It was lightly raining. The smoky smell of the asphalt mixed with the damp warmth of the mobile home, wafting out of the cracked plastic windows. The home was small. Looked like it came right out of a magazine, aside from all the filth. Single door in the centre, with a single window offset to the side illuminated by a mild orange glow. A white netting covered the window, thin enough to let the light in and out, but not enough to see in.
I knocked on the door three times. Firm, hard enough to flex the door on it's hinges and stress the lock. No excuses for not hearing me. I heard a mild shuffling inside, and the curtain darkened slightly as the occupant attempted to see who was outside before the shape disappeared.
The door opened slightly and a large dirty face appeared in the gap. His beard was untrimmed and unkempt framing his jaundiced eyes beneath a tattered beanie. He looked carefully at my face, and said in a cracked voice;
"Connor?"
I nodded and he relented, closing the door for a moment, and releasing the latch before ushering me in. As I entered the warmth of the room surrounded me and wiped away the grip of the outside cold. The small quarters was disgusting. The strong smell of pungent weed tickled my nostrils. The dampness was an underlying flavour but combined with the stench of unwashed clothes and the likely unwashed occupant, it washed over the senses and I caught my breath in my throat, coughing lightly.
I looked down to the floor and noted the carpet of clothes and rubbish. The retro terracotta linoleum peaking through parts like a small window to the ancient past. The counters were full of detritus, from drug paraphernalia and disposable food containers to beer cans and generic garbage.
There is no furniture, just the bed which was a mess of blankets and clothing, covered in loose tobacco and what looked like ash.
I turned around finally and found the occupant peering out into the street before closing the door, and turning to face me. I made sure to be just a little bit too close to him.
As he turned he hunched over and made his way awkwardly to the bed where he sat.
He reached behind the pillow and pulled out a crisp and fresh envelope, which he handed me.
I opened it and began to thumb through the cash absent-mindedly. I knew it was short. It had been for several weeks now.
He eventually spoke when he saw me getting to the end of the stack.
"It's short again, you know how it is. It's hard out here, man."
I said nothing, and shoved the money back inside, and placed it into my inside jacket pocket.
"You know, I've been short before, last few weeks, y'know? He knows, he knows I'm good for it. I just ain't been sellin' like I used to, my guys are slackin' off."
I spoke. I looked nonchalantly around the room as I did.
"You've been getting regular deliveries of product, so if you aren't shifting it, you can hand it back over and we can send it to midtown, see if they can move it."
"Oh.... I've been having to cut the prices but it's all sold. That's the problem. I have none left and don't have the cash."
He fidgets, and as my gaze passes underneath the counter, he stands up and holds a pair of steepled hands out towards me.
"Please Connor. I'm just trying my best out here."
"Mind if I look around?" I ask, ignoring him.
He says nothing. I reach down towards the cabinet under the counter and he places his leg in front of it. His face says more than any words ever could. He's terrified but determined. He's at his full height now, standing well over my own. I look up into his wild eyes.
"What's going on Mitchel?" I ask him.
"Nothing. Just get out, and tell him I'll have his money for him next week!" His voice cracks but his face is still full of resolve. An age seems to pass. We stand there as he shakes. All his energy manifesting itself in minute vibrations of his jaw and lower lip.
It's now or never. I push him back onto the bed. He falls back easily, he has no real strength, but addicts can be crafty. He falls clumsily backwards and crashes into the bed. I kick the drawer door and my foot smashes through the cheap paneling. I pull my foot back and with it comes the remains of the door. He freezes and waits for me to look into the drawer. I thrust my hand in and immediately find a small plastic bag. I pull it out, feeling the considerable weight and through the thin white plastic, I can see stacks of cash. I drop the bag onto the floor, and look him in the eyes. I raise an eyebrow. I know all about this already. This is simply theatrics to make him squirm. I was told to be frightening. Not easy when you're five foot six. We'll have to fight shortly. He slowly stands, strangely poised. His hands are outstretched like he's about to catch me if I fall forward. He's afraid. Perfect.
"What's going on, Mitchel?" I ask again. Louder and full of spite.
His face screws up and he returns to the bed, sitting.
"The Eighth Street Pikes were here a few weeks ago. They came in and fucked me up something awful. Took my clothes, and tried to take my product. I already sold it, so they wanted my cash. I told them they were already too late, and that the boss man picked it up."
He took a breath, his eyes were streaming tears, his breathing strange and stuttered like a bawling child.
He tries to speak but another torrent of heavy heaving sobs comes forth.
I draw a deep breath in to feign interest and thought, but it catches in my throat. That same sickly smell, plus the new aroma of what I can only assume is Mitchel's piss as his fear took advantage of his fragile state and he sits in a puddle of his own making.
I clear my throat in an attempt to fill the air with something other than wailing, and two words barely make their way past my lips.
