Frantic

Sequel to Howling of the Dog: Johnnie arrived at a small town to do a job, but it takes a wrong turn

§1§

 

Johnnie lied on his bed in the bedroom of his apartment, looking out through the window, down at the normal mob of a crowd you’d normally see on a Friday morning in New York City. A classic rock song blared through speakers around the room. It allowed him to slip into a deep relaxation" or at least, as deep as his body would let him. But he needed it once in awhile, to get his mind off the job.

            Suddenly, in the corner of the room, a loud ringing emerged, almost blocking out the music. He ran off the bed towards a copy of Vincent van Gough’s Starry Night, lifting it off to reveal a gray metal safe. He pressed his right index finger on a panel to the left of the door, a short, low humming sound emerging under the music and the ringtone. With a click, the safe door split in half, the panel sliding to the bottom. He reached in and pulled out a cheap flip phone, and glanced at the caller ID: UNKNOWN NUMBER, it read, something Johnnie was used to seeing.

            He flipped it open and held it against his ear. “Hello,” he spoke.

            There was a brief silence that fell over the phone, making Johnnie a little uncomfortable. Most of the time, his calls always began with speech, and were short and to-the-point; this one had lasted longer than normal, and the caller hadn’t even spoken yet.

            The caller cleared their throat. “I’ve got a job for you,” a male voice said.

            Johnnie waited awhile, but no response. He began to question the authenticity of this call. “Hello,” Johnnie responded, “anybody there?”

            “Of course there’s someone here,” the caller blurted out, “I have a job; very simple, should be painless. There’s a small town called Mayfield in Connecticut. Go there, rent a hotel room, do whatever you want, just wait for further instructions.”

            “All right, Johnnie said. He stayed on the line, waiting to see if the caller was going to provide something, like a plane ticket, or the hotel room, or at least a cab ride.

            “Bye,” the caller blurted, hanging up the phone, much to Johnnie’s dismay. He hung up too, closing the phone with a soft click. He dropped the phone back into the safe, pressing his finger back on the key panel, the low humming sound emitting, followed by the doors closing shut.

            He walked over to his bed, and crouched, pulling a shiny black suitcase, and plopped it on the bed.

 

§2§

 

A few days later, Johnnie sat on the 4:45 flight out of JFK International Airport, the 747 rising above the autumn sunset. The plane landed shortly in a small airport in Hannex, Massachusetts, sixty-one miles from Mayfield. He took a cab from the airport, along a long, bumpy road to Mayfield, a small town that seemed to be isolated from the world and time, with the grassy and rolling hills.

            The taxi cab slowed down near a thick field of grass, turning onto a dirt path. The driver stopped the ignition, and opened the car door, walking to the back of the cab, popping open the trunk. Johnnie got out from the back seat, stretching his legs and arms widely. The cabbie, who looked at least in his mid-fifties, with thinning gray hair and a graying beard, walked over to Johnnie, carrying his single suitcase. He handed Johnnie the suitcase and walked towards the driver seat, leaning his head into the window. He turned back to Johnnie. “You’re totals one hundred and seventy two dollars and thirty eight cents,” the cabbie said, “will that be cash or credit?”

            Johnnie reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, handing the man two bills. “Keep the change,” Johnnie said, “I don’t need it.”

            “Thanks man,” the cabbie said, shaking Johnnie’s hand, “it was a pleasure doing business.” He stepped into the driver’s side of the yellow cab, turned the ignition on, and drove away slowly down the road, the rocks crinkling under the car’s wheels.

            Johnnie stood there on the dark gravel path, his black suitcase in tow, staring at the town that stood only a couple of miles from him. What’s going to happen, he thought, is it going to be like my last job? Is this going to be my last job?

            He stepped into the tall grass, the grass coming up to his thighs, and slowly strode towards Mayfield.

 

§3§

 

Johnnie checked into a little motel at the edge of town, near one of the giant hills that surrounded Mayfield. It was a rather small motel, with only a bedroom/living room/kitchen and a small bathroom of to the side. The room had a great view of the sunset late in the evening, at its latest.

            Johnnie had tried to make himself at home in Mayfield. On Thursday, the fourth day he was there, he was taking a walk through the cobblestone streets. He heard the faint noise of music in the distance, the sound growing stronger and stronger as he came closer. Soon, he could distinctly hear the sound of sad acoustic guitar, thumping double bass, horns, and the light tapping of drums, all over a distinct harmonica solo.

