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The Hitman
by mitxela
"So you’re happy to let the guy die?"
Mark looks the guy flat in the face. He’s ignorant. Young. Inexperienced. He hasn’t seen real blood. He looks like an overgrown kid. His clothes are greys and rags, and his hair hasn’t been washed in far too long. It’s like oil’s been poured down his front, over his face and dribbled to his feet. He’s an absolute mess and he knows it.
"You wouldn’t mind though, would you?"
Of course he’s seen blood – but not real blood. Mark’s seen it. Mark knows what makes the difference between saying you’ll blow someone’s brains out and actually doing it. This guy doesn’t. This guy hasn’t seen shit.
Of course under this confrontation it doesn’t matter who’s right and wrong, it’s all about childish games. He’s just trying to make himself look big, that’s all. There’s no reason to lash out on such a kid, he’ll get what’s coming soon enough.
"I didn’t think you were old enough to care."
A frown scurries across his brow. He quivers a little and moves to tip toes, Mark stays perfectly still. His deeper breaths walk around where you wouldn’t be surprised to find freckles. The dust in the apartment wanders past the window.
"Yeah, you think you’re funny?"
The kid draws a gun but Mark doesn’t blink. He gets a clear view of the beads of sweat, lined from the barrel of the semi auto to the tufts of hair on the back of the kid’s neck. His collar’s no longer existent and the hair’s too matted to wave in the wind. The amateur can kill, but he doesn’t know how to kill. He thinks point and shoot is all there is. A sweaty pistol pointed at a professional. Mark’s solution is a clenched fist to a deserving face.
So predictable. He stumbles and almost hands the gun over. Mark twists the useless arm a way it wasn’t meant to go and the guy collapses to the dirty beige carpeted floor. In the corner, the dusty desk shakes, the mouldy bed wobbles, the clean briefcase slides a bit. The kid’s ego burns away, his bold tone is reduced to a wimper.
"okay, okay, okay! So I messed up! It doesn’t matter. I made it out. I got the money. Danny won’t care. Danny never cares. Danny–"
"Shutup. That’s what you don’t get. Of course Danny will care, and he’ll blast you to pieces for it. You’re not meant to play this game, you just don’t get what’s right and wrong. Even assassins have dignity. It’s not playing with life and death that makes us Gods, it’s knowing when to play with it. You don’t belong here, and soon you’ll pay the price. "
"You’re lying!"
The boy’s gun isn’t even loaded, now Mark looks at it. He pulls the shaft back with a satisfying click, and aims it at the whimpering lump on the floor. His right arm straight, his left arm under, and his dark eyes focused inhumanly. He radiates his authority in body language.
"You wanna live, leave this place. You wanna see the light of tomorrow, leave this place, and leave this whole game behind. Run like hell, or die."
And the kid scrambles up and darts faster than you’d think possible to the door, bursts through and sprints down the corridor. Surprised, Mark rushes to the briefcase and throws it open. It’s packed with explosives and a digital clock; five seconds remaining.
The bastard. The betraying, backstabbing bastard. He wasted Mark's time to fill a secret mission. They didn’t want Mark any more. He was too good.
But the kid clearly underestimated him. How insulting. Think Mark would just run? In perfect stride, he aims the pistol at the sprinting boy and fires one, deafening shot. Not to the head, but to his foot. A scream is followed by a realisation. Mark tosses the bomb down the corridor where hope for the kid is lost.
"Go burn in your own filth."
Another scream before flames follow Mark out the window.
Author: mitxela
| This page was uploaded on 20/04/08
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