Mr. Rofe

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

Mr. Rofe is summoned to perform an assassination. But what is different about Mr. Rofe is the way he performs his assassinations...

Mr. Rofe


The elevator arrived at floor thirty six. The all too familiar ping sounded, as the doors slid apart.


A tall man with slicked back blonde hair emerged from the elevator, silent and graceful. Carrying a briefcase and an overcoat slung across his arm, the man’s stoic expression gave the notion to other people that he was completely unapproachable. This was just the way Mr. Rofe liked it. He walked with purpose, never looking from side to side, but keeping his stare directly ahead, only interested in his destination.


Mr. Rofe turned at the end of the corridor and walked down past the pot plants and closed doors of the hotel passage. Retrieving his key card from his pocket, Mr. Rofe walked up to door number 237 and swiped the card. The door lock flashed to green and Mr. Rofe entered the room quickly and quietly, closing the door ever so gently behind him.


The hotel room was quite normal. Nothing lavish. Just a double bed, wardrobe, dressing table with a flat screen 14 inch television standing on it and an ensuite bathroom to one side. Placing his briefcase down upon the bed, Mr. Rofe walked up to the window and examined it. He had been careful not to ask for a room with this specific view, but had made sure that his secretary had made the necessary arrangements in advance, so that he did not have to speak to anyone. Mr. Rofe never spoke to anyone. For good reason.


Mr. Rofe’s deadened stare penetrated the glass as he eyed the building from across his window. His cold blue eyes narrowed as he spotted the window that he had been searching for. Two minutes hard studying told him that no one was there yet, and that he had time to prepare. Checking his watch, Mr. Rofe rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and jacket to keep his watch clearly visible.


Turning, Mr. Rofe walked to the dressing table, picked up the chair, and brought it over to the window. Mr. Rofe sat down, stared at the opposite window, and then shuffled the chair forward a few inches. He repeated this action several times, eventually satisfied with where the chair was positioned.


Sitting down on the bed, Mr. Rofe opened the suitcase and removed the laptop from inside. Just next to the laptop lay a Mauser hand pistol. Purely for safety reasons of course. Or a little helping hand to escape.


Mr. Rofe opened the laptop and positioned it in front of him upon the dresser. Entering a four digit code to bypass the security settings, Mr. Rofe accessed his communication system and pressed enter, patiently waiting.


A few moments later, and the sound of someone clicking on their system at the other end told Mr. Rofe he hadn’t been stood up. Scapezzi, a fat Sicilian man in his late fifties came into view on the screen. He was dressed in a large white billowing shirt, the kind Mafioso’s love to wear. His silver grey hair was slicked back with sweat and looked at odds with his tanned skin. In the background, Mr. Rofe could just make out two naked women laying on the bed behind him, giggling to one another.


“Hey! You made it!” came the thick Italian American drawl through the speakers.

Mr. Rofe remained still, his stoic star never leaving the fat man.

“Oh yeah, not much of a talker. Sure, sure. Whatever, right?”

Scapezzi laughed.

Mr. Rofe did not.

“Right. OK, here’s the deal. That little weasel bastard is going to be in that room in about ten minutes. I know, I know, he’s an hour early. But trust me, he’s gonna be in there and he’s gonna be alone. I hope you got close buddy, cos he’s a crafty little bastard. He’ll have checked out every nook and cranny and won’t even come near the window. Hope you got some kind of foresight or something, cos you're gonna need ESP to find that son of a bitch. But hey! Listen to me gassing on like an old bitch! I didn’t pay you what I paid you to screw up. Lozo tells me you’re the man. Apparently, he ain’t never seen anything like you. Some kinda…”


Mr. Rofe closed the laptop. The conversation had come to its natural end.


Mr. Rofe got up from the bed and walked over to the window. Staring at the apartment across the way, Mr. Rofe studied the other rooms, determining if there was more going on than he had been told. The fat Mafioso sounded like he didn’t have a clue beyond ordering people dead. Mr, Rofe had a nasty feeling about this job.


Fifteen minutes later, and movement stirred within the apartment. Mr. Rofe took a slender pair of binoculars from his jacket.


A shadow moved across the apartment. Mr. Rofe watched intently, trying to make out if this man was alone.

For a brief second, there was a face at the window, and then it was gone.

Curtains in the apartment were suddenly drawn in a hurry.

Mr. Rofe changed the setting on his binoculars, and then raised them back up to look into the apartment.

Mr. Rofe could now see in infra red through his binoculars. Instantly, he could tell that there were six men in the apartment. One was pacing around the room frantically. The other five were busy searching the apartment for hidden devices. Four of the men had automatic weapons. The fifth appeared to be appeasing the frantic man.

No doubt the appeaser had a hand piece, Mr. Rofe thought to himself.


Sitting back down on the bed, Mr. Rofe opened his laptop and took a wire from the briefcase. Plugging the wire into the binoculars, Mr. Rofe took the other end of the wire and plugged it into his laptop. A moment later, and film of the viewing Mr. Rofe had taken through the binoculars appeared on the laptop screen. Mr. Rofe downloaded the film fully. Then, rewinding the film, Mr. Rofe set the film to play at one quarter speed. Hitting the play button, Mr. Rofe watched the screen intently.


