Page 5

Ears ringing, I couldn’t even get my bearings. I was a pathetic little guy, and I had always avoided physical confrontations, the extent that the number of fights I had been in could be counted on one hand. I wondered briefly if whoever had punched me had been informed of that, because he wasted no time in starting to beat the living piss out of me. The pain didn’t phase me, but even so the body isn’t really designed to stand up to such abuse, and I found it unresponsive. Through the haze, then, as I righted myself and backed against one of the ally walls, I got one hand, deceptively held as if crippled underneath my body, onto the trigger from the crossbow that was still attached, improbably given the beating I had just taken, to my back. The shot would be through me, but it didn’t really matter, I’d get the son of a bitch. I heard the distinctive sounds of a gun being readied even as my vision cleared.

You notice details you never would normally when you are about to die. I had been told that before, but I never really took it seriously. You have to understand, I was a long range kind of guy, these things rarely got close to me at all. However, now that I lay, back against the wall, ass on the ground, staring up at the barrel of a gun, no where to run, no where to hide, I couldn't deny that my senses were definitely heightened. His hair was jet black and kind of slimy looking, like he hadn't washed it in some time, or as if he had used way too much hair gel. His coat was long and black and did much to hide just how muscled he was, but signs of it still showed, the way his arms filled out the sleeves of the coat, just how tightly his shirt was pulled, flat over a toned stomach. The gun was black and caught the faint light in the alley, the barrel gleaming slightly. The smell of garbage was pervasive, wrinkling my nose, but the man didn't notice. His face was impassive and disinterested, slightly bored even, as if he had many places he'd rather be but he had to finish taking out the garbage first. I was the garbage. I suppose I had brought this on myself. In these, the last moments of my life, though, all I could think was how tall my killer was compared to my prone position, and how confidently he held his gun. Silly things to think, I suppose, but no one would ever know that.

“That wasn’t Mace,” he said, sounding as bored as he looked as he steadied his finger on his trigger. “I am.”

I couldn’t help but smile. Thanks for the information, douche bag, I thought to myself. He pulled the trigger. So did I. The last thing I felt was the crossbow bolt tearing through my back, far too powerful at this range to be much phased by mere flesh, simultaneous with the bullet that I suppose hit me in the head. The last thing I saw was the crossbow bolt sticking deep into his eye, and his truly shocked expression. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, my darling girl, but he’s dead, and I’m dead. Those responsible have been taken care of.

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To show I didn’t care, I shot him in the head. He wasn’t responsible, but I didn’t really care. Killing him had always been a goal of mine, and I hadn’t been able to get him sent to jail. That said, I’d surely get in trouble for what I had done here. I might have given a fuck if I wasn’t basically a corpse already. I smiled, and left the private dining hall, surveying the rest of the restaurants patrons. Was there anyone else here I’d always wanted killed? I frowned, disappointed. No, none of the other people I really didn’t like were here, how disappointing. I finally have the chance to kill anyone that I want to kill, and the only one who I have at hand is Stan. Such a pity, such a waste of a perfect opportunity.

I walked to 11th and 23rd, making only a pathetic attempt to hide the crossbow in my trench coat. Come on, coppers, try and stop me, I thought to myself. Killing cops was bad for business, like I gave a fuck right now. No one tried to stop me, and the part of my brain that had lived as a fairly regular guy for the last 20 years was happy for it, but the rest of me was fairly disappointed. This was going to be the most pathetic killing rampage ever, only two guys dead. Briefly pondering the cold blooded murder of innocent, uninvolved civilians, I started climbing the stairs to the 8th floor of the building at 11th and 23rd.

In retrospect, it was certainly one of the easiest jobs I’ve ever done. The building was a shit whole, which meant that even a pussy like me easily kicked the door in with a single blow. The apartment had only one room, and the bed was easily visible from the door. The son of bitch was in his bed, screwing a hooker, when my bolt went through his eye. It occurred to me that I was actually doing the mafia a favor. As Stan said, if this idiot was here instead of in Liberty trying to kill me, then he was in deep shit with them. The hooker was screaming, but I didn’t care. I considered shooting her, too, but it just didn’t seem worth it some how, so I picked up the remains of the door, propped them in place, and left, her screams clearly audible the entire way.

What now, I wondered in a detached fashion. I hadn’t bothered to find out who had hired the now deceased Mace, but my instincts gave me a few clues. I didn’t give a damn if I lived or died, so it seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea to go from potential target, killing each one until one of them or one of their guards successfully took me out. In fact, it sounded kind of fun. Decided, then, on this course of action, I did a much better job of hiding my crossbow as I descended the stairs and headed back out in the street. Many would think that a crossbow would be a difficult thing to hide on a scrawny little guy like me, but it was all about experience and practice, and being willing to walk in such a way that’d blow out your back.

