“Aloha and Merry Christmas, passengers of flight 2937 with service to Honolulu,” came the cheery squeak of the gate agent whose shoulders scarcely peeked above the podium. Her neck was draped with a pink fake lei, and a green felt elf hat flopped over one protruding teacup ear. “Your aircraft has, unfortunately, been flash-frozen to the tarmac in this storm. It’s completely non-functional. Think big icicle with wings. The good news is, we believe we’ve snagged a new aircraft for you, just coming into Chicago from sunny Miami. Please make your way from this gate, D1, to your new gate, D45, for a 4:30 boarding time. Mahalo and happy holidays!”
            In a nearby seat, Duffy testily exhaled a shower of crumbs. He shoved the last fluff of cinnamon bun into his mouth, wiped his meaty fingers across the turquoise floral print of his shirt, and let his sticky to-go box tumble to the floor as he stood.
            “Frickin’ figures,” Duffy muttered, causing the mother and her young son sitting to his right to whip their shocked mugs in his direction. “What?” he asked, but didn’t wait for a response. He grabbed the handle of his roller suitcase with one hand and scooped up a large, festively wrapped package with the other.
            Guess it’s too much to ask for things to go as planned, Duffy thought as he began the long amble toward D45. He believed he was due an easy time of things, after everything he’d put up with to get to this long-anticipated day. All he wanted was to retire in Hawaii, settle into the spare room in his mother’s condo, and celebrate Christmas Eve with a nice plate of her famous homemade coconut cookies. Simply that, nothing more. Hadn’t he earned it?
            After thirty-odd years on the job—a loyal company man—Duffy had completed his last-ever hit at five o’clock that morning. It had been a flawless execution, so to speak, with a creative use of power tools. No witnesses, not a drop of blood where it shouldn’t be, textbook disposal of the body, which was now securely pinned to the bottom of Lake Michigan. Rice, who didn’t tend toward sentimentality, even had a glimmer of a tear in his eye as he shook Duffy’s hand for a final time, and passed him the wrapped box.
            “A little holiday gift from Mrs. Rice. From both of us, really. We wish you a restful retirement and a terrific Christmas in Hawaii.”
            Duffy dreaded having to call his mother to say he’d be arriving late. She’d definitely be disappointed—disappointing Ma stressed him out. That deflated tone in her voice brought on hives, perspiration, the whole bit. He liked to see Ma happy.
            Stress and killing were two things that always made Duffy crave sweets. Sometimes, though not always, the killing could be quite stressful and made his cravings doubly intense. Spotting a Starbucks up ahead, Duffy swerved across the flow of traffic to pick up some goodies.
            D45 was somehow more swarming with people than D2 had been, and the Christmas music filtering through O’Hare’s overhead speakers sounded twice as loud. Alvin and the Chipmunks belted in their helium voices about wanting their two front teeth for Christmas. It caused Duffy’s trigger finger to involuntarily flinch. He did his best to tune everything out and focus on downing the cake pops, lemon bar, and a luxuriously flaky chocolate croissant. A sharp cry pierced his bliss.
            “Eva, no!”
            Ice cubes and yellow Mountain Dew created a piss-colored tsunami that crashed from Duffy’s shoulder, down his tattooed arm, across his belly, and onto the colorful confetti-patterned carpet.
            “I’m so sorry, sir. My daughter—Eva, get back here! Apologize right now,” said a caved, bespectacled man of about forty. He twisted in his seat and met Duffy’s wide, red-veined eyes, which made the man’s own eyes widen fearfully behind his lenses. The girl giggled, threw down the lidless fast food cup, and ran.
            “Control your kid, asshole.”
            “I-I said I was sorry—here!” The man tossed a few napkins at Duffy before rushing after the child.
            Duffy growled after him, rose and patted down his Dew-soaked croissant. For an instant, he considered eating it anyway, but decided he wasn’t quite desperate enough. He would get another one. Maybe two or three, to make up for the loss. But first, he had to change his shirt.
            Ma’s gonna be so disappointed, he thought, clicking his suitcase over the bathroom tiles and into a stall. She’d given him the Hawaiian shirt years ago, and delighted in seeing him walk through the front door wearing it, which he made sure to do with every visit.
            Laying his suitcase flat, Duffy sifted through his neatly folded stack of shirts and selected one of five identical, extra-baggy plain black tees. As he slipped the soggy floral shirt into a plastic bag and tucked it below the fresh shirts, his phone buzzed. He planned to destroy the work phone after calling his mother, and just before boarding. It would be a disaster if the device were ever discovered by outsiders—its contacts list read like a who’s who of Chicago’s scumbaggiest operators. Speaking of: it was Rice calling.
            “Duff?”
            “What is it? Is there a target problem?”
