I’m a Dark Web Hitman, and My Latest Contract Sent Me to a Billionaire’s Estate

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Call me every Sunday at 7pm Eastern Time on the Dr. No Sleep Podcast YouTube channel, where I narrate fresh, never-before-heard stories in real time. Just search Dr. No Sleep Podcast on YouTube and make sure you're subscribed with notifications on so you don't miss it. Dr. Nicely. The app tells me to take a left turn, but I keep driving. I'm earlier than planned and want to get the lay of the land before I park and walk onto the estate. And Rachmaninoff's piano concerto number two in C Minor is softly playing on the radio while the sun slowly sets across a large, fallow field, tilled and covered for the winter. I'm a sucker for some Rachmaninoff. I steer my nondescript, white Hyundai down the wide and winding country lane and just enjoy life for a moment. You have to take the times you are given because you never know when it'll all be over. Even now, a deer could jump out of the underbrush and slam right into my car, sending me spinning and swerving and crashing into the drainage ditch along the side. Maybe my head snaps wrong and that's all folks, the lights go out forever. Or I could take the next winding curve and slam right into a farm truck, stalled in the middle or a tractor moving slowly along the side. Then there are hard attacks and strokes and cancer. Although cancer isn't exactly going to take me out on a moment's notice. But still, that shit is a bitch. I watched my, or listened to, to be honest and correct, my handler die slowly from lung cancer. By the time he'd passed, we were conversing only via messaging. He couldn't even speak anymore. That's not how I want to go out. I'll take a header into the ass end of a tractor any day. The last half of the sun is lowering into the horizon, so I find a pullout, park the Hyundai and just watch the precious, beautiful seconds tick by. A rare flash of green lights up the sky when the sun is almost gone. It's absolutely lovely. The alarm on my phone goes off, and I stare at it as it sits on its charger on my dash. Cranky old dude is what it says. I use descriptors like that to keep all the jobs straight. Not that I even know if the guy I'm here to see is cranky or old. That's just what my new handler said when she called. I'll shoot you the address. It's some cranky old man in the country. A super rich cranky old man to be precise. So plan your approach accordingly. You'll have security, both human and tech. Don't take anything from Granite Theo. Per usual, I didn't say anything. I never do. Maybe it's superstition from when I first started in this position. And all communication was one way. I'd get the order, and if I didn't understand something about the job, too bad. I had to figure it out on my own. Now, I can chat back and forth via messaging and make sure the job is clear. But I think the real reason I'm silent when my handler calls is because sound just gives everything away. When I'm on the phone, I'm on mute. Realistically, if I can't trust my handler, then I can't trust anyone. But even still, I'm cautious. Maybe the line is tapped. Or the cell call is being scanned and snatched via an antenna. I have no idea what my handler's security protocols are. And I'm not betting my life that they are up to my standards. The last of the setting sun's rays dusts the clouds. And I watch the world turn from bright pink and orange to deep blue, then black. The night looks like it'll be great for stars. I'll have to find a spot on the way home before I drive back into the big city's light pollution. Not that the city close by is my home. No, it's just another city in another state. A place to stay in and get lost in and be anonymous in. I never stay out in the boondocks, even if the job is in the most remote location ever. I plant my flag in the closest metro area and commute from there. Sure, I might end up driving two, three, four hours to reach the job. But these small communities notice strangers. Especially strangers staying at Cousin Esther's B&B, or Uncle George's six-room roadside motel. I don't care if there is a chain hotel nearby. I stay in the city. Chain hotels are staffed by locals. And locals get bored and take photos of guests and text their friends. And that's how things go south fast. Is my identity in a database? Could a straight text to the wrong person trigger an alert in some law enforcement image sweep? I don't know. And I don't want to find out. A nondescript hotel in an OK part of the city is what I need. OK, I'll admit it. I'm old school. There. I set it. I start the Hyundai up and get it back on the road. But I don't turn around to follow the map's directions, back to my location. Going in the front way isn't the plan. Instead, I drive about three miles in the opposite direction until I come to a dirt lane that isn't on the map. But it is on satellite images. And as I approach the dirt lane, I see that the satellite images are fairly recent and accurate. The trees and bushes are