This was it, this was the finale to our years in the hitman business.
Minutes from now, everything changes.
It always amazed me, the way a single second could stretch like chewed gum, going as far as your arms could spread before finally snapping. Clear headed, I switched off everything but the hyper-senses I needed.
“Starter's hand is up,” Jacob hissed. “Go. Now.”
Frank grunted, turning my way when I bumped into him. My nerves were cresting, I could taste the battery acid on my tongue. The tip of the noise suppressor jammed into Frank's chest. I aimed without looking; I knew exactly where his heart was.
He met my stare, and I wondered—as I always did—what his final thought would be.
“Bang,” Jacob whispered in my ear.
A thunder-crack, all eyes were on the runners as the Starter's pistol went off. No one was watching me, no one saw or heard my weapon fire simultaneously.
And no one would see my lashes flutter with the thrill.
Fuck, I thought to myself. That rush. That fucking rush. Nothing compared to this. Nothing from this bland world, anyway.
Believe me. I've tried every other high.
In my palm, the recoil was negligible. The bullet's casing clinked in the tiny catcher, confirming I'd leave no evidence behind but the unidentifiable lead slug in Frank's flesh.
He stood there, too shocked to respond. He didn't even drop his hot dog. I didn't linger, the gun was back in my pocket and I was already walking away.
Four seconds, that was all it had taken to erase another human being.
So easy—too easy.
Killing was what I was good at, it was simpler than opening a beer bottle. Long legs, calm strides, I strolled over the plush grass towards the street. I was in no hurry, the job was done.
I was at the front gate before I heard the first scream.
“How did it feel?” Jacob asked through the headpiece.
My grip uncoiled from the fist I'd made; I smoothed the sweat from my neck. My brain was thrumming with a gallon of endorphins. “You know how.”
For a second, he was quiet. “No,” he said softly. “Not the kill. The fact it was your last one.”
Raising my eyes, I judged the brilliant blue sky and beaming sun. Sirens were coming in the distance; someone had called for an ambulance. It was no good, of course. Frank was long dead.
How does it feel to know that was my last hit? I mulled it over, judged what the right answer was.
Jacob and I, we'd known each other for close to forever. We'd been kids, the first day he'd seen me alone on an empty playground and changed both our lives by walking over. If I could be fully honest with anyone, it was him.
That was what it meant to be Blood Brothers.
“Anticlimactic,” I said, ducking into the subway station. “Feels weird to imagine that was it. But it's over. That was always the plan, right?”
The reception fuzzed below ground. Either I'd lost him, or he'd decided to bite his tongue. “Yeah,” he eventually said. “That was the plan. Hey, let's celebrate tonight, okay?”
“Yeah.” I slipped into the subway car. “Let's go big tonight. Make some memories.”
Jacob chuckled. “See you at the bar, Kite.”
“Sure thing,” I said. The earpiece clicked; radio silence. Jacob no doubt planned to fill our bellies with alcohol and our lusts with women.
Lots of women, I hoped.
In the mostly empty car, I leaned on the window. It was yellowish in the tunnels, my reflection smudged and wobbling. Watching it, I recalled the summer day above me. The green grass, the smell of life. The sound of another man's final moments.
In my pocket, the gun barrel was still warm.
****
Jacob
––––––––
One, two, three, four, five.
I glided my fingertips over the necks of every top-shelf bottle I owned. Aha, I mused silently. Pulling a bottle of vodka into the air, I held it to the light. It was a fraction lower than the marking.
Gripping the stopper, the tip a razor edge of metal that could cut an unsuspecting finger or gouge out an eye, I started to refill it.
“I can take care of that, Mister Fallow!”
Glancing sideways, I noticed the waifish, creamy skinned bartender—Anabelle. I was probably giving her a heart attack, doing her job like I was. “It's nothing,” I said gently. Replacing the bottle, I lingered on the pointed tip. “I just like to have things a certain way.”
Her smile was hesitant, but she rounded the bar to join me behind it. In her low-cut opal top and a pair of needed-to-be-oiled-to-fit-leather-shorts, she would have blended in better at a nightclub than in my bar.
Adjusting my sleeves, I peeled the dove-grey material back to check my watch. “We open in twenty minutes, Anabelle.”
“Sure sure,” she said cheerfully. Brushing her long hair back into a tail, she nodded at the door. “You uh, want me to tell you when Mister Lawson arrives?”
Kite's last name was hilariously unfitting. “No. Just hand me a bottle of whiskey.”