A few minutes later and the shadow entered the room. Mr. Rofe’s finger rested across the space bar on the laptop. The shadow moved around the room. The hidden person had been doing a circle of the room to lure any hidden assassins out so that he would take a bullet for his master.

Very noble, thought Mr. Rofe.


All of a sudden, the face was at the window.

Mr. Rofe gently tapped the space bar, and the picture froze.


Sitting back, Mr. Rofe stared at the face on the screen. He had his way in.


Two minutes later, the man in the picture (Ruis Alfredo, a small time hoodlum and pimp) had been joined by the four other men on Mr. Rofe’s laptop display. Mr. Rofe already had the mobile number of the man he was hired to take out (one Esperanza Gittal, a notorious drug dealer and gun runner), but he needed to make sure that there were no witnesses. This was essential for Mr. Rofe.


The five mobile phone numbers of the body guards were lit up on the laptop display.

Mr. Rofe stood at the window, watching the curtains shuffle every now and again as Gittal nervously peaked through, always being jerked back by Ruis with a lot of gestures and shouting.

Mr. Rofe smiled to himself. There was a strong possibility that these idiots would kill themselves if he waited long enough.

But that wasn’t what he was hired to do. Plus guns made such a mess of things. There was also the possibility that there could be children nearby.

No need for them to die, thought Rofe.


Plugging his mobile phone into the laptop, Mr. Rofe tapped in instructions to the programme he had set up for just such an occasion. One by one, all five of the mobiles to the security squad were linked up to Mr. Rofe’s mobile phone. Removing the wire from the mobile phone and taking his binoculars, Mr. Rofe stood once more at the window, peering through his binoculars.


One of the men had gone to the bathroom, whilst the others had settled themselves down to watch television. Gittal was still panicking, and his men had taken to ignoring him.

A minute later and the guard returned from the bathroom.

Gittal stared at the guard, and started gesturing. The guard raised his finger to Gittal. Gittal, not taking to this too well, started ranting and raving, throwing his arms in the air and pointing his finger at every man in the room.

After a minute of shouting at his guards, Gittal stormed off to the bathroom.


Mr. Rofe looked down at his mobile phone, and pressed the send button. Raising the phone to his ear, Mr. Rofe waited and watched.


A second later, all of the guards in the apartment looked at each other as their moile phones started ringing at exactly the same time. One by one, they all reached for their mobile phones. Still looking at each other, they pressed the answer buttons, obviously curious as to who could be calling them all at the same time.


As soon as Mr. Rofe had heard the fifth hello on his phone, he opened his mouth.


The sound that came forth from Mr. Rofe’s mouth had never been remembered by anyone. This was down to the simple fact that they were all dead. For Mr. Rofe had a unique talent.


Mr. Rofe had been born with a defect in his larynx. Well, at first he had seen it as a defect. Not being able talk whilst everyone else around you can, puts that thought in your head. But very soon he came to realise that it was an asset.

The capability to utter a mind shredding high pitched scream from his mouth had been something that no one could have explained to him. It had kept him pursued for many years as a young child. It had killed several of his foster parents. But most importantly, nobody had been able to gag him in time to stop him before he could emit the high pitched scream.


Much to their detriment, the five guards were now finding this out.


Closing his mouth, Mr. Rofe watched as the five guards dropped to the ground, dead. The heat signature of blood coming from their upper body indicated that Mr. Rofe had done his job successfully.


Now that there was no one to stop Gittal from answering his phone, Mr. Rofe accessed the sixth number on his mobile phone.


Gittal looked up from the sink, where he had not long been wolfing down copious amounts of cocaine through a fifty dollar bill. Through the infra red lens, Mr. Rofe watched the warm outline of Gittal searching around inside his jacket, desperately trying to find his mobile phone. At length, Gittal reached into one of his pockets and found his phone, pulling it out with such ferocity, that he nearly tore his jacket open.


Mr. Rofe waited for Gittal to answer his phone. The same Mafioso drawl came across the line. At first it was just hellos and who is this? Then it turned into threats of violence and shouting. Mr. Rofe liked to tease people sometimes. He had become very good at working out just when a person was going to put the phone down. And Gittal was so hysterical, he needed to someone to vent at.


Mr. Rofe opened his mouth.


A sharp, high pitched scream passed his lips for no more than two seconds.

Gittal fell to the floor, instantly dead.


Mr. Rofe closed his mouth.

He had decided to use his quick shot approach. A pitch so high, that it instantly finds the correct pitch to connect with the part of the brain that runs everything, and shut it down instantly. Gittal wasn’t even aware he was dead when his body hit the floor.


Mr. Rofe smiled and returned the phone to the briefcase, along with the binoculars and his laptop. Placing the chair back at the dressing table, Mr. Rofe took the now shattered television and placed it in the briefcase. Removing a new television of exactly the same make from his briefcase, Mr. Rofe replaced the television.


A cursory glance around the room and with a satisfactory stroke of his lapel, Mr Rofe walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.

Very easy indeed, thought Mr. Rofe as he left.

Submitted: November 05, 2015

© Copyright 2021 Sabre Kazabian. All rights reserved.

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