missing their leaves, since this is winter. And the images were probably taken in the morning and late spring or early summer. But everything else is accurate. I take the turn and drive slowly down the rutted lane. To my right is another fallow field. To my left is even more fallowness. But up ahead is a cops of tall evergreens that will do the trick. The second I saw them online, my strategy started to come together. I pull between the two tall furs and shut the car off. Then I take the key fob and tuck it into a hidden and very secure pocket inside my waistband. I've tried everything from leaving the key in a magnetic holder under the bumper, to putting it in my shoe, to burying it a few feet from the car. All have their perils. After a few close calls and unfortunate mishaps, I came up with the pocket in the waistband trick. Especially since I now only drive cars with the remote engine start feature on the fob. If I'm booking ass away from a job, it helps to have the car running and ready when I hop in. Sometimes you only have a seconds head start before the wolves are on you. And speaking of wolves, it's time to get ready. I pop the trunk and hop out of the car. Taking a careful look around and I'm positive I'm completely out of sight. I proceed to the trunk, lift the lid and gear up. A Glock 19 on my right hip with four extra mags, two K-bar knives, one on each thigh, a nice browning 22 for my left ankle, a Mossberg tactical shotgun with a shortened stock strapped to my back, and a bandolier of extra shells across my chest. Then my M4 carbine on a strap over my shoulder and extra mags tucked into pockets on my belt. I double check the Kevlar vest, making sure it's snug around the sides so I don't catch a stray bullet in the ribs and pull on my ultra-thin, ultra-light steel mesh gloves. Many times after a job, I'll ditch my gear just in case some evidence is left behind that can be traced to it. But when it comes to my gloves, they are custom-made and always with me. These babies can stop a machete from taking my fingers off, so it's too much of a risk not to have them pulled snugly over my digits. Easing the trunk closed, I take another look around and orient myself. The sun's set in that direction, so that's east. I need to head west by northwest, so I turn 180 degrees and move off through the cops of Evergreens. Starting something new can be exciting, but it can also be terrifying. When Dr. No Sleep first launched, there were a lot of what-ifs. What if no one listens? What if no one likes it? What if it's all a waste of time? 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He was a nice guy, lots of fun at the bar and during downtime. But when it came to doing the actual job, he was a mess. Never could focus on the task, always getting distracted. It didn't matter that the man was probably the best pistol shot in the entire world. If you're distracted, you're as good as dead. I already took a bullet in the left eye in Monaco last April. That's not how I intend to go out. I've been at this too long to be taken down by my own stupidity. The second I get sloppy is the second I retire. If my sloppiness doesn't get me killed first, an itch at the back of my mind gets me thinking of my new handler. I don't know why I think of her. Maybe it's the thought of retiring. She came highly recommended. One of four on the list my previous handler gave me. He said any of the names could be trusted, but he suggested her because she is young, smart, and knows the lay of the new landscape that our world has become. No more dead drops or dusty P.O. boxes. No more newspapers and trash cans or packages left in the men's room. No, it's all online now. The dark web is what she calls it. Or what everyone calls it, I guess. I don't know. I'm from a time when phones were bolted to the wall and your computer could play Pac-Man with really shitty graphics. Don't get me wrong, I'm internet savvy. I have to be in order to do the research that my jobs require. I need to know everything about the target, the location, and the possible blowback after the job is done. I research local law enforcement. I check every detail of every map. I look for any possible surveillance, not just at the location, but along the entire route to and from the job. I do my due diligence. It's just that some of the mystique and charm is lost when all someone has to do to hire a hitman is find the right website, pay the right bitcoin, and place the order as if they're buying a sweater off Amazon. The spirit isn't there anymore. It's all supply and demand. It's all commerce. I see lights in the distance and clear my mind. No time to waste pining for the old days. I gotta get my head in the game and be ready for action. I remove my Glock and pull a suppressor from a hip pocket. Screwing the suppressor on, I stay close to a hedge line, making sure my matte black outfit is lost against the dark green of the hedge's leaves. Every button, buckle, zipper, and snap is painted black. The last thing I need is a straight glint of metal giving