You are already aware that I carry a gun. I don’t kill people, I rarely even have to fire it at someone. A gun is not the tool of violence; in most cases, just brandishing this tool can prevent violence from breaking out. In situations where a scared or intimidated mark decides to try to take the advantaged position, my gun’s barrel facing them or penetrating them can shut that idea down fast.  If I need to knock someone out without permanent damage, the gun’s buttplate is just strong enough to put them down but not so strong as to leave a permanent mark.  It’s useful to pop doors off their hinges, stop a vehicle from pulling away and even take out a security camera.

My gun, if it matters, is a Berreta 92 made by Fabbrica d’Armi Pietro Beretta.  They’ve been making fine firearms in Italy for 500 years, and the Beretta 92 is the perfect weapon.  It has a long barrel so it fits down a mark’s throat quickly, but it can handle accurate shots and it still conceals well.  The magazine holds 15 rounds, illegal in most country, but just the right amount of ammunition to track and stop 3 aggressors.  If I need it, an 18 round magazine is available, also illegal in most countries.

My gun, though, is not my favorite tool.  In this trade, there are signficantly more important tools we use that allow us the freedom to meet a client’s goal quickly, easily and even safely.  For me, paid by the job, time is really of the essence.  Things happen, problems arise, and delays can turn into failures.  Finishing a job on top means return business.  Finishing it ahead of time means huge bonuses.  Coming up short can mean the end of a career, or worse.

My favorite tool is the passport. Many of us carry one, but a finisher has to have more than one. Jobs may take us to Los Angeles or London, where having one Western passport means no travel restriction or visa requirements. On the jobs that take us to Iraq or Cuba or Cote d’Ivore, a Western passport is a dead giveaway that you’re up to no good, or considering it. So we take our pick of various international passports, with a heavy attraction towards a few certain countries. My favorite is Monaco’s, one of the hardest passports to get.  You have to be a resident for 10 years and give up other citizenships (no one does).  Some of the other tiny countries are also good to have: Andorra in particular.  But having access to large country passports such as Australia or Switzerland is also required for passage without a problem.

Another tool that is indispensable is my network of clothiers, tailors and uniform shops.  I may wear the costume of an indentured servant who mops floors, but being able to acquire a tuxedo or tailored yachtwear or even the dress of a hotel bellboy is not just advantageous, it’s required.  A job’s clothing requirement can manifest itself in moments, and trying to sneak into a hotel locker room and find form-fitting attire in near impossible unless one can find 2 extra days in a job that may be finished in fewer.

The dress-acquisition market is an active market in every major town, and even in many minor ones.  The network of job handlers who work as a middleman between the customers and the finishers always have their preferred clothiers, yet the likelihood of work being found specifically in London or Cairo or Budapest is close to zero.  Maybe spies like James Bond or Jason Bourne will find work in a major town, but we in the finishing business usually end up in some borough of a tiny village a hundred kilometers away from reality.  That’s where the extended network of anonymous and mute cloth tradesmen come into power.  The power they wield makes a difference of finishing a job ahead of time and failing completely when someone recognizes that I am not where I should be, that I am not who I should be.

Beyond the pistol and the uniform, the completing tool of my trade in regards to my person is my knack for changing my look on a whim.  Using the term “chameleon” is not really an acceptable comparison.  Certain species of chameleons have the ability change their color, but adapting one’s look to what a particular job portion requires is more than just changing your skin tone or outfit.  My hair, my eyes and even my height and facial expressions is more important.  My pronounced jaw can be held down and in or up and out, which puts a significant strain on being recognized by those who may have seen me as an aristocrat last week and a mopboy today.  My fast growing hair allows me to change my length from long to short in an hour, but let it grow out again in mere weeks.  My facial hair grows just as fast, and trimming it in odd ways can throw off most people who are unaware of those around them.

Producing a change to facial structure includes even cosmetic changes.  A little mascara, the gem of the female cosmopolitan set, can be applied in 1 millimeter amounts to the side of the eyes to produce a more Asian look without being noticed.  A touch of makeup can cover a mole or even create a new one, which pulls attention away from other flaws that are obvious to the trained observer.  A little skin-glue can pull my skin tighter, or actually accentuate wrinkles to add 20 years to my face.  Not everyone has the power of concealment, but it’s been said by those who came before me that the man who can adapt their face can adopt the lifestyle of the wealthiest or the poorest, the oldest or the youngest.

The final tool of my trade which has nothing to do with my ability to use force or adapt my external clothes or my external look is the entire network of support folk who I utilize for fast access to jobs or insider information.  The handlers (who number under 2 gross internationally) find work, acquire payment in advance and pay me upon completion (or earlier, if the customer asked specifically for me).  The hotel bellhops and desk clerks will always offer information for 50 Euros or 100 US Dollars, but only if you’ve worked with them before and have kept your mouth quiet about the source of simple information such as when someone is checking out and what airline they’ll be flying with.  The restaurant maitre’d will place me at a table that is within hearing distance but faced away from an important meeting that I have to acquire information from.

The renters of motorbikes and cigarette boats, limousines and small aircraft have a network of background checks on those in my line of work.  In many situations, I don’t even have to offer my identification or a security deposit as I’ve worked with them before, or they can confirm my history through that almost-shady non-digital network of industry competitors who will stand for my past of returning their equipment generally on time, generally in the right area and generally without much drama for them to reacquire their equipment.  On the occasions where I fall short of generally doing things correctly there, a significant and sizable bonus is always paid.  If I don’t have time to return a motorbike, it’s due to me trying to beat a deadline so my own bonus is strong.

The firearm, the clothes, the face, the networking — they’re all tools, they’re not me.  Who I am matters little, I have no resume, I have no portfolio, I have no feedback from other clients who will give me a positive reference.  The handlers who pay me only resort to hiring me if I’ve given them a profit or made their clients happy.  The man I work for today may never remember me, but if I work for him again, I’ll remember him.  On the situations where I meet a client, I don’t just monitor their personalities, I look for flaws.  More than once have I worked for a client only to work against the same person down the line when his competitor decides to extract revenge.

We’re not the enemy, we’re not middle men, we are tools ourselves.

I am the final tool of my trade, I am the ultimate tool of my clientele.  Even though tools like me clash with the same tools carried and hired by those I’m working against, these jobs can not be finished without me, or a tool just like me.  Such is the job of a finisher, to be an anonymous tool not a person.