Chapter One
“Please! Don’t!”
The man’s entreaty fell on deaf ears.
I’d been sent to do a job, one that I would complete, no matter how much he begged. I glared down at him and he shrank away, recoiled further when I stepped closer, his screams getting louder and again joined by his shameless begging.
“Please! I have it!”
He reached into his pocket and retrieved a wad of bills, lifting them up to me as if they would make a difference.
They wouldn’t.
The time that money could have helped him had long since passed, but he’d still pay, only now with his blood. I didn’t bother to waste my words explaining that fact to him. He wouldn’t have listened anyway; his type never did.
“I’ll pay you! Double! Triple!” he exclaimed, tossing the bills at me.
If I still had the capacity, I would have been offended. People like him thought that everyone was as easily bought as they were. In most cases, it was probably true, but the little pride I allowed myself was based solely on the fact that I wasn’t for sale. Maybe a person like me, a thug, a criminal, had no room to judge, but I did it anyway. I considered myself a professional. I had few morals, but those I did have, I respected with an almost religious fervor. Of course, I did recognize the irony of the fact that I’d be out of a job if other people took their word as seriously as I did mine.
When he saw that his money was of no value, he took a different approach. I could see the calculation behind his eyes, the frantic way he grasped at any path out of this. I let out a little chuckle. Seemed the little weasel had some fight, though he clearly wasn’t very bright, not if he’d ended up in this unfortunate predicament.
“I’ve seen your face. I’ll go to the cops,” he said, his voice brimming with bravado that rang hollow, as fake and cheap as his gaudy pinkie ring.
That was bullshit through and through. Going to the cops would mean questions, questions that would undoubtedly lead to the suspicious fire that had destroyed a warehouse he owned last month, and questions about what had happened to his generous insurance payout. And this man, sniveling little pig that he was, wouldn’t be able to come up with a believable story if his life depended on it. And there was the not-small fact that if he ran into the wrong cop, he’d find himself wishing for me instead.
“No you won’t,” I said, calling him on his bluff after several long, tense-for-him moments passed. And at the sound of my voice, he went still and, thankfully, quiet, realization dawning in his eyes.
That realization turned to fear as I loomed over him and outright terror as I closed my fist and swung it at him. The dull thud of my fist against his midsection let me know that I’d hit the right spot. He was in pain; that much was clear, but I hadn’t injured him yet, at least not too badly, and not enough that he would lose consciousness before I’d meted out the punishment he’d earned.
He doubled over and gripped his stomach, leaving a clear path to his kidney, one that I gladly took, delivering two rapid-fire blows that had him wailing in pain. I’d long ago inured myself to the sound of screams; they no more reached me than the background music at the supermarket, were almost another frequency of sound that I seldom even heard anymore, let alone paid attention to.
But that his screams had no effect didn’t stop them. He wailed away until his voice went hoarse.
I whaled away, too, slamming my fists into his abdomen, arms, face until my hands were numb and until my heart raced from the exertion. When I stopped, he let out a little whimper and then collapsed unconscious against the filthy ground.
Another night’s work was complete.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
I left him there—if he was lucky, someone would wander by or call an ambulance, but whether that happened or not was no concern of mine—and turned the corner, swiftly putting a couple blocks’ distance between
“Please! Don’t!”
The man’s entreaty fell on deaf ears.
I’d been sent to do a job, one that I would complete, no matter how much he begged. I glared down at him and he shrank away, recoiled further when I stepped closer, his screams getting louder and again joined by his shameless begging.
“Please! I have it!”
He reached into his pocket and retrieved a wad of bills, lifting them up to me as if they would make a difference.
They wouldn’t.
The time that money could have helped him had long since passed, but he’d still pay, only now with his blood. I didn’t bother to waste my words explaining that fact to him. He wouldn’t have listened anyway; his type never did.
“I’ll pay you! Double! Triple!” he exclaimed, tossing the bills at me.
If I still had the capacity, I would have been offended. People like him thought that everyone was as easily bought as they were. In most cases, it was probably true, but the little pride I allowed myself was based solely on the fact that I wasn’t for sale. Maybe a person like me, a thug, a criminal, had no room to judge, but I did it anyway. I considered myself a professional. I had few morals, but those I did have, I respected with an almost religious fervor. Of course, I did recognize the irony of the fact that I’d be out of a job if other people took their word as seriously as I did mine.
When he saw that his money was of no value, he took a different approach. I could see the calculation behind his eyes, the frantic way he grasped at any path out of this. I let out a little chuckle. Seemed the little weasel had some fight, though he clearly wasn’t very bright, not if he’d ended up in this unfortunate predicament.
“I’ve seen your face. I’ll go to the cops,” he said, his voice brimming with bravado that rang hollow, as fake and cheap as his gaudy pinkie ring.
That was bullshit through and through. Going to the cops would mean questions, questions that would undoubtedly lead to the suspicious fire that had destroyed a warehouse he owned last month, and questions about what had happened to his generous insurance payout. And this man, sniveling little pig that he was, wouldn’t be able to come up with a believable story if his life depended on it. And there was the not-small fact that if he ran into the wrong cop, he’d find himself wishing for me instead.
“No you won’t,” I said, calling him on his bluff after several long, tense-for-him moments passed. And at the sound of my voice, he went still and, thankfully, quiet, realization dawning in his eyes.
That realization turned to fear as I loomed over him and outright terror as I closed my fist and swung it at him. The dull thud of my fist against his midsection let me know that I’d hit the right spot. He was in pain; that much was clear, but I hadn’t injured him yet, at least not too badly, and not enough that he would lose consciousness before I’d meted out the punishment he’d earned.
He doubled over and gripped his stomach, leaving a clear path to his kidney, one that I gladly took, delivering two rapid-fire blows that had him wailing in pain. I’d long ago inured myself to the sound of screams; they no more reached me than the background music at the supermarket, were almost another frequency of sound that I seldom even heard anymore, let alone paid attention to.
But that his screams had no effect didn’t stop them. He wailed away until his voice went hoarse.
I whaled away, too, slamming my fists into his abdomen, arms, face until my hands were numb and until my heart raced from the exertion. When I stopped, he let out a little whimper and then collapsed unconscious against the filthy ground.
Another night’s work was complete.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
I left him there—if he was lucky, someone would wander by or call an ambulance, but whether that happened or not was no concern of mine—and turned the corner, swiftly putting a couple blocks’ distance between
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