my location away. A cough, from only a few yards off, freezes me in my tracks. I stand stock still, my Glock angled and ready, and listen hard. Silence, silence, a cough. It's slight and quiet. Someone is trying hard to keep it under wraps, but sound carries in the country and especially in cold winter air. I wait. A footfall. Another. The crunch of a leaf. Heading my way. I crouch down and ease myself halfway into the hedge, silently making myself smaller, more hidden. The guard comes around the hedge, his AK-47 gripped properly, but at an angle that is way too low. He needs that rifle up about six more inches if he's going to be effective, which he isn't because I'm here. Before he sees me, I squeeze the trigger twice, putting one bullet right in the middle of his left eyebrow and the second bullet in his forehead as he collapses. I drop the Glock and am up and catching his body before it can crash to the ground and make any noise. I slip a receiver and small black box into his pocket. Then I slide him under the hedge, retrieve my Glock, and keep heading toward the manor house. A second guard is waiting by the stone steps that lead up to the wide expanse of bay windows and French doors that open out onto the grounds. My research showed me that there would be multiple potted trees along the pathways leading to the stone steps. But it's now winter and those potted trees must have been moved inside. There's a greenhouse larger than the hotel I'm staying in back in the city on the other side of the manor house. The trees were probably moved there, which doesn't do me much good now, but I'm prepared for this. Instead of heading straight for the steps the moment the guard turns his attention in the opposite direction, I keep moving along the hedge. Then hurry past a small fountain and over to a large gazebo. At this point, it's all risk. I'll have very little cover once I leave the gazebo. But from what I could gather, there are several gaps in the surveillance on this side of the manor house. I can slip through those gaps easily. Of course, nothing is ever so easy. My handler's voice echoes through my head as I push away from the gazebo and cross the open and treacherous 30 yards to a low rock wall that makes up the base of a wraparound stone and concrete patio encircling the manor house. The guy is paranoid, so be careful. He expects an attack on his life at all times. His security is robust and his people are well trained. But if you pull this off, the payday is enough for both of us to retire. And when she sent me the number, I had to agree with her. I could retire four times over with this payout. Her percentage would make for a very comfortable life for the next six or seven decades she has left. If she's as young as I think she is, you never really know with the internet, which I guess is another one of my old ways gripes. Things have gotten more connected, but less personal. With my back pressed to the rock wall, I sidestep carefully to my right and move toward the front of the manor house. I don't care how paranoid he is, nobody ever really thinks a frontal assault is coming. As expected, four guards stand watch at the front, two up by the main door, and two down at the bottom of the steps. There are also eight cameras, six laser trip wires, and rumored explosives. But those are only rumors. I couldn't find any specific corroboration that explosives had been installed. Seems risky to me. But the way these rich guys are, the target probably doesn't care what risks he throws his people into, as long as his ass is safe and sound. The men guarding the manor house are alert and at the ready. Still hidden, I slide a small remote from my pocket, wait until all heads are looking away from me, then press the remote's single button. A loud explosion echoes from the back of the manor house. That first guard, and a good portion of the hedge, are probably missed right now. Just as I thought, none of the guards abandoned their posts, but all are distracted and pressing fingers to their earpieces, hoping to hear an update on what the hell is going on. I take advantage of their distraction and come at them fast with my Glock up. Four guards, four bullets, four bodies. I'm past the dead guards and at the front door before the explosion's blast stops echoing across the wintry cold estate. And luck is on my side, because the front door is unlocked. I slip inside, closing the door quietly behind me. I have maybe three or four seconds before the fact that none of the front guards are responding to their comms becomes known. I'm in the massive foyer and need to head upstairs now. Racing to the grand staircase, dead center in the manor's house's entryway, I hear shouts and alarms building throughout the place. I ignore it all and move quickly up the stairs, turning left when I reach the landing. I take another left and jog down a long hallway toward a set of double doors. When I reach them, I duck down low and try the handle. Unlock. Good. They haven't gotten here yet. If you want to save a few quid, British