The Redeemer

By Harry Watts

The man awoke to the sound of gunfire. Startled, he sat bolt upright, but quickly realized it was just the TV. The Western Channel was playing an old rerun—Marshal Dillon, gun drawn, facing off with a man holding Miss Kitty hostage. Bad mistake. Relieved, he turned off the TV and lay back down. The room was stifling, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke clung to everything. He was sweating. The dreams had come again last night, and so had the night terrors. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus on the present.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table—it was still early. Maybe he should call his wife before she left for work. Talk to the kids. He reached for the landline, safer than his cell. She answered on the second ring, and they talked briefly. He never told her where he went on these trips, and by mutual agreement, she never asked. Then he spoke to his two children. His son, 13, had little to say, but his daughter, 10, was a chatterbox, as always. He marveled at the differences between them—their conversations were one reminder of that. For a moment, he was overwhelmed with love for his family.

After ten minutes, he said goodbye and began to get ready for the day. He showered and trimmed the heavy beard he had grown for this trip. Then, he removed a bottle of dye and transformed his natural gray hair into a darker, more forgettable shade of brown, careful not to forget his eyebrows. Finished, he examined himself in the mirror. The transformation was startling, even to him. With the addition of his aviator sunglasses, he would be unrecognizable.

Satisfied, he placed a small, worn suitcase on the bed and pulled out his uniform—a dark blue Brooks Brothers suit, stiff white cotton shirt, striped silk tie, dark socks, and polished black wing tips. He dressed quickly, then retrieved a compact metal case from under the bed. Opening it, he took out a small 9mm handgun and a silencer, checking the magazine: eight hollow-point bullets. One would be enough, but you never knew. He still remembered Denver—a close call he was lucky to survive. Since then, he refined his method, becoming more meticulous. No more near misses.

Suddenly, he felt hungry. Twisting the silencer into the barrel, he slipped the gun into a shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket, grabbed his suitcase, and headed downstairs. The motel was cheap and nondescript. No security cameras, no questions asked. He preferred local motels like this—unlike chain hotels, they didn’t log guest information into a database or track his visits. He paid in cash to avoid checking out, reducing the risk of being remembered by anyone.

He walked outside to his car, a gray Toyota Camry. Common. Unremarkable. It wouldn’t attract attention. Last night, he had switched the license plate for one he’d stolen from a similar vehicle in the airport’s long-term parking. Placing his bag in the back seat, he pulled onto the busy street.

The golden arches of McDonald’s appeared ahead. He pulled into the drive-through, ordered breakfast, and parked in the back lot, out of sight from the surveillance cameras. Eating in the car, he watched the steady stream of families passing through the takeout window, heading off to enjoy their day. For a moment, he felt a pang of homesickness as thoughts of his own family flickered through his mind, but he quickly refocused on the job at hand.

Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a photograph. The man staring back at him was utterly unremarkable: middle-aged, thinning hair, faint lines around his eyes, a slight smile revealing even, white teeth. He looked like a million other men. There was nothing sinister about him. Nothing to suggest the evil lurking behind that pleasant exterior.

But the gunman knew better. He’d researched his target thoroughly. The man was a husband and father. Steady job, no criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. Mister Everyman. Only a few knew the truth.

He pulled a letter from his pocket, the handwriting small, neat, and precise written by a woman in control of her emotions, despite the horror she described.

The woman explained that the man in the photo was her husband of ten years. Their marriage had started well enough, but things had changed. He became violent. What began as grabbing turned into regular beatings, and then came the emotional abuse. She begged him to stop, but he ignored her. His desire for sex was insatiable, and when she couldn’t keep up, he forced himself on her several times a week. She threatened to leave, to call the police, but he told her he would kill her and their six-year-old daughter if she did. And she believed him.

Enclosed in the envelope were photographs showing her bruises—her ribs, her back, the dark marks above her kidneys. She’d told no one. She had learned to hide the bruises, fearing that no one would believe her. Her friends admired her husband, thought she was lucky to have such a devoted partner. He was well-liked at work, active in the community. An all-around nice guy.

But recently, she had noticed small bruises on their daughter. The little girl had become withdrawn, avoiding her father. She refused to say what happened, but the mother knew. Her husband’s attention had shifted. Desperate, she turned to the dark web. She found “The Redeemer.”

The man folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. She had provided her address, and he had sent her a burner phone to use for communication. He finished his breakfast and, using his own burner phone, dialed her number.

She answered immediately. She was expecting him. The call was supposed to be quick, just to let her know he was in town, but she wanted to talk. Not entirely surprising. His arrival often made the fantasy real for clients, and reality had a way of shaking their resolve. He listened as she hesitated, unsure if she could go through with it. The burning anger that had driven her to hire him was cooling. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe there was another way. Maybe he would change. Maybe…

The Redeemer listened patiently. He had heard this before. It was always a big decision. To hold another person’s life in your hands—lives could change forever with just a word. He didn’t push. It wasn’t his job to persuade her either way. His role was simple: to resolve the situation, permanently, if that’s what she decided.

She had wired half of his fee, and he was obligated to hear her out.

“We were so happy at first,” she began, her voice trembling. “He was kind and gentle. My parents adored him, and so did my sister. But after our daughter was born, everything changed. I was tired all the time, and he started staying out late, drinking. I saw what was happening, but I couldn’t deal with it.”

Her voice cracked. “The first time he hit me, I was so shocked. He called me names, grabbed a pillow, and slept on the couch. The next morning, he apologized, swore it would never happen again. But it did. Again and again. He became someone I didn’t even recognize.”

The Redeemer let the silence stretch between them. She was close to a decision.

“I can’t let him hurt my daughter,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He nodded, though she couldn’t see him. “I’ll take care of it.”

Hanging up, he wiped his hands on a napkin, then threw it in the bag with the remnants of his breakfast. He pulled the photograph from his jacket one last time and stared at the man’s face.

“Goodbye, Mister Everyman,” he thought.

A knock on the door startled the man inside the small house. He opened it to find a man in a dark suit standing on his porch.

“Mr. Lewis?” the visitor asked, his voice polite.

“Yes?”

The visitor extended his hand. “I’m here to redeem a debt.”

Mr. Lewis frowned, stepping back, but something in the man’s eyes held him still. His body went rigid, the door still half-open.

The visitor stepped into the house, closing the door softly behind him.

Later that evening, the Redeemer returned to his motel, washing the dye from his hair, letting it drain into the sink. He felt no particular satisfaction, no thrill in the act, only the steady calm that came from a job done with purpose.

He placed the man’s photograph into the shredder along with the letter, watching both disappear into thin strips. In his mind, he was a mere vessel, a force channeled through necessity rather than desire. He wondered, sometimes, about the stories that were left untold, the families that were left to heal or break without intervention. A redeemer, perhaps, but one defined by the fine line between justice and revenge.

He packed his things, closed the door to the motel room, and stepped into the night, blending into the shadows, as invisible as the lives he touched.

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