The cold smacked him in the face and took his breath.  The polar vortex_ the weather folks called it.  When he was a kid, they called it the Siberian Express. Times change.   The ambient temperature was below zero and with windchill his bones shuddered, and his toes went numb. 

The assassin buttoned the top of his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck.  There was no hope for it.  He would have to wear gloves.  Otherwise, his fingers would get clumsy, and the cuts would not be as precise as was his wont.  His mark, the doorman, would be outside even in this weather.  It was the doorman’s job; it was the assassin’s job to kill him and leave him lying in front of the apartment as a warning to the others.

He pulled out the knife and looked into the blade, but the silvery mirror finish clouded over from his breath.  It was too cold for condensation; the knife was encased in a thin layer of ice.  He didn’t suppose that would make any difference, but still it bothered him.  He liked a clean blade; one he could see his face in.  He wiped the blade on his coat, but the metal immediately clouded over again.  No hope for it.

Getting in the car, he had to crank the Buick 3 times before it started.  He could see his breath in the car.  There was little difference between the exterior temperature and the interior.  It did feel good though to be out of the wind.  That was good for a few degrees anyway. Still the leather seats were stiff with the cold.  He pressed the switch for the seat warmer.

Backing the Buick out of the driveway, he drove to midtown, seatbelt fastened.  He never wore the damn thing, but he didn’t want to get pulled over.  Not tonight.  He had an agenda.  He kept putting his hand over the defroster vents trying to will the car to heat up.  “Fucking cold,” he said to himself.  The seat warmer was ineffectual in this kind of cold.

The newspapers would report the record temperature the next morning.  -17F without windchill.  Windchill took it to life-threatening extremes.  The newspaper also reported the body found on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building.  Slashed and bleeding, the victim died of hypothermia before he died of blood loss.  The assassin hadn’t counted how stiff his hands would be with the polar vortex circling Manhattan. 

It was sloppy work, and he closed the newspaper in disgust.  Oh, he would get paid, no fear of that.  He just didn’t like the close call.  The guy could have given the cops a description before dying.  He assured himself that would be of no avail.  He was good at his job because he looked like no one and everyone.  He just blended into the scenery.  He was neither short nor tall, thin nor fat, no facial hair, a scarf covering his mouth, and his hat pulled low.  No, the doorman wouldn’t have been able to provide much of a description.

Some assassins, he knew, liked to leave a calling card.  Amateurs, he thought.  Having to brag and mark territory.  He was different.  This was a job.  A straightforward one.  Neither something to boast about nor be ashamed of.  A job much like being the doorman at a large apartment building.  Duties clear. 

He placed the newspaper on the coffee table where his wife could find it and slipped out of the apartment.  He was always hungry after a kill.  Abnormally so for several days.  He headed to the corner diner, his hands thrust deep into his pockets and his scarf once again covering his mouth.

Eggs and bacon.  Toast.  Tomato juice. Maybe a pancake or two.  Powerful hungry.  It never failed.