            He looked up at a flashing sign above: THE MOCKINGBIRD it read. He looked inside, and saw tables filled with many people, young and old, eating food or drinking alcohol. At the end of the restaurant, he could see the band playing an old blues song that he couldn’t recognize. The music began to, it seemed like, pull him in, like a magnet does to a paperclip. And like a paperclip, the music pulled him inside.

            Johnnie sat down at an open seat at the end of the bar, the band partially blocked by two strangers’ heads. He saw a couple of kids, around ten or twelve, drop a couple dollars into a tip jar next to the double bass player’s leg.

            “How can I help you?” Johnnie turned around, to see a bartender leaning over the counter. He was tan and muscular, making Johnnie’s slim, pale physique seem a little embarrassing. A nametag on the right side of the man’s shirt read AARON MARTINEZ in big, bold letters.

            “Hi,” Johnnie said, slightly surprised, “I’ll take some Jack Daniels, on the rocks, please.”

            “Right on it, bra,” Aaron said, grabbing a glass from behind the bar, and heading through a doorway to the back of the bar. Johnnie turned back to the band, the singer picking up a trumpet, playing low, soft notes, which began to hypnotize him slightly.

            A light tapping on his shoulder snapped him back into consciousness. He turned around, prepared to have somebody lunge at him with a giant cleaving knife, or to have some 340-pound guy slamming him in the face with his fist. But to his surprise, it was the exact opposite; before him stood a beautiful girl, with long red hair that matched her green eyes and fair skin. She wore a red plaid shirt over black jeans and sneakers. “Hello,” she said, her voice soft and smooth.

            It took Johnnie a couple of seconds to take it all in; to understand had happened in the last five seconds. Was this really happening? Is she talking to him? He smoothly moved his left hand next to his right and pinched himself, the pain apparent. “Hello,” he finally replied.

            “My name’s Danielle,” she said, sitting down in the barstool next to him, shaking his hand.

            “I’m Johnnie,” he replied back.          

            Aaron walked back from the back of the bar, a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, the small glass in the other. He set the whiskey down on the bar counter, scooping the glass in a jar of ice behind the bar, and setting it back down on the counter, pouring the smooth whiskey into the glass, and pushed it forward slightly, landing right next to Danielle.

            Danielle glanced at the glass and handed it to Johnnie. “Hey Aaron, can you get me one too? Put it on my tab.” Aaron reached under the counter, the sound of ice clinking together ringing out, and plopped a glass onto the counter, pouring whiskey into it and handing it to Danielle. “Thanks.”

She turned back to Johnnie. “So, you’re new in town, huh?”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” he replied, “but I’m not exactly sure how long I’m gonna stay; I may be staying here for awhile.”

She smiled. “Well, that means we’re gonna have to get to know each other better.” She sipped on her drink, smiling slightly.

The rest of the night they spent chatting about their lives. Danielle was a professional blogger for an online music magazine, and often had to travel around the country, sometimes the world. She had a cousin that lived in a few towns over, so she was currently renting an apartment in Mayfield; she was thinking about buying the apartment soon.

            Johnnie crafted a convincing lie in the spare time he had (he actually already had a back story set up for a time like this, although he changed some details around, to keep it fresh). To Danielle, he was a young novelist, writing short stories and sending them off to magazines in order to pay the bills, so that he could write his “great American novel”. He tried to stay away from any key details that would reveal who he truly was. A couple of times he almost slipped, but caught himself quickly.

Hours passed, and their drinks kept getting refilled again and again. It wasn’t until three o’clock in the morning that a bartender woke them up from a drunken slumber, asking them to leave for closing. They were barely able to walk, let alone get home. Lucky for Johnnie, Danielle’s apartment was only two streets away. Johnnie slugged home, only accompanied by the dim street lights and the chilling autumn breeze.

 

§4§

 

Johnnie woke up the next morning on the floor, the sunlight blinding his eyes, triggering a massive migraine, as if an earthquake just was set off inside his head. He was still wearing the same clothes from the night before.

            Johnnie got up quickly and ran into the bathroom, throwing up in the toilet. He walked out to the living room, kneeled down and pulled his suitcase from the bottom of the bed, zipped it open and took out a bottle of aspirin, popping off the lid and swallowing a couple pills. Only a small percentage of the pain went away immediately.