It was much later in the evening, now, when I headed back to the little bar where poor Stan even now lay dead. Deaths were pretty common, there, and his would probably bring out a couple of bigwigs to inspect the scene. There first, then, it was certainly worth looking into.

The cars out front of the little bar told me all that I needed to know. Never had such a seedy street seen so many Mercedes, Jaguars, and BMW’s. Lots of tough looking guys lounged about as well, looking casually dangerous and greatly intimidating all the normal people who went by. Before I could get close, though, there was a tap on my shoulder, and as I turned around to look, a solid fist punched me in the face, sending me sprawling into an ally across the way.

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It was many hours later when I arrived, still grim faced and perfectly even tempered, at my destination. A big city, a small bar, a major center of operation even now, I knew, despite the number of its favorite patrons that were now otherwise detained. Old habits die hard, and those who had escaped had seen no need to switch their favorite haunt. It wasn’t like they could have fooled the authorities for long if they had switched, and if they weren’t going to gain anything, and they weren’t going to lose anything, then why should they bother changing their routine? No reason, that was the answer.

Someone in here would know who was responsible. I reached under my sear, withdrawing the crossbow I had kept there for so many years without ever needing to use it, and loaded it. I had to convince some people to do what I wanted, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

I opened the door and was met by a wave of palpable silence. They’ve been expecting me. I smiled. “Hey, I’m looking for Stan, can you point me in his direction?” I brandished my crossbow, they all knew my reputation, I’d like to see one of these sons of bitches challenge me. None did, though, and the maitre de, more interested by far in the safety of his establishment, pointed the way. Their response made one thing clear, though. My darling’s death had definitely been a hit, and I was definitely expected here. I wouldn’t be leaving here alive, but I couldn’t make myself care, I’d get done what I needed too, that much was certain.

Stan was sitting in a private dining room in the back of the restaurant, stuffing his face. I hadn’t seen him in almost twenty years, but judging by his girth he had been stuffing his face the whole time, and didn’t appear to have moved even an inch. I couldn’t help but wonder if he could still fit out the front door. I aimed the crossbow at him in a single movement, shooting it into his blubber by way of greeting. He whimpered but didn’t cry out. “You know what I want to know. Don’t make me ask again, Stan.” He licked his fingers, surprisingly unconcerned with his injury, before making any reply.

“If he was stupid enough to let you leave Liberty, then he deserves whatever you give him,” Stan said surprisingly pleasantly. “His names Mace, he lives a few blocks from here – 11th and 23rd, 8G - and he wasn’t supposed to let you live more than 24 hours. This is going to significantly decrease his bonus, I think.” Stan chuckled at his own joke, then pried the crossbow bolt out of his gut. “You are as unpleasant as I remember, though. That’s going to scar you know.”

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I had once been an assassin for a mafia group. I had quite a reputation among many circles. I wasn’t an intimidating looking man, in fact I was small and kind of squirrelly, but I was still feared, and the sight of me could still instill terror once. I hadn’t relied on my physical strength, such things may impress the foolish, but physical prowess is insignificant when compared with bullets and the powers of range. Me, my specialty was the crossbow. That’s how I had recognized what had befallen my darling so easily. I was known for my ability to never miss, and it was well earned. I worked hard at my job, I practiced a lot, and I could make a crossbow shot at 300 yards with perfect accuracy. No one was my equal, and I killed far more than my share for my bosses, who would do anything to keep their own hands clean.

Anything, that is, except allow me to retire in peace. All I wanted to do was quit, they could train someone else easily enough, but no, that wasn’t something they’d allow, god forbid they lose one asset peacefully. They thought that I wouldn’t leave, but they had another thing coming. I did them one better than they ever expected. I went to the feds, and I sold them all out, the lousy bastards, in exchange for an amnesty and freedom from my crimes. After all, I was just a hired gun, if I hadn’t killed my targets someone else would have done so. I knew enough to bring down a lot of really powerful people, though. When I left, I sent my boss, and my bosses boss, and his boss, and their cousins, and their families with me. I took out basically every other person in the mafia that I had ever met and knew something even slightly incriminating about down with me. It was so easy. In exchange, I got a new lease on life, a new identity, a new home and total innocence in the eyes of the law. As long as I kept my hands clean from then on, nothing would ever go wrong again.

