Final Target

A desperate bank clerk gets a new job, but a twist brings him to his knees…

If I told you what I was
Would you turn your back on me?
And if I seem dangerous
Would you be scared?
I get the feeling just because
Everything I touch isn't dark enough
That this problem lies in me...
         - "Monster," by Imagine Dragons

I slouched in my rolling chair, adjusting the placard: Kevin Pence, Teller. Amid chatter and the whirring of dollar bills getting counted in the machines, I melted into my gray surroundings. My daily coffee kept me awake during the inevitable afternoon doldrums.

Another uneventful day; my job provided only a steady, meager paycheck. Leaving work, I drove my decade-old Nissan Altima, looking forward to one of two things interrupting my life's monotony: target practice.

I shouldered the rifle easily from years of doing it, riddling the target with precisely placed holes. At each shot, a thrill of excitement zipped through me.

“You training to be a sniper?” someone asked.

“No, just protecting my wife. It keeps life interesting.”

“Good for you.”

At home, Linda was packing for another week away as a flight attendant. She was gone more often than not, leaving me largely unsupervised…

“Kevin, we're running out of money. What happened?”

I squirmed, hoping she wouldn't discover my other “adventurous” habit: sports gambling. I kept intending to quit, but I always followed another game, made another bet, lost more money.

“I'll ask the boss for a raise.”

“Do it tomorrow, honey. The mortgage can't be late.”

“Yes, dear.”

While Linda slept that night, I sat up scrolling the charts, analyzing the best chances. Surely my next one would be a winner.

I was still placing bets at 2AM when a shattering of glass somewhere in the house jolted me from my stupor. I leaped to my feet, addressing Linda,

“Lock yourself in the bathroom and call 911.”

I tore open a drawer and grabbed my revolver. Rushing down the hallway into the living room, I surprised a masked gunman. He spun around, firing two shots towards me. I dropped to the floor and rolled under the couch.

He got on one knee to take aim, seemingly at an easy target. I twisted sideways, gathered all my practice and shot him in the head. He collapsed with a grunt.

I crawled out, dusting myself off. The adrenaline rush gave way to shock. I slumped into the couch, staring at the man's body. Blue lights flickered in the windows. What the hell just happened?

***

Another gray day at the bank, a couple months later, a stranger strode up to my teller window with a check to cash.

“So, you're the local hero who bumped off a burglar?” He leaned an arm on the counter, staring at me with a peculiar smirk.

“Yeah, everyone's talking about it,” I chuckled. “Got my ten minutes of fame.”

“Quite the marksman, eh?” he murmured, eyes narrowing.

I shrugged. When I handed over his cash, he slipped me a folded note with a brusque nod and left abruptly. I opened it.

Meet us at this address after dark concerning what has just been mentioned to you. Potential job opportunities awaiting.

I stared into space, oblivious to the next guest coming forward. A mysterious invitation? A new job? Yes! I looked forward to it for the rest of the day.

***

Linda was gone again; I had no one to explain myself to as I left the house that night. The address was a mostly vacant office building. I knocked. The stranger I'd met admitted me to a dusty back room. A stocky man in a suit sized me up at his desk.

“Sit down. I'm Frank Gordon. You know who you bumped off?”

“No… The police mentioned a criminal record.”

Frank glowered at me.

“Criminal record, indeed – he was our best hitman.”

“Our?” I repeated. “Who are you?”

“The mob, of course.”

I turned to the door. The stranger was guarding it, well-armed. He flashed me that smirk. My stomach quivered as I faced Frank.

“Don't bother trying to leave. You've greatly inconvenienced us by interfering with our plans.”

“What plans?” My voice was sharp, high-pitched. “Your hitman was hitting on us? Why?”

“He had the wrong house.”

“That's not my problem! You expected me to take an armed home invasion lying down?”

“It was a mistake.”

“Tough crap. Looks like I did the world a favor.”

“You didn't do me no favors!” Frank growled. He placed his palms on the desk and leaned over me, drilling his eyes into mine. “You're a marked man.”

I took a shuddering breath, gripping the armrests.

“You mean I'm about to die because your man was too stupid to hit the right house?”

“Not if you accept our job offer.” Frank settled back with a slow grin. “We have an opening for an expert marksman.”

“Are you kidding? I'm not going to be your substitute hitman!”

“Why not? We heard your gambling debt’s piling up. Does Linda know how close you are to foreclosure?”

I gulped. She would leave me for sure. I failed her.

“I'm – I'm not a murderer for hire.”

“Oh? Perhaps you prefer cooking the books at your bank? We can inform the president of some inconsistencies.”

“No, don't,” I groaned, remembering my desperation. “I'll be disgraced! Jailed.”

“You accept?”

“I can't kill people.”

“You already did! I don't see a striken conscience, either. Just bump off a few more, with recompense.”

“But… what kind of recompense?”

“Say, enough to pay off your gambling debt, your house and buy a luxury car?” Frank steepled his fingers.

“That would be pushing a million… Seriously?”

“Of course. Alternatively, we could off Linda. That would handle it nicely.”

“No! Don't touch her – please. I – I accept your offer.”

As I spoke, I wondered why I'd argued. Didn't I need the money? If I was really such a good shot, why not put it to use?

“That's the spirit!” Frank chuckled, as though reading my mind. “Just five people, that's all we're asking. Then you can forget this ever happened.”