            He slowly climbed onto the bed, resting his head on the pillow, and drifted off into another sleep.

 

§5§

 

Several weeks passed, autumn turned to winter; and still no reply from his mysterious client.

            Snow piled high, covering the lush fields in snow. The cobblestone streets began to get almost too slippery for cars to drive on; people could be seen walking outside of the city, waiting for their ride out of the city. Families left and came for the holidays. Johnnie even got to meet Danielle’s cousin when he celebrated Thanksgiving with the two of them.

            One day, Johnnie was at the Mockingbird drinking some scotch, watching a duet play an acoustic cover of the Doors’ “Roadhouse Blues”. It was around two o’clock in the morning, but Johnnie couldn’t sleep; he hadn’t slept for the past three nights, not for the full night at least. He had just woken up from a nap on the bar, a large red indent apparent on the side of his face. He was beginning to question the authenticity of the job; it had been over a month since he got here, and nothing has happened, except chatting with Aaron at the bar or hanging out with Danielle. The caller had better call soon; he wanted to get paid this time. Maybe he’d just drop the whole assassin deal for good, who knows.

            The door opened, the sound of thunder and rain entering the bar. A man walked inside, his white button-down shirt wet in several spots. He was tall and thin, with long black hair and light, Caribbean-sea blue eyes"but once he turned around, to reveal the left side of his face, Johnnie noticed that his other eye wasn’t the same color; it was a dark red, the color blood would make after crusting on the skin for several days. The dark dot in the center of the eye almost blended in with the eye, like a scab beginning to form.

            The man walked over to the bar, sitting down on the stool next to Johnnie. Aaron moved over, standing across from the new customer. “What can I get ‘cha pal?” Aaron asked the new customer.

            The customer looked over at the drink Johnnie held in his hand. “Umm, whatever he’s having." Aaron did as told, grabbing a bottle of scotch from under the counter, and poured into a small glass, passing it to the new customer.

            The stranger turned and extended a hand to Johnnie, who shook it. " 'Name's Joel Brooks, nice to meet 'ya," A strong accent, New York or Bostonian maybe, was apparent in his voice.

            "Johnnie Marco," he replied. Johnnie sipped down the last of his scotch and glanced at Joel, and noticed a small part of what looked like a tattoo, just above his shirt collar. Johnnie had seen a tattoo like this awhile ago: it looked like a spear, a small feather tied near the tip.

            Joel turned, catching Johnnie staring at his tattoo. Johnnie had to ask. "What's with the tattoo?" Johnnie asked.

            "I'm an eighth Cherokee," Joel answered. He sounded very eager to get off of the subject, like it bothered him deeply.

            The air around him began to get heavy, as if the bar had been teleported to a tropical rainforest. His vision began to blot in several places, melting into one giant melting puddle of colors. The ceiling began to push back, like a focus-point in a camera, as he fell to the floor with a thud.

 

§6§

 

A trickle of blood rolled down Johnnie's forehead, landing in his eye, waking him up with a start. He wiped the blood away, only seeing the darkness around him, witch to him seemed to go on and on into infinity. Johnnie tried to move his arms, but they seemed immobile, as if they were paralyzed. He looked down, only to see his arms fastened to a chair with what looked like a roll per arm, and the same with his legs.

            Some footsteps could be heard outside of Johnnie's limited circle of view. They began to get closer and closer, the echo bouncing around inside of johnnie's mind, the element of fear increasing with every single cold stomp on the cold hard ground. There was only one person, he could tell, but the direction which it was coming from was almost undeterminable. The dripping blood from his forehead was quickly outmatched by rivers of nervous sweat.

            Suddenly, the footsteps stopped in front of him with a sudden CLAP, just barely out of Johnnie's visible radius. Then, the figure came closer, only the outline of a tall man apparent.

            Then he stepped forward"his head down"the small detailed spear tattoo on his neck apparent even in the darkness; Johnnie wasn't too surprised.

            I'm taking it you aren't entirely surprised to see me," Joel said, stepping closer to Johnnie, "but you could've made it at least a little harder for me to catch ya."

            "Oh, I'm sorry," a sarcastic tone forming in Johnnie's voice, "it's kind of hard to provide a challenge when my drink gets SPIKED! And how'd you even spike it anyway; I didn't even see you touch it, let alone spike it.