gas have a way. You get half price lecky and it's called Peek Save. On every Sunday, it's the smart thing to do if you're regular folk or furry and blue. 11 till 4, let the good times begin. You could charge up the car or take the dryer for a spin. Half price electricity. What joy that brings with British gas Peek Save, we're taking care of things. Teas and seas apply, eligible tariffs and smart meter required. Hey Sainsbury's, we get through so many snacks. Have you got anything to help me save? Well, we're always matching and lowering prices. So hundreds of Sainsbury's fresh fruit, veg and everyday products are price matched to Aldi. And every week with Nectar, you can save money on thousands of the products your family loves. So you can snack away knowing you're saving money. Sainsbury's, good food for all of us. Selected products, Aldi price match not in an eye. Nectar prices require Nectar account. Terms at Sainsbury's.co.uk slash Aldi price match and Nectar.com slash prices terms. I slip inside and find myself in the most, grotesquely lavish master bedroom I've ever seen. And I took out a salton once. The room is gold and silk and expensive paintings and sculptures. Jesus, is that a real rodent on that side table? My research tells me to head to the far closet, which is the second door on the left. I find it, step inside and slide myself between a rack of suits where each one costs more than the Hyundai I drove here in. I double check that my shoes are hidden in the shadows, because I'm no rookie bitch and wait. The alarms and shouting don't stop. In fact, they get louder as I hear the bedroom door swing open and a stampede of rubber-sold shoes enters. Sir, we need to get you into the panic room immediately. We are under attack and your safety is of the utmost. No need to bother yourself with all of that, McClain. Everything is exactly as it should be. But sir, no buts necessary, McClain. I am sorry to keep you in the dark on this, but as you know, my friends and I have spent a good amount of time planning our little hunt, and I didn't want any loose lips to sink ships. Hunt, sir, but that isn't until tomorrow. The gusts haven't even arrived. On the contrary, McClain, they have been here for most of the day, all hidden somewhere on the estate. It's really quite clever what we've managed to pull off. Sir, I don't understand. You will in a moment. I hear the man clear his throat. Excuse me, sir. I believe she said your name was Theo. Is that it? Hello Theo. You can come out of my closet now, and do be careful with my suits, will you? I hold my breath, not quite believing he's speaking to me, even though he knows my name and where I'm hiding. Theo, if you don't show yourself in the next five seconds, you'll forfeit your one chance at surviving this ordeal. Because if I send my men in there, I will immediately stop caring about my suits and let them do to you as they wish. And their wishes will be extremely painful and prolonged. You'll beg to die for hours before I let you. I wait, then I hear a loud sigh. Your handler's name is Eloise, and you are Theodore Brommel. You were hired to come here tonight and assassinate me. I know all of this because I am the one who hired you. So please, stop making this more difficult than it has to be and show yourself. One? I don't bother letting him get to five. He knows too much to be lying. When I step out of the closet, I see no less than eight M4 barrels pointed at various parts of my body. McClain? If you will relieve Theo here of his weapons, please. The guard steps forward, and I'm quickly stripped of everything, even the hidden weapons. Beautiful. Now, my name is Alistair Agrippa, but you know that, and I have brought you here for a little game. He claps his hands together. There are a dozen of my closest and richest friends outside, all waiting to try to kill you. Personally, I hope they don't. And to show you that I mean that, you will get a ten-second head start. If you make it back to that hun-day of yours, then you get to live and enjoy the obscene amount of cash I paid for all of this. If you don't, well, then that's that, isn't it? One of my friends will be granted the trophy of your head and have bragging rights that they took down one of the most proficient hitmen in history. And if I don't play, you'll kill me here and now, right? Not here, not on this carpet, but yes, you'll be taken outside and shot, or tortured, or shot and tortured. Who knows what could happen to you? Then I better get running. Yes, you better. And if this doesn't work out for you, let me say what an honor it is to have met you. I've been a huge admirer from afar. I was quite surprised to see you had a presence online. So unlike you. He spreads his arms wide. But I guess it was just meant to be. Isn't the internet a wonderful thing? If you say so. I prefer being old school. I don't wait for a countdown. I just run. Let them come for me. We'll see just how wonderful the internet is for them. Because as they are all about to find out, old school is in session.