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The Hitman
by mitxela

"So youíre happy to let the guy die?"

Mark looks the guy flat in the face. Heís ignorant. Young. Inexperienced. He hasnít seen real blood. He looks like an overgrown kid. His clothes are greys and rags, and his hair hasnít been washed in far too long. Itís like oilís been poured down his front, over his face and dribbled to his feet. Heís an absolute mess and he knows it.

"You wouldnít mind though, would you?"

Of course heís seen blood Ė but not real blood. Markís seen it. Mark knows what makes the difference between saying youíll blow someoneís brains out and actually doing it. This guy doesnít. This guy hasnít seen shit.

Of course under this confrontation it doesnít matter whoís right and wrong, itís all about childish games. Heís just trying to make himself look big, thatís all. Thereís no reason to lash out on such a kid, heíll get whatís coming soon enough.

"I didnít 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 wouldnít be surprised to find freckles. The dust in the apartment wanders past the window.

"Yeah, you think youíre funny?"

The kid draws a gun but Mark doesnít 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 kidís neck. His collarís no longer existent and the hairís too matted to wave in the wind. The amateur can kill, but he doesnít know how to kill. He thinks point and shoot is all there is. A sweaty pistol pointed at a professional. Markís 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 wasnít 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 kidís ego burns away, his bold tone is reduced to a wimper.

"okay, okay, okay! So I messed up! It doesnít matter. I made it out. I got the money. Danny wonít care. Danny never cares. DannyĖ"

"Shutup. Thatís what you donít get. Of course Danny will care, and heíll blast you to pieces for it. Youíre not meant to play this game, you just donít get whatís right and wrong. Even assassins have dignity. Itís not playing with life and death that makes us Gods, itís knowing when to play with it. You donít belong here, and soon youíll pay the price. "

"Youíre lying!"

The boyís gun isnít 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 youíd think possible to the door, bursts through and sprints down the corridor. Surprised, Mark rushes to the briefcase and throws it open. Itís 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 didnít 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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