            "I had Aaron work as my informant. You couldn't have thought that I wouldn't enlist somebody to do all the dirty work; after all, you're the one who wants me killed."

            All at once, the pieces began to fall into place. Johnnie finally realized that this person, standing before him, was the target the mysterious client was going to pay him to kill; but in a sudden shift of the tides, he became the target, strapped in the cold, stiff electric chair, death awaiting in the shadows.

                        "You know, I could kill you right now," Joel said, forming a pistol with his fingers, pressing it to Johnnie's forehead, "I could go grab a gun right now, and just kill you right here and now, but, I'm not going to."

            "Why?"

            "Think about it: your client probably knows that I've got you here, and she's probably gonna' send some backup to make sure the plan works out. So, you're going to help me out of this sticky situation."

            "And why would you think I would help you?"

            "Yeah, you got a point there. But, you see, here's the thing; you have two options: one, you help me; two, I'll make sure you never existed. You did intend to kill me, after all."

            "I didn't intend to kill you specifically; I was only told to come to Mayfield and wait, that's all."

            A look of sudden horror flashed across his face. "Was the caller a guy, maybe around fifty or so, not exactly Mr. Nice Guy?"

            "I don't know," Johnnie replied, "maybe, I guess. He did sound pretty irritable to be honest. Why?"

            "Because, if I'm right, there could be a whole army out for us."

 

§7§

 

"What do you mean, 'whole army'?" Johnnie yelled in a paranoid scream, "And what do you mean 'we'? You're the one they want to kill; me, I'm just the assassin who was unfortunately captured."

            "No, no, you're in the same boat as me. To them, getting captured is a sign of not being able to do your job. Basically, they consider you my accomplice, which if you're smart, you are. At least my side doesn't put a bullet in 'ya right away."

            Johnnie squirmed in his chair. "So who is it exactly that wants to hunt us for pleasure?"

            Joel stood, an awkward look on his face. "Well, it's kind of complicated."

            "THAT'S BULLCRAP!" Johnnie went from scared to furious in a matter of seconds, his face a dark red. "I WANT YOU TO TELL ME EXACTLY WHAT'S GOING ON RIGHT NOW!" He violently shook his chair, almost falling face-first before catching himself.

            Breathless, Joel cleared his throat. "Her name's Lisa Torres. She runs a drug cartel down in southern Mexico, and she's not exactly the type of girl you'd want to bring home to your parents. Once, one of her guys 'accidentally' gave her a rose for her birthday, and let's just say, he was 'decapitated', if you know what I mean." He gagged in utter repulsion.

            Joel reached into his back pocket and pulled out a switchblade, snapping it open in a flick of the wrist. He began to saw away at the duct tape restraining Johnnie to the chair. "If you make one move, I'll gut you like a fish, understand?"

            Johnnie rubbed his red, irritating wrists. He looked down as Joel sawed off the duct tape from his ankles. Joel would occasionally glance up at Johnnie, a carefully-paranoid look in his different-colored eyes.

            Johnnie waited till Joel looked down, and reacted. He grabbed the back of Joel's head, ramming it into his leg, as the other one kicked at the knife-wearing hand. The knife flew from Joel's hand, skipping along the cold floor, vanishing into the empty darkness.

            Joel took a couple of punches to the face before pushing Johnnie backwards onto the floor. Standing up, Joel struggled to get his .38 caliber revolver out of his waste band, but managed to aim it and pull the hammer back, the barrel aimed between Johnnie's eyes. "I told you not to mess with me."

            "Well what do you expect," Johnnie said, still on the fallen chair, "if someone is captured, it's their obvious reaction to try and escape, even if someone threatens to kill them. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to get this whole situation-of-a-mess over with.

 

§8§

 

A black bag was thrown over Johnnie's head, as his arms were bound by a zip tie. He was kicked out of a doorway (or at least he thought it was a doorway), and fell into a heap of cold snow, his face becoming numb in a mixture of melted and solid snow. Joel lifted Johnnie up, pressing his .38 revolver to the back of his head as the trenched through the snow.