Something had gone wrong, though, that was obvious enough, and there was no one else to deal with it but me. Given where my darling had been hit, given the weapon that had been used, it would only be a matter of time until the FBI found out about this situation, and from there it wouldn’t take long for them to nail my nuts to the wall. Even if I could convince them that I hadn’t had anything to do with anything, it wouldn’t change the assumption that they wouldn’t have come for me if I hadn’t done something to get their attention, hadn’t committed some act that had drawn attention to me again. Such an action would annul my legal protection, the key to being me was to keep as low a profile as possible. Only problem was that I hadn’t done anything. Nothing at all.

Except that I must have done something, or else how would the assholes have found me? Even as I walked to my car and set out to take care of this myself, I tried to think of what I might have done. The drive was long and monotonous, and I knew it by heart, giving me plenty of time to consider what indiscretion I might have been caught in, what stupid thing I might have done wrong. The worst part was, though, that it probably wasn’t something I’d done on purpose. The stupidest things could get a guy caught. Probably, knowing my luck, I’d been at some function at darlings school and been caught in the background of some photograph or something, and the wrong person had seen the local paper. Maybe I had accidentally responded to someone saying my actual name in a supermarket. Or maybe I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time – some jackass goes on a pleasant vacation to a distant locale and coincidentally spots a familiar face in the crowd. There were some many possibilities, so few of which didn’t actually require me to have done anything, that it wasn’t really worth thinking about. It wasn’t a conclusion that I liked, but I didn’t see how I could draw any other conclusion. I had spent my entire life hiding, first from the law and then from the outlaw, to have made any stupid slip up now. No, it was certainly just bad luck.

Page 1

I hated Mondays, and I was glad that this one, at least, appeared to be over at last. I walked up to my door, and was only mildly surprised to find that the door was unlocked. My daughter, always a fool, frequently didn’t remember to lock the damn thing when she got home. I smiled quietly to myself, though. Today, I was prepared to forgive her almost any indiscretion. Today, my little girl, my darling baby girl, grew up. Sweet 16, on the same day as junior prom, few girls were that lucky, few girls would get the double glory that my darling would earn tonight.

It blew my mind, really, how quickly the time had passed. Her mother, she’d never wanted anything to do with me, but she’d never wanted a kid either, and so when she turned out pregnant, she told me that unless I’d take the kid she was going to lose it. Well, I couldn’t allow that, I don’t know, it just seemed wrong to do something like that to a little baby, so I took the kid. It took me almost 4 years to convince myself that that wasn’t the stupidest thing I’d ever done, and I’ve done a lot of really stupid things. Looking back now, I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

It’d almost be time for her to go now. I was glad that I’d made it back in time to see her sweeping off on the arm of her date. All this crossed my mind as I opened the door, taking off my coat, hanging it on the peg I’d put there, closing the door behind me, turning into the entrance hall.

For a moment I could do nothing but stare, horrified. My baby, my darling, wasn’t smiling at me as I’d expected her to be. My baby, my darling, would never smile again. She hung, improbably, from the wall, her face covered in a red mask, her blood dripping slowly off her chin and nose to flow down the growing smear on her legs, more red than the red of her dress. The end of something metal was barely visible in the blood pooled in her empty eye socket. A crossbow bolt, some part of my brain thought with frightening detachment. It’d been years seen I’d seen one, but some memories just don’t fade. It was a message for me, a message they knew I couldn’t possibly miss. Damn, my baby looked beautiful in her prom dress. It was going to be the best night of her life. She’d spent days picking the perfect dress, looking through magazines, saving her pocket money, she knew she wasn’t queen of the prom material, but she’d picked so well, it flattered in all the right places and hid in the all right places. She was my beautiful child, waiting to greet me when I finally got home from work.

Many in my position would have been very upset. Many would have fallen to their knees, sobbing, or rushed to the phone to call desperately for help, holding on to the distant hope that some life might remain in the still body. Many people weren’t much like me, though. I’d had quite a life. Indeed, given many of the events of my youth, in some respects I wasn’t even surprised, and I wasn’t upset in the normal way. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I was definitely upset, but not the way a regular person would have been. Instead, a quiet anger grew in my heart, bringing with it a distinct sense of calm and a vague feeling of purpose. Turning around, to all outside appearances acting completely normal, I picked my hay back up, put my coat back on, and left again, exactly as I had just come, locking the door behind me. I ignored my daughters date, even now going to knock on my door, even knowing that when the body was discovered, this would serve to incriminate me. It didn’t matter; the crime had been designed to look like my work from the start.