When I was young, my dad was my idol. Anything he did, I wanted to learn. When he told me what he does, with the innocence of a child I asked why.

He shrugged. "Some folks deserve to die. Why not get paid for it?"

He taught me how to shoot. When the stray dog came in my sights, I squeezed the trigger slowly. The mutt just plopped and lay still. I grinned up to him. “That was easy!”

He had cautioned me, "Always give a fake name to a client. A man's gotta have some privacy."

I got hooked on the money, but never liked the work. Dangerous too. We got separated a couple months ago and I lost him. Maybe he went undercover or something.

My new client stepped out from the fog. "John Carlos?"

"Yeah."

He looked around nervously. Don't know why he worried. The mist was so thick you couldn't see more than a dozen feet.

He said, "I found his real name and where he lives. George Henderson, in LA. Here's the money."

I almost dropped it.

“Something wrong?”

I shook my head and took a deep breath. “Not now.” I pulled the .38 out of my jacket and squinted my eyes like I always do.

He backed away, his eyes open wide. “What the hell?”

One shot is all I ever use. I glared down at him.

"Not my dad, you son of a bitch!"