            “No, no, he’s still dead. Table saw was super effective. Was just checking if you terminated the phone. Guess not. Please do so. Also, ah—you eat that cake yet?”
            “What cake?”
            “The one Mrs. Rice baked for you. Your gift.”
            “Crap.” Duffy realized he’d left it out by the Mountain Dew puddle. “I gotta go get it. Call you back.”
            “Duff, don’t let anybod—”
            Clamping shut the suitcase shut with a few pieces of fabric sticking out, Duffy carried it back out to D45. A brown wiener dog was sniffing the gift box and the Dew-y mess while its owner absently texted.
            “Put your mutt in its carrier. That’s unsanitary.”
            The woman warily pulled her dog away from him. Duffy snatched up the gift and pivoted back toward the bathroom when the Aloha Elf, as he now thought of her, came on the loudspeaker, sing-songy as before.
            “Attention, passengers of our flight 2937 to Honolulu! It turns out that the Miami aircraft we thought was ours has been stolen from under our shiny red noses for the Dallas flight instead. Thieving Grinches! But keep your holiday spirit alive—we’re determined to play hardball and get you fine folks to Hawaii for Christmas on an aircraft coming in from Phoenix! That aircraft is scheduled to arrive three hours from now at gate A26. That’s A as in aloha and amazing, twenty-six. Mahalo and happy holidays!”
            A mass groan mingled with the ambient carol music, which was currently some kid demanding a hippopotamus for Christmas. Anxiety pinged Duffy’s chest like an electric bug-zapper. Clutching his suitcase and the package, he hustled back into the men’s room and dialed Rice.
            “You got it?”
            “In my hands. You say it’s a cake?”
            “Yes, a Christmas cake. Mrs. Rice will be very upset if you don’t eat it.”
            “Please assure her I will, and thank her for me.”
            “And you’ll terminate the phone now?”
            “Yes, sir.”
            “Gotta do it, Duff. No bueno if you don’t.
            “Roger that.”
            “Good man. Well, again, happy retirement Duff, and thanks for your service.”
            He found himself sweating, from his bald head down. Rice had that effect, particularly when, like now, Duffy couldn’t quite get a read on him. Despite the pressure to dig into the cake, all he could think about was the chocolate croissants. He gave into that craving instead.
            In a vacant area near gate D7, Duffy practiced deep breathing and waited for his pulse to simmer down. The weather wasn’t helping. Through a large window, he saw wet snowflakes shooting wildly like a firefight across a dimming iron sky. He was beginning to wonder if he’d make it to Hawaii at all in this storm. Ma would be crushed if they couldn’t spend Christmas Eve together, as was their decades-long tradition.
            He seriously needed to call her. Soon, he told himself.
            Buttery golden flakes fluttered down and scattered like goose feathers across his midsection as Duffy mentally replayed the unexpected conversation with Rice. The entire time he’d worked for the man with a squinty left eye and slim-mustachioed mouth that feigned a half smile even when he wanted to murder somebody, which was often—hence the need to employ an on-call assassin—he had rarely gifted Duffy much. Sure, catch him in a good mood or a good high, he could be generous about certain things. Duffy received most national holidays off, with pay. That was nice.
            Occasionally Rice rewarded him with a bonus for going above and beyond in his work, like the time Duffy picked off three targets in three different cities in under an hour. A new industry record. But that’s just how Duffy rolled. He was a go-getter. A consummate professional. A stalwart perfectionist. Rice was lucky to have him and knew it. While he was careful not to let that go to his employee’s head, he did occasionally display his respect and appreciation.
            Though never with baked goods.
            Rice fancied himself a health nut. His personal chef was forever bringing him small plates of fruit or vegetables carved into amusing animal shapes to munch on between meals of organic free-range Kobe beef, or fresh lobster, generally served with an overflowing side salad. After early morning jobs like today, Duffy would often find Rice exercising. He and Mrs. Rice had matching his-and-her lap pools installed in one wing of the house a number of years ago. Though Mrs. Rice now preferred semi-annual liposuction to swimming laps. Duffy couldn’t blame her.
            Suffice to say that aside from narcotics, it pained Rice to deal in unhealthy stuff. So, perhaps the cake really was a sign of Rice’s esteem and admiration. He gave it simply because it would make Duffy happy. What a sweet gesture and much-needed kindness on this shit show of a retirement day plus Christmas Eve.
            Gate A26 might as well have been a hundred miles away. Shops and restaurants were closing down early, which worried Duffy. He bought food intermittently along the way to be safe. On the moving walkways, he leaned against the railing and glided beneath lighted faux pine wreaths affixed to the ceiling.