"Go on"
He manages to get it together.
"Then they came, and they said I have to kick up to them, or else they'd be back, and they'd kill me. So I've been skimming off the top, and handing it over to them. They're coming tomorrow night to pick it up. Please can you help me, man?" he looks up at me as his words devolve into weak mumbling. He's covered in tears and snot, dirt and ash.
I lean down and pick up the bag. He grabs it as I do and holds it tight, ripping the bag as he does. Notes and stacks spill out onto the filthy ground, and he tries to land on them like an animal, scrambling and ripping at them. He's trying to make some kind of protest, but it's all coming out in grunts and screams. I back away. He's lost it. He'll probably stop after a few minutes, once he's gotten it out of his system.
He settles down after a moment. Another few moments of me waiting for him to calm down. I'm actually losing my patience for real now.
"Please, just let me keep this. It's all I have for now, and I need it. They're coming tomorrow, I need to give it to them." More blubbering, and even more crying.
"Jesus Christ. Let me take care of it. I'll be back in a few hours. Don't go anywhere." I let the words settle him down, and walk out the door. The wet concrete smell greets me again, and the dark starless sky sits above me. Streetlamps punching orange light into the navy black night. My hand finds the cool leather of my phone case, which I extract from my jacket. The bright white glow of the screen hits me and I squint as I try and find my contacts. This new phone always makes me feel like an old man when I use it. I text the local PD contact I have asking for the address of these punks. He sends me back something pretty quick. Looks like it's about a block away. I tell him to try and delay any response to the area, since it will be messy. He says he'll try his best.
I hear the door open again behind me, and I turn. Mitchel is there. He's wearing his jacket now, an old cloth coat that looks like he found it in the trash. He's holding a sawed off shotgun in his right hand, down by his hip.
"You're not coming with me, Mitchel." my voice doesn't carry too well in this damp space but he seems to hear it. He knows he's not coming with me.
"I need you to leave this alone Connor. I mean it. I don't need your help man."
Now I'm confused. He just fucking asked me, crying for my help. Now he stands here with a shotgun, his tears all dried and talking tough.
"Jesus Christ Mitchel. Go inside. I'll take care of this. I'll be back in an hour or so."
He levels the shotgun at me. I make a move, but it's too late. I can't outshoot him now.
"You won't get it, Connor. It's beyond what you can understand." His hands shake as he says this, and he's unable to steady himself. The drugs have taken him. He just took something, and it's coursing through his veins. He takes a breath and a word comes out of his mouth which I can't understand because he's interrupted.
The shotgun barks and instantly I screw my eyes shut, and my mouth gasping in. I feel the powder burn as it hits my face but I'm still standing. My left ear is ringing, and I can almost hear the shot fly past me even though it's long gone. My eyes open and I see him looking at me with an open mouth. He dips his hand into his jacket and the shotgun cracks open at the breach, firing out the old shells. I drop my own hand to my hip and my pistol grip fills my hand. I grasp and pull, and the practiced movement takes over, the gun rises in front of me, my eyes don't leave him. The sights rise into view and stop right at his chest. My mind races, and I lift the gun slightly. My grip tightens at my palm, my finger pulling into the wall of the trigger. My arms tense. My left eye closes in a blink, and I squeeze the trigger once. The weapon bucks slightly, and returns to it's resting position. My finger squeezes to find that wall, taking the slight sloppiness out of the trigger before squeezing again. A second shunt against my hands tells me another shot has left the barrel. Time returns to it's normal rate. He stands still, his eyes staring at nothing in particular in the air between us. My two bullet casings hit the ground, small metallic pings, followed by his own plastic shotgun shells. Hollow thumps of plastic. He leans backward, his entire body hits the ground at the same time. Calves to cranium. I breathe out a long solid breath. It feels like an entire week since I heard his shot and took that first lungful of air. I keep my pistol drawn and pointed at him. I walk slowly to him and kick away the shotgun. I take a look at him. His eyes are totally glassed over. Still looking in that same spot. He has two holes in his face. One below his left eye, and one above in his forehead. Blood is seeping slowly out of both wounds in small pumps, in line with his dying heartbeat. Two .40 cal shots in the face. He's out for the count. Perfect. His shotgun lies just behind me. I pick it up, and in turn holster my own pistol. The shells are on the ground. Blue cylinders capped with copper disks, still smoking from the opposite open end. Slugs, not scatter. No wonder he missed. Still lucky. If it had hit me it would have ripped my head clean off.