            Sunlight penetrated Johnnie's black bag, the smell of morning dew flowing through the air. The sunlight began to fade suddenly, as Johnnie began to run into several trees with thick, pointy bark that somehow kept the bag on his head still in one piece, yet creating agonizing amounts of pain for Johnnie. He began to get mad because, he thought, Joel was purposely not steering him away from the trees.   

            The sunlight returned, to Johnnie's pleasure, but quickly faded again as they marched up an inclined hill, as Johnnie thought. The snow became deeper, his knees touching the cold snow. The sweet pine smell began to fade behind him, being replaced with a thin, uncomfortable air which irritated Johnnie's lungs.

                        Joel's knee pressed against Johnnie's back, pushing him to his knees. His arms were freed, the zip tie falling with a soft crunching noise on the snow surface. The bag was lifted from his head, the sunlight blinding him momentarily. He looked around; he appeared to be on a high hill overlooking all of Mayfield. Joel stepped in front of him, released the hammer of the revolver and tucked it back into his waistband.

            "They're here," Joel said, extending a hand to Johnnie, helping him up off the ground. He pointed to a small circle of Jeeps and SUVs about forty miles north of Mayfield, where a group of men sat around, drinking beer. They seemed innocent, except, from Johnnie's perspective, they appeared to have black masks on, or so he guessed, he couldn't tell. "That's them. Lucky for us, there's only about five or six there; we could easily take them on. The bad news is that there are probably a lot more in the town, disguised as the townspeople, and there's probably going to be twenty to forty guys she has out there.

            "So," Johnnie said, "what do you suppose we do? If we just go in guns blazing, no plan at all, we're going to get out brains blown out in an instant, especially if it's just you and me. How about we ask Aaron for help?"

            Joel gave him the same awkward expression.  "I really don't think he would be the best help."

            "Why not? He told me he used to be in the Marines."

            "He wasn't; that's just a cover story he used when he got here. The closest thing to wartime he's seen is Call of Duty.

            Johnnie's face began to grow a sorrowful expression. "So, what do we do now?"

            Joel trekked through the snow down the hill, stopping at an unusually high mound of snow. He began digging, having to pause occasionally to keep his hand from getting raw. Once the pile of snow was halfway dug through, he reached a hand inside and pulled out a large camo-printed case, setting it down on the ground next to Johnnie, who opened the box's latches and flipped the lid open. Inside were an assortment of weapons, varying from automatic pistols to large knives to the large disassembled sniper rifle which occupied the inside top of the box, similar to the gun Johnnie used last year. Joel began taking the pieces of the gun out, putting them together with a few clicks and turns. In a few minutes, Joel held a white Barrett M107 in his hands, strips of white paper adding to the camouflage.

            "Okay," Joel said, "this is what's going to happen: you're going to get some guns and sneak up on the group over there. I will stay here, creating a diversion, then you finish them off." He handed Johnnie a Colt Python and"lifting up the false bottom in the box"an AK-47 with a black shoulder strap, both with long, skinny silencers attached to their barrels. "Let's make this quick and simple; the less ammo you use, the less likely you're going to die. Go nuts."

 

§9§

 

Johnnie crept slowly down the side of the hill, leaning towards the hillside to prevent himself from falling and to muffle the crunching noise. In one hand, he held the Colt Python, and in the other, he held the AK against his thigh. He fell to the ground with a slight crunch, creeping slowly through the snow, not making a single sound as he inched closer and closer to the group of armed soldiers. The sky had covered in clouds in the last couple of minutes, benefiting in Johnnie's favor.

            Johnnie quietly crept behind a thick, snow-covered bush. He slid the AK off his shoulder, placed it on the ground, and slid the revolver in the front of his waste band. In the distance, he could see a glint of light that shone off the silencer on Joel's silencer. He waited, and waited, for what Johnnie thought was hours...

            Then suddenly a low pat rang out. Johnnie looked over his shoulder, to see one of the soldiers lying on the ground with a bloody hole in one of his eyes. In a flash of a second, Johnnie hopped up and squeezed the trigger, blowing away one of the soldiers automatically. The other three pulled off a couple rounds at Johnnie, but all missed; a fourth one emerged with a giant RPG, which backfired when he pulled the trigger, engulfing his body in orange flames.

            The other two were taken out by Joel. Johnnie turned around, to see Joel slide quickly down the side of the hill, sniper in hand, and ran over to Johnnie, snow shaking off his body. He crept over to the bodies, pressing a finger to each of their necks (except the one who had no neck) to see if they were truly dead and not just playing possum. When he was done, he ran back over to Johnnie.

