Dive into 'A Fine Lesson,' a dark and gripping short story. Follow Callan McWard, an assassin with a unique moral compass, as he delivers his own brand of justice to a predatory former teacher. A suspenseful exploration of morality and the cost of quiet vengeance.
The condo sat above a courtyard veiled in bougainvillea and light. White curtains glowed behind the glass. Candlelight. A minimalist peace.
Callan watched from across the street. Engine off. Window cracked.
8:42 p.m.
“Wild Horses” played.
His target always played it after his shower—right before drying his hair. The Stones. Nostalgic. Emotive. A ritual.
More like a pattern.
Callan waited. Still.
The file had come from his employer. Sparse, but enough. Most of the intel traced back to a social worker who’d followed up on a complaint. She was dead now. Murdered. No witnesses. No leads.
She had one thing going for her—money. Old family money. The kind that buys backdoor justice. The kind that funds organizations like his.
Inside the file: a handwritten note.
“He used him until he broke. No one came. No one will come for him.”
Giles Laverson.
#
Once a promising teacher. Brilliant. Intuitive. Endlessly praised. He believed in second chances. Stayed late. Bought kids meals. Wrote letters to judges.
Loss revealed something that was always there. His wife’s departure wasn’t the cause—just removed the audience. The pills came first. Then the excuses. Then the realization: He’d been performing goodness his entire life.
A scandal came. Didn’t stick. Still left a mark. Not his first. Just the first anyone noticed.
He came west to start over. California gave him sunlight, distance—kids with less than he ever had.
And somewhere in the rebuilding, he stopped trying to fix them.
He started needing them.
Callan couldn’t help the thought: Why is it always about money? Is breaking people worth selling your soul? He smirked. At the hypocrisy of it.
He killed people for a living. Bad people—but still.
Giles picked the poor ones. The quiet. The invisible. He gave them warmth first. Trust.
Then came the fear.
They’ll say it was you. You’re lucky I care. You can’t afford to lose me.
He turned them into tools. Some ran drugs. Some were sold as favors. One vanished.
There were accusations. But he ghosted through—filtered photos, a false smile.
He wasn’t dangerous because he was broken. He was dangerous because the world kept thanking him for it.
Callan opened the door and stepped out.
#
The gate creaked—rusted hardware, weak resistance.
He moved up the side stairs. Weight balanced. No sound.
The night wrapped around him—cool ocean air edged with jasmine and rot from a nearby dumpster.
Each step deliberate. Testing weight before commitment. In the distance, a siren. Unrelated. Fading. Sprinklers clicked on two houses down. A timer set by someone who slept soundly behind locked doors.
This part—the approach—centered him. The stillness. The clarity. The way everything narrowed.
Execution.
He didn’t enjoy it. Not as pleasure. But like a surgeon knows clean incisions. Like a pilot feels the perfect landing. Precision that settles something restless.
The patio door was latched. Not locked.
Inside, the air smelled of eucalyptus and wine. A spa scent laid over something hollow.
On the counter, a glowing laptop.
An open message:
He’s 17. Looks 14. Same place, cash in hand.
#
Callan passed the couch. Passed the quote on the wall: Be the change you wish to see in the world.
It made him angry.
He entered the hallway. Shadows draped him like a coat.
The hairdryer roared behind the door.
He stilled his breath. Counted the seconds.
Every Thursday. Same track. Same wine. Same noise.
Routine felt like control.
But it made him predictable.
This was the moment. The breath before. Used to give him chills.
Now? Just a long exhale. Maybe that was worse.
Not adrenaline. Something better. Clean. Absolute.
The dryer stopped.
Soft steps crossed the floor.
He turned the corner mid-step. Hadn’t even registered him yet.
Handsome. On the outside. The things he’d done made him repugnant.
Callan would have killed him for free.
Left arm hooked him forward. Recognition flashed in his eyes. A face he’d never seen— but he knew exactly why Callan was there.
The blade entered under the ribs. Sharp. Smooth. No scream. Just a small gasp, like punctuation. His body tensed against Callan’s grip. Fighting instinct.
“Who sent—” he started.
Second strike. Lateral. Deep. Words dissolved into breath.
His eyes fixed on Callan’s—searching for meaning, or mercy. Finding neither.
He always thought he owned the narrative. Even now.
There’s always one moment when they realize it’s real.
Callan liked that part.
#
He stood.
He rinsed the blade. Dried it. Wondered—briefly, stupidly—if this was the same towel Laverson dried his balls with.
“Better not to think about it.” he whispered, stuffing the towel into his hoodie pocket.
The eucalyptus lingered. A soothing lie. It made the blood louder.
On the fridge: smiling photos. Teacher awards. A magnet: Teachers change lives.
The magnet caught his eye. Teachers change lives. He’d known a teacher who had. One who meant it. But that was a long time ago.
He left it all untouched.
Exited through the patio. Left the door ajar.
Let the night carry the silence.
Back in the car, he peeled off the gloves. Dropped them in the burn bag with the towel.
He didn’t start the engine. Not yet.
He sat. Still. Hands on the wheel.
He felt lighter.
Not righteous.
Just level.
Equilibrium.
He had taken power and turned it into currency. Turned need into leverage.
#
He didn’t kill for peace.
He killed because it was the last thing they didn’t see coming.
Not the most noble résumé. But it paid better than Uber.
He started the engine. The car pulled away. Another pattern completed.
Outside a taco stand ten miles south, he finally exhaled. Ordered fish tacos—because California.
He’d had better. A stand near Zippers Beach. But these were damn close.
He ate in silence, elbows on the hood, watching cars blink past on the highway.
Good work tonight. Tight. Uncomplicated. Didn’t pay the most. Killing the worst ones rarely did. But there was no mess. No improvisation.
Clean entry. Clean exit.
And for a night, the world was just a little less rotten. He’d take it.
Sign up for more great stories and book news!!
https://warrenflynn.com/warren-flynn-author-newsletter/
