field kit and two keys of coke to trade for passage out of the country when I was done with explaining my displeasure to him. And none of that bit about souls and sins and all that, sweets. You know what I think about that.

Safe enough to let you know that Kingsport isn’t a bad city to get lost in for a week. I’ll be well gone by the time this bounces through the route and to your ears. Tourists make such easy pickings. Its like a starving man wandering through a peach orchard. The one thing I can’t lay my hands on is heavier firepower, or any at all. No point right now, I’m having to fly civilian this time around and my contacts are just too skittish to call right now. Back to the States it is, though, new face, new city, and once I make over the corpse’s documents, new name.

Huh. Just taking a look through the guy’s things, Gina. Looks like he was on vacation for a few weeks before taking a new job back mainland. Passport, driver’s license, personal affects… ok, this can be worked with, but… Niwa? Shit. Well, as long as anyone official doesn’t think too much of an Asian guy who’s six and a half and has blue eyes it’ll all be ok.

Time for me to close this up, sweets. Be a good girl for now, and I’ll try and get you another message when I set up in a new spot. I figure a year, maybe a year and a half before I can tap the savings and we can relax then like we planned. For now, just survive, Gina. Its what I’ll be doing too. Its what we’re both good at.