            "To be honest, that sucked." Joel said, "I mean, they weren't even a challenge; they probably could've seen me, if they had been smart enough to look up. But goons never are, that's the thing.

            "All right, so now what do we do? We just got lucky there, that there were only four of them instead of twenty. What about if there IS twenty, and this Lisa chick, I mean, you talk about her like she's some sort of soul-sucking demon or something."

            "That's because she IS a soul-sucking demon! Look, picture Rambo, add a pair of nice legs and a Latin accent, that's Lisa. And the faster we get rid of her, the better. What I suggest you do is go get some cover, somewhere high up to where you can get a good view; I'll go into town and see if I can find anything out. If you see anything, I put my number in your phone."Johnnie's eyes widened as he searched his pockets for his phone, but couldn't find it. Joel laughed, tossing Johnnie's cheap flip phone over to him. "Let's go," he said, taking the AK-47 from Johnnie, and running off into the forest.

 

§10§

 

The sun finally peaked through the clouds around ten o'clock in the morning, shining into Johnnie's eyes. He stood on the rooftop of a tall apartment complex in the middle of town, the sweet smell of the morning trying to mask the rising anxiety forming inside the pit of Johnnie's stomach. 

            He had spent the last two hours on the rooftop, looking out among the town with an eagle eye. For some odd reason, the population of Mayfield seemed to be held up inside the walls; only a couple of people have even stepped outside, let alone walk down the street. Something seemed odd, or maybe it was just a coincidence.

            Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure coming down the street in front of him. Quickly, he bent over and picked up a pair of black binoculars and lifted them up to his eyes. In crystal-clear definition, he could see one of the masked goons pulling a woman down the street. It was hard to make out at first, but Johnnie noticed her hair was a very bright, very distinctive red. Suddenly, Johnnie's horrors began to kick into overdrive, not wanting to believe what was clearly before his eyes: Danielle was the girl being dragged by the goon.

            Johnnie was tempted to take out the revolver and shoot the soldier clean through the head, but he knew he couldn't; there was too great of a chance of Danielle becoming collateral damage. And plus, if he were able to kill the goon, there would be no way he could get down to the ground in enough time to get rid of the body without anybody noticing.

            So instead, Johnnie followed the two with his eyes, moving along, not losing them for one second. They continued down the street, Danielle struggling to get free a multitude of times, but to no prevail. After moving to the closest angle of the rooftop and enhancing the binoculars to the most zoomed function, he slung the strap of the binoculars around his neck and carefully but quickly slid down the side of the roof, grabbing the end and holding on with all his might, his muscles flaring like a raging wildfire. As he neared the edge of the roof, he began to wonder how he was going to get down; he didn't have the strength to pull himself back up, and there was no way he would survive a fall from this height. So, in a split second decision, he swung himself through a window. He didn't exactly plan this through; his whole body had broken the whole window, wood and all, and, to add to the pain, he hit his head smack dab in the middle of a dresser, rolling onto the carpet floor in a heap of agony. Blood rolled down his forehead and landed in his eye, like the time before.

            Johnnie quickly got up on his feet, dusting off shards of glass from his body. He ran out of the room and through the front door, not wanting to stick around to see if the owner was home, down a flight of stairs, and around the corner and through an alley, ducking behind the corner, peaking around the corner.

            The goon and Danielle were still walking down the street. Surprisingly, they weren't very far away; he had guessed that Danielle had managed to scramble away, but got captured again. They stopped in front of a small coffee shop, as the goon signaled to somebody in the shop. Another goon came outside, spoke to the other one, and brought Danielle inside. In the background, Johnnie could see what looked like an old lady, sitting along the wall, holding a scared little girl close to her. Johnnie finally realized why there hadn't been anybody out in the street today.

            The goon began to continue walking down the street. Slowly, quietly, Johnnie followed him down the street, ducking down to avoid being seen by anybody through the windows. He rounded several corners, ducked behind several windows, even climbing into a trash bin to avoid being seen. Eventually, the goon rounded a corner, and Johnnie followed behind. As he rounded the corner, he came face to face with the goon, who punched him in the face. Everything went black.

 

§11§

 

"Wake up. Waake uupp. WAKE UP!"

            Johnnