Click!
A small gout of flame spouted in the darkness in front of the man and illuminated the shadows long enough to spread a garish light across a grinning bearded face. A cloud of blue smoke burst through the circle of light emanating from the hanging lamp, and James squinted, trying to penetrate the shadows and identify the man. The distinctive metal click of the zippo sounded again and James turned his head in the direction of the noise.
His thoughts were blurred and sluggish, his face swollen and cut. Ropes bit into his wrists and ankles, holding him to a wooden chair, and sweat stung countless small wounds. Pushing his swollen tongue around the inside of his mouth, James felt his teeth, loosened by countless blows. He was sitting in an island of light, shadows spreading out around him, a small prick of red floating ahead of his face. James focussed on the disembodied cherry, trying to cut through the fog in his head and remember what the fuck was going on.
“Not lookin’ so guid eh, Jimmie?”
The laughing Irish accent washed away any confusion, and James remembered what was going on. Mad Stu and his lads. “Thought we’d forgotten yeh eh? left yeh to fook off 'ere and walk away from yer responsabilities?” The voice was still filled with laughter, but now it held a cold, cruel humour. Another cloud of smoke blew directly into James’ face, stinging the cuts more. Suddenly a glint of metal flashed in his eye, and the hard, unfriendly snub of cold metal pressed into his forhead.
“Any last words ‘fore we splatter yer fookin’ brains, Jimmie?”
Three days ago.
Lying in bed in the spacious studio apartment overlooking the city, James stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Turning his head he looked over at Nicole, her eyes closed, her breathing steady, a small smile on her delicate lips as she dreamed of whatever normal people dreamed of. Smiling softly he let out a sigh and just stared at her face for a while, wondering what he would be like had he taken a different path. Pushing aside the covers he got up, careful not to wake her, and padded naked over to the window, looking out across the city. Skyscrapers towered like canyons over the streets, and even at this hour lights moved down the roads as a stream of humanity went about it’s daily functions. Seperated as he was from the streets, James suddenly felt an acute sense of isolation, and wondered if he would ever be able to rest fully. A low buzzing interupted his thoughts and he looked over to his clothes lying by the bed. James walked back to the bed and bent over the pile of clothing, fishing around for the pager. Looking at the number, his face hardened and the pager dropped back onto his jacket. Pulling his cell phone out his trousers James returned to the window, tapping the buttons on the unit. Lifting the phone to his ear, James waited until the receiver picked up. “Speak.”
Two hours earlier.
James was crouched on the window sill, balancing carefully five stories up the side of a building as he opened the window. Slipping inside he carefully shut the window again, silently thanking his inside man who had left the window unlocked. His soft soled shoes making barely any sound on the carpeted floor, he quickly moved over to the door of the room, listening for any noises outside. Reaching into his coat James pulled out a silver plated handgun and and a silencer. As a child, James had been taught about guns by his father, Richard, a retired soldier in the English Army. James’ elder brother had been gunned down by a unit of English soldiers in one of the many clashes between British soldiers and Irish “rebels”; This had led to Richard leaving the forces, determined to make sure the same thing would never happen to James. Concerned that the violence in Ireland was going to continue growing, Richard taught the boy daily how to shoot. Smoothly screwing the silencer onto the barrel, he eased the door open a sliver and glanced through the crack. Satisfied there was noone outside, James opened the door just enough to let him through and shut it softly behind him, then slipped over to the railing overlooking the foyer below. Keeping crouched low, he made his way through the building, following a specific plan in his head. Avoiding the few patroling guards with ease, James quickly reached the door to his target’s office. Pausing outside he again listened, recalling the room plan from the blueprints he had examined yesterday, bribed from the city planner’s office. Very slowly easing the door open James looked inside and saw the back of a chair, a man sitting in it, leaned over something on his desk. James’ eyes narrowed. Something felt wrong. Easing the door shut behind him, James stood and silently crossed the room, pressing his gun against the back of the man’s head. The man, precariously balanced, fell forward across the desk, and James noticed the small pool of blood spread across the expensive oak wood.