I can't leave him here like this. I lift him up over my shoulders, his dead weight sitting mighty over me. I manage to stagger over to his trailer and toss him on the bed. I send another slug into the breach of the shotgun, and place it under his jaw. I place his finger on the trigger and lean back, looking away, and let his finger fall onto it. The shotgun barks once again, differently this time. No echo, just a sickening wet splintering. followed by a strange shuddering as the body convulsed. The last brain signals firing as they're destroyed. I look back at him. His head is gone from the chin up. Ceiling covered in blood. I find the money in the ripped bag, and carefully pull it out, setting it with the rest of the cash in the envelope in my jacket.
I take one last look around, and satisfied, I exit, and leave the door slightly ajar, just to let any odour I've left behind dissipate. The humid air hits me again for the third time, and I finally leave the home forever. I look for my own shells, and anything he's left behind. Nothing. Not much in the way of blood, so that's fine. I take my leave quickly and start towards the address of these punks. I need to make sure the stories all check out, now that I asked for the address.
The place is surprisingly nice. It's a Chinese take out restaurant. I've actually eaten from here before.
I look around, and note the fire escape. Pulled down and tied to the ground. For fast getaways, and also a secret entrance. Looks like my way in. I slip into the alley. My hand finds my pistol again. I check my mag. Two rounds gone. Nine left, plus the one in the chamber. I check my holster for my spare mags. Two spares sit in the space behind the weapon. Eleven rounds each. Should be plenty if things go south. . A small hidden stiletto style blade just the inside of my wrist sitting lengthways up my forearm. I need to be clever about this.
I reach into my right inside pocket, and find my suppressor. I screw it onto the barrel quickly and holster it. It's awkward, but that's not going to be a problem for long. I start up the fire escape. It's quiet. Tied down within an inch of it's life to make sure it is. Means people can come and go at all hours and not bother the neighbours. Perfect.
At the top there's a window. Locked. I pull my hat from my back pocket, and my handgun from it's holster. I knock on the window and start to sing softly. An old tune, out of key and far too slow. A shadow comes to the window and moves the curtains slightly.
I start to shout a Chinese food order, slurring my speech just enough to be obnoxious, not enough to be a parody. He starts to argue, I can't see him clearly, but he's pissed. He opens the window, and starts to try and shoo me away. I raise my hat to his face and place the pistol up to it. I fire two shots and push inside the window. The shots crack loud but dull. Still supersonic but not as brash. Shots go through his head and hit the wall behind him. I catch the body as he falls, and lay him down softly. I leave the hat on his face and let it soak the blood. I hear commotion and yelling. Suppressor was worthless without subsonic bullets. Fuckit. Time to go loud on purpose this time. I check the body. One of those tacky tracksuits, in gold and blue. He's a pike alright. Shitty tattoos, not many of them. Just a bagman. A gun in his pocket. Old Hi Point. Garbage, but robust. I take it, and pocket it. I hear footsteps, several people. I stand by the door, and pull out my knife, holding it in my left hand, gun in my right. Heavy with the suppressor, but still usable. The door bursts open spilling light into the room. Two men enter in single file, one stays outside. Both men are wearing those same hideous colours. Man in front has an assault rifle of some kind, can't see the model, likely an AK. Second one has a long shotgun, double barrelled, over under. Definitely gang bangers. No kind of order or corner clearing. I raise my pistol and send a round through the first guy's head. He drops like a puppet with cut strings. I step forward and ram the knife into the second's forearm holding the shotgun. It drops as his tendons rip, and I tear the knife out and kick the shotgun away. He starts to scream and fight back. I step my feet back and try to push him out the door. He plants his feet and pushes hard, I take his strength and push back harder. He returns the favour. I turn and pull him over me, tossing him with my hip and letting him drop onto the ground. I hear the breath get knocked out of him, and I raise my pistol to the door way. A shadow appears from around the corner and I send a pair of shots into its chest. A gasp, a cough and a shout, is followed by it's collapse and they clumsily fall backwards into the hallway. I look down at the winded assailant and see his fear as the pistol finds his face. I fire two shots into his forehead and see him go limp. I holster my weapon, and sheath my blade.
I grab the shotgun and check the breach. Two loaded shots. I hit the break action and unload the weapon, and toss it aside. Stealth is off the table.
I check the Assault rifle. An AK knock off judging by the circular front sight. Typical cheap trash. I check the mag, chambered in 7.62. Should make a nice mess. I shoulder the weapon and move to the hallway. Another series of footsteps shuffle their way towards me. The hallway is empty, nothing to my left, just a wall. The right leads down a corridor, with two more doors to the left and a stair case. The footsteps stop.
I stay still and listen. Nothing. A brief creak from the door closest to me. I point the weapon freely, sights are no use at this range with this cheap piece of shit. Better to just go for volume. I hold the rifle close and listen for the door handle. I hear whispers in Chinese. Panicked, quiet whispers. The door creaks open and a set of hands wielding a pistol eases out slowly. I grab the hands with my left hand and push them high above his head. I point the rifle at him with my right hand and fire once. The rifle shouts and the pistol falls from his hands as he crumples down. I release him and my hand finds the grip of the rifle, I follow him into the room and as he falls, there's another behind him with another handgun, holding it in one hand. A shot rings out which seems to frighten him more than it does me. He closes his eyes and tries to fire again, but I'm already on him. I kick him in his chest hard, he falls back and drops, coughing. I kick aside his pistol. Noone else in the room. The first guy is done. Sucking chest wound, minutes at best. I can't go too hard into the next room. I can hear women screaming after every shot. I knock on the door and shout into the room.
"Come out. Everyone else out here is de-"
Before I can get anymore words out, a barrage of fire tears through the doo. I hit the deck and look up. The door is shredded. A large hole frayed by splinters sits in the middle like a porthole. A figure steps in front eagerly pointing his handgun outwards, but not down. I send a shot through his throat. He drops.
The door flings open and two men are on me immediately. They grab my arms by the elbows. I drop the rifle and kick out at their knees. They both drop to the ground with me but still have a hold on me. They both hold knives in their free hand. Shit.
One stabs, my free hand catches his, the other stabs, I roll. I'm all elbows at this point. It's too close for anything else. I hit the one on my left with a harsh elbow to the nose. He seems to be fine. Bleeding but tough. We found the muscle at last. More stabs. More half hearted blocking and rolling. Time to get creative. I slip the jacket sleeve for my right arm and heave myself over the man on my left. I end up on him like a backpack as he tries to stand up and buck me off. I roll too my right and land on my knees and stand. I take out my own knife from it's sheath and lose the jacket entirely. It lands with a thump on the ground. The one closest to me stands up. He's tall. Not wearing that dumb tracksuit either. He's in a dark suit. The other is the same. He stands as well. They both look identical. Twins. They share a glance, and nod silently. The first comes at me, his hands cycling back and forth to force me to react. It works. My hands slip up and he reads me perfectly. As I raise my hands he cuts for my stomach in a swipe. He catches me lightly. My shirt and vest ripping and forming a crimson line. I bend and double over. The other guy kicks up and catches me in the face. I reel back and hot blood steams down my face from my nose. My hand moves to my face, but the mere glance of my fingers sends a wave of white hot pain down to my core. Broken nose, maybe a fractured cheekbone. Pain flashes every time I blink or move my mouth. I have to get over it. Adrenaline will kick in soon. I steady myself and get ready for the next onslaught. I'll need to go on the attack once I stop the initial hits. I lower my hands and start to take a deep breath. They see me get tired and start straightening up and walking towards me, smirking and muttering. The one who slashed me sticks out his hand to grasp my shoulder. There's the adrenaline. I grab it and twist hard. I push his arm under his armpit and behind his back, and stab him hard in the arm, pinning it to his back. He falls and screams. The other one comes to life and starts punching and slashing. I wait until a committed strike comes my way and bat it aside. I feel small cuts where the knife manages to catch my arm. I back up to the wall and he comes for me. A strong grapple around my shoulders, trying to squeeze me into a headlock. I lift my feet and plant myself on the wall and kick off hard. We fall to the ground with me on top. I try and get my knee on his knife welding hand, and I pin his wrist. His hand relaxes. I pull my hand around my back and find the Hi-Point. I draw it from my waist band and point it at his face and pull the trigger twice. Two clunky pulls. Bad trigger work on my part, and the weapon feels like a cheap nail gun. Did the job. One in the cheek and one in between his eyes. The other assailant is still writhing. I put two rounds into his back and he drops. One gasp and he's gone. A death rattle and some strange breathing. He's still in there. But it's over for him.
I return to the room with the young man wheezing. He's still there doing that. Perfect. The second room containing the other two knife men is still open. I peer in the door and see a group of women. Terrified, all scantily clad in lingerie and underwear. All wearing medical style masks and gloves. The room expands into a much larger room. Looks like the walls were knocked through. It's a packing room, right above the restaurant. The women are all terrified. I wave them out of the room. They run. A single man is left there. He's small, well dressed. His suit is grey, with a red shirt. No tie, but a pink silk scarf sits below his neck. Probably mid fifties. Good shape for his age. He pulls out a dagger from his sleeve. I pull up the pistol and point it at his chest. He makes a move. I fire until it's dry. The slide pulls back and the pistol smokes from the barrel and ejection port. I drop the pistol and look at the guy waiting for him to fall. He takes a breath and stays as he is. Blood pours from his wounds, all six of them in his chest and stomach. The bleeding slows and he steps forward. I can't believe it. He moves quickly all of a sudden and the dagger enters my chest. I gasp as the knife pushes into me. I don't feel it at first. Shock has me, but the man seems curious as he looks at it. He pulls it out, and it all goes black.
I wake in the hospital bed. My stab wound gone.
