Grit: Grass 1

The worst thing you could ever be was a grass. Grit had known more than one person who had been turned by the promise of immunity or money – it never paid enough and they were never safe enough. The police hated grasses as much as the criminals did.

Grit kept his operation streamlined but no one could work in a vacuum. Grit spoke to the people in the know and sometimes that meant speaking to people you would rather ignore. The one thing Grit was grateful for was that his job never required him to bring someone else in to handle anything. Money was simple. Recon was simple if you had half a brain, and if you couldn’t recon then what use were you going to be as an assassin? If you couldn’t map out how to get in and out of place then you weren’t going to be any kind of decent criminal at all.

Women were a danger. You didn’t tell them anything. Grit did not form attachments – he didn’t need them. He needed sex once in a while and that was it, and if he couldn’t get that then it was a swift one at the wrist.

His life was lean. It had no fat on it at all. A life that got soft in the middle needed exercise. He was having a hard time identifying with this guy sitting here telling him all his woes.

‘So you want me to kill this man because he compromised your security?’

‘Yeah, damned motherfucker. Little pipsqueaking shitbird. All the things I did for him …’

‘Okay, Mr Schopenhauer, isn’t it?’


‘Look, I don’t need know anything other than the facts. You want him dead and you have transferred the money into my account, correct?’


‘Then with all due respect our business is done. The next time you hear from me it will be me telling you that he is no longer a problem.’

‘But …’

‘Thank you.’

And Grit walked out of the door.

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