***

My first target, a week later, was a gangster who'd gone rogue in Chicago. I stalked the grungy alleyways one murky night like a character in a video game, tracing my man. Misgivings filled my head like the stench of garbage in the air. What if I failed? What if I got caught? What would become of me? Of Linda? I had to get this right!

There he was, striding ahead of me, hands stuffed in pockets. I took unsteady aim. He must've heard something, for he spun on his heels to catch me with a gun in his face. He threw up his hands, eyes pools of sick fear.

“No, don't shoot!”

I pulled the trigger, feeling that same exhilarating jolt I did at target practice. He fell, and I fled. It was over. My new career was sealed. Relief, satisfaction and a calculation of my pay supplanted any anguish over the life lost. I hadn't thought I'd actually enjoy killing people… Until I did.

***

That twisted sense of victory, of accomplishment, grew stronger with each hit. I timed everything with my wife's absences, playing the double role of mild-mannered bank clerk and calculating assassin like an actor in a cheap movie.

“You seem more assertive,” she remarked once as we did chores, eyeing me narrowly. “Did you get a new job?”

My heart leaped into my throat.

“No… I'm just enjoying some hobbies, is all.”

She wrinkled her nose and turned away.

My sole remaining scruple was ensuring my targets never knew what hit them. I reasoned it wasn't so terrible if it was clean and quick. Even hunters didn't use such high standards when stalking their prey. Besides, I couldn't see another haunting, pleading face like my first one.

Finally, the fifth assignment loomed. I sat at the kitchen table one evening, planning how I would explain the hundreds of thousands of dollars to Linda. An inheritance from a great-aunt who'd left me in her will. A windfall, taking care of our mortgage and then some.

I looked up at the ticking clock and realized I was disappointed at completing my exciting stint as a hitman. Life lay ahead of me as it had been: interminable, gray and ordinary.

What kind of person had I turned into? Did human life have any significance left to me? Who was I going to kill next, my wife? I rested my head in my hands, wishing it was already over so I could try to move on, battling a distasteful blood lust I had been unaware of in my previous life.

At least my finances were secure, my marriage safe, my misdeeds at the bank undiscovered. But how much of my soul had I sold in the process?

My cellphone rang. It was Frank.

“Your last job is ready,” he rasped.

“Yeah… Can I call it quits, subtract it from my pay? I don't think I can do another one.”

“You crazy?” he roared. “This is your most important hit! If you chicken out now, everything's off. Remember, you're protecting your wife, your home, your livelihood, your reputation. You still value those?”

I squeezed the phone, grimacing and sweaty. I couldn't lose it all, not after what I'd already done.

“Yes. One last time. Don't call me ever again, please.”

"Sure, Kevin.” Frank laughed. “You'll be working with Spike, to prevent mistakes and ensure compliance. The target is an FBI agent on our trail. They're currently in Atlanta. You take the shot, Spike is backup. Got that?”

“Got it,” I repeated, sitting up a little straighter. The instinct I'd honed, the thrill of the hunt, was coming back. If this was my last kill, I'd do it with relish. But also relief.

***

As usual, Linda was gone when I left. This time, Spike rode along with me. I wasn't used to having company. My nerves were on edge, especially after sundown. We approached the house where the target was Airbnb-ing. I slowed down, swinging into a parallel space. We prepped our weapons and hid in the shrubbery. The guys had geotagged the target's vehicle. It was headed this way.

“So, where does your wife work?” Spike broke the silence.

“She's a flight attendant. Travels the world… without me.”

“Oh really,” he laughed low, unnervingly, as if he knew something I didn't.

A car pulled into the driveway. A lone female figure climbed out with an armload of groceries.

“A woman…?” I squeaked.

Spike jabbed me in the ribs.

“Don't back out now!” he snarled. “She's a Fed, stupid.”

The woman approached our hiding place. I raised my gun and took aim automatically, pushing away any misgivings. The afterglow of her car's headlights lit up her face as she rounded a curve. My heart stopped beating. My arm dropped to my side.

“Linda! No! That's my wife!”

“Of course it is!” Spike guffawed. “She's the agent we were after all along. Everyone else you killed was training for the big fish, the one you prevented us from getting in the first place.”

“You filthy monsters!”

I turned the gun on him. He lunged forward. We wrestled in the dirt, grappling for the weapons. He tore away from me and leaped to his feet with a gun.

“Linda, run!” I yelled.

Shots rang wildly as we both fired off, he at her, I at him. She spun against the wall, screaming, groceries flying. Spike collapsed on the ground. I ran to her.

“Kevin! What's going on?”

I hugged her close, gasping.

“The mob is after you – they hired me – oh, Linda, I tried to protect you!” I stumbled over my words, attempting to explain too much of the unspeakable.

She pulled away from me, her eyes piercing, accusatory.

“I suspected you were getting involved with the gang I was working to take down. Kevin, how could you? Why?”

My shoulders sagged under the unbearable weight of my sin. Was it really Linda I'd done it all for? Or was it desperate greed? A little – or a lot – of both. She turned her back to pick up her groceries. Sirens wailed in the distance. My legs shook as I faced a future where everything I'd sold my soul to save was lost to me.

Words: 1990.
Written for the October 2025 What a Character, Official WdC Contest.
Prompt: Write about a character who falls prey to one of the Seven Deadly Sins (Greed, gluttony, sloth, wrath, lust, pride, envy)
Soundtracks:
Monster, by Imagine Dragons ▼

Wire, by U2 ▼