The Hitman: Dirty Rotters by Sean McKenzie

Everyone had fled.
    I wiped the blood and strands of hair
from my hands onto the seat and frantically opened the door. My
heart was pounding. I was having trouble breathing. I had done it.
I was to blame. I was shaking. I was getting sick.
    I exited the car and backed away,
still staring in disbelief at the mess inside, still trying to put
the missing piece in place. I had killed a man. My mind had drifted
to someplace nice while my body did the deed. I felt cold. It was
nearly sixty degrees outside with no wind. I should be sweaty. But
the cold grew overwhelming. Freezing. Numbing. Not across my skin,
but deep inside me. My core. It was a sensation like I had never
felt before. One that I didn’t imagine possible.
    I turned to get out of there, when I
saw the black Rolls-Royce. The car of Death itself. It was parked
just feet away, facing me. It had seen everything.
    The driver was a tall, fit man, who
got out and then opened the back door. He stood beside the door and
motioned for me to get in. I was in shock still. I wanted to turn
and run, to obey all my senses screaming in warning. But I didn’t.
I walked forward to the car, past the driver, and slid onto the
black leather seat with my hands stained red.
    “ I see you must be an
impatient man. We agree to kill him on Saturday.” The big Russian
said, then turned to look at me with cold grey eyes. “Palo was
right. I do like you.”
     

Chapter 9
     
     
     
    I was shivering.
    The coldness growing inside me was
freezing me inside out. Organs were smothered in frost, encased by
Arctic air far below zero. I couldn’t get warm. I couldn’t stop the
trembling. It was a horribly unpleasant sensation.
    I moved my hands together for friction
and looked over to the Russian who held a red box of crackers and
ate handfuls casually. I could only think then that none of this
was real.
    The big Russian smiled at me. He was
probably a foot shorter than I was, but at least three hundred
pounds heavier. His bulging form owned most of the backseat. His
skin was grey like old meat, and his hair was shaved really short
as if he were in the military.
    I still had not said a word. He ate
crackers while I stared at him. He had the largest head I had ever
seen, oval shaped like a football, like a Ninja Turtle but not that
pleasant. It was more toad-like, with brown splotches everywhere.
Everything about him suggested that he wasn’t capable of physically
harming anyone. Save for his eyes. I could feel them burning into
me. I knew he was dangerous.
    The Bear?
    His hand extended and I shook it. It
was huge, but soft like a pack of marshmallows. My hand disappeared
within his. His tone was strong and confident. He was used to
dealing with lesser individuals. “I am Andrik. Russian Warrior. And
you…?”
    He hesitated, waiting for me to say my
name. I paused, thinking of what I should tell him, of what he
might be expecting to hear. But he continued, somehow
amused.
    “ Fine. I have secrets, so a
hitman should have his too.” His hand reached into his silky black
suit jacket and withdrew an envelope. He slid it over to me across
the leather seat, then ate a few more crackers. “For you,
Hitman.”
    I took the envelope. It felt thick,
heavy. I didn’t open it. My hands were sticky. I left red marks on
the upholstery. Andrik didn’t seem concerned. I figured he had seen
a pair of bloody hands before.
    “ Disposing of idiot was
unfortunate.” He stared over to the white Corvette. “Work for me
very long time. Was good for me. But now you see how important
competence is and what measures we go to keep it. There can be no
mistakes, Hitman. Da?”
    I nodded.
    “ Did idiot give you the list?”
    I nodded. It was still clutched tight
into my right hand.
    “ Very good then. Of course,
now that you killed him, the task of collecting falls squarely on
your shoulders.” He looked at me again for a moment. “But after
what I see you do to him in small car, I think you can handle a