            Most years, Duffy was too focused on his career to notice the holidays happening around him, except for the few days spent in Honolulu with his mother. She was an over-the-top holiday decorator. Always had been, even when he was a kid—even the year his dad took off, and Ma could hardly pry herself out of bed. She’d kept the stocking he’d painted with his name in the second grade, and still displayed it near the tree in her living room, along with a six-foot tall nativity scene that incorporated three life-size inflatable reindeer and two snow people.
            Of course Ma had no idea what he really did for a living. He’d told her at the beginning that he was in “technology sales,” and she hadn’t asked a solitary question about it. But she bragged about his tech skills to all her neighbors, and occasionally he got summoned to some old fart’s condo to fix their VCR or DVD player so they could put on Christmas movies for visiting grandkids. He was fine with it. Sometimes they paid him in cookies.
            At the new gate, Duffy caught the tail end of another Aloha Elf announcement.
“…so again, we’re very sorry we were unsuccessful in arm-wrestling our Las Vegas flight colleagues for the Phoenix aircraft. We promise to fight to the death for the one inbound from San Diego. Ho-ho-hopefully you’ll all be on your way to a festive Christmas Eve in Honolulu by nine o’clock. Storm or no storm. Mahalo and happy holidays!”
            “Son of a bitch.”
            “Son of a bitch!” said a mocking voice beside him. It belonged to Mountain Dew girl, who grinned at him like a little jackal. Her father looked up from his nearby seat and gasped softly.
            Duffy looked for a place to eat the items he’d bought in peace. Gate A27, kitty-corner across the way, was mostly empty, so he hunkered down in a corner and tore aggressively into a damp egg salad sandwich. Then he put away a bag of Cheetos, a box of Ritz Crackers, and a packet of Peanut M&M’s.
            That’s enough, Duffy. Quit eating and call your mother.
            He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Her disappointment would break his heart. Frozen, he placed the phone on the next seat and simply stared at it. The clock on the screen crept past five o’clock. Six o’clock. Seven o’clock.
            By eight, he was hungry again. A peek into the concourse confirmed what he’d feared. All the restaurants and shops were now shuttered. The cake box, sitting on the hideous carpet in its silvery wrapping paper, though somewhat dented at this point, shined invitingly beneath the greenish fluorescent lights. Duffy set it on his lap, untied the red silk bow, and, beginning to salivate, lifted the lid. This revealed a chaotic crumbling heap that could not have been further from the dreamy, frosted red velvet “Christmas cake” he’d been expecting.
            “It’s a fricking fruitcake?”
            Duffy felt betrayed. Was this some kind of joke? Were the Rice’s at home in their drug money mansion right now having a huge laugh at his expense? There was not a person on Earth, that he’d ever met, who actually liked fruitcake.
            However, he was truly starving. What choice was there?
Across the concourse at A26, he heard Aloha Elf chattering away in her too-peppy tone about “good news,” and “successful fight to the death.” He ignored her. If boarding actually started, he’d see it from over here in the tranquility of A27.
            He devoured the fruitcake. Even scraped the cardboard tray at the bottom for stray bits of walnut and dried fruit using the tips of his fingers, which he then wiped on his black T-shirt. Duffy sat back with his eyes closed and smiled gently, satiated for the moment. It was a feeling like a warm hug.
            The hug began to hurt.
            Confused, Duffy opened his eyes and looked down at his belly as though he might suddenly develop X-ray vision. He didn’t, and the pain worsened. Lightning tore through his guts, burning his stomach. It surged upward through his chest and into his throat, which started to inflate.
            “Shit,” he gurgled, and it sounded like “shirbt.”
            Nobody else heard it, gate A27 was empty. Everyone was over at A26, pushing and clustering into a vague line. Aloha Elf was squeaking, sounding very far away. He glimpsed her green felt hat and pink fake lei as his vision wiggled and blurred.
Duffy recognized this. He had administered the same concoction to countless targets over the years. Poison. The Rice’s had poisoned him. But why? Hadn’t he served them faithfully? He’d done his best to be a true company man.
            I’m a witness, he realized.
            This was not how things were supposed to go. He pictured the disappointment on his mother’s face when he didn’t show up for Christmas, and without so much as a phone call.
            The phone.
            He estimated only seconds remained if he was going to terminate it, as instructed.
            Damn it, Duffy thought as the light around him dimmed and the snowflakes outside the window began to settle. I’m retired.
            Overriding a carol about somebody’s Grandma getting run over by a reindeer, an overly cheerful voice rang out through the concourse from the loudspeaker at gate A26. “Last call for flight 2937 to Honolulu. That’s last call for Christmas in paradise. Going once, going twice… gone! Mahalo and happy holidays!”

Kirsten Smith is a writer, photographer, and traveler who lives in San Francisco. Her work has appeared (or will soon appear) in Esoterica, JAKE the Magazine, and SPANK the CARP. Follow on Instagram @kirsten.wanders.