“Fuck!!!”
Suddenly there was a sollid blow against the back of his head, and pain exploded in his brain. Blackness flooded in.
One hour earlier.
Cold water splashed into his face, shocking him awake. Blinking his eyes James groaned, the back of his head throbbing like the bass from a goth club. He was being held up by his arms on both sides by two men who looked strangely familiar.
“Good mornin’ sunshine!!”
WHAM!!
A fist slammed into the side of his face, sending droplets of water splashing across the room and knocking him to the floor. Gritting his teeth James pushed his hands beneath his body and tried to rise, but recieved a viscious kick to the abdomen, sending him sprawling. Clutching his stomach James let out a hiss through clenched teeth, refusing to cry out. Narrowing his eyes he looked over at several pairs of feet, then was roughly hauled to his feet. His brain rattling in his head James looked up and his blood ran cold. Grinning broadly with those familiar psychotic fucking eyes was Mad Stu. The Bastard of Dublin.
“Guid te see yeh again Jimmie!”
James’ vision exploded once more as Stu’s fist slammed into his face, splitting his lips and spraying a red mist of blood and saliva. This time he was able to hold his balance.
“CUNT!!!”
Hatred burning in his eyes, James pulled madly at the arms holding him to no avail, and instead spat a large gob of bloody mucus at Stu, hitting him below the eye. Stu flinched away, wiping his face as one of the heavies holding James kicked his knees out from behind. When the spit was gone Stu turned and and swung full force, his eyes on fire, cracking James across his eyebrow and instantly swelling that side of his face. James fell to the floor hard, his head bouncing on the concrete. Blows rained down on him from all sides, and he felt at least one rib crack before blissful oblivion flooded in again.
Now.
The cold metal pushed against his head, grinding into an open cut and sending more pain into James’ world.
“Any last words ‘fore we splatter yer fookin’ brains, Jimmie?” Mad Stu again, his voice cold and deadly, devoid of humanity. Turning his face toward the gun, James squinted fiercly down the barrel into those crazy eyes.
“Yeah, yeh fooker…it was me that did yeh brother…he was a right little fuckwit!”
Stu’s eyes went wide with fury and his finger tightened on the trigger. James pushed backwards as hard as he could with his feet, sending him flying backwards underneath the burst of gunfire, to crash on the floor, the old wooden chair shattering beneath him. Quickly rolling to the side and standing in one smooth motion, James dove into Stu, pushing them both into the shadows. The gun hit the floor. Shouts erupted through the room and chaos reigned, the heavy packing sound of fists pounding flesh underscoring it all. The two combatants rolled around, knocking a few people over as they went. Stu’s fists slammed into the other man’s side like hammers, and with a loud crack went another rib. James’ fingers found something soft and he pushed them in, hard. Warm, stickly fluid gushed around them and Stu let out an inhuman cry.
“Meh fookin eyes!!! aaaaauuuuugggghhhhh god meh fookin eyes!!!”
Someone found the main light switch and flipped it, and brightness flooded the room. While the rest of the thugs blinked stupidly at their leader, writhing on the ground, James dove for the gun. The others quickly caught on and a hail of bullets narrowly missed him as he rolled away. Constantly moving, James stood and started shooting. He blessed his father’s ghost as he took careful aim, firing shots in quick succession. Bullets were ricocheting all around him and a bullet lodged itself in his shoulder, but every time James pulled the trigger someone fell. Soon silence reigned, broken by the moans of Mad Stu, who was now feeling around aimlessly, running his hands over the bodies of his comrades. “Lads?! lads what’s goin’ on? someone fookin’ 'elp me ere!!!”
Wincing at the pain in his shoulder, James slowly walked over and stepped on Stu’s back, pinning him to the ground. Pushing the barrel of his gun into the back of Stu’s head, he crouched down and whispered.
“All yer lads’re dead yeh sick fook. Yer brother was fer me. This is for me dad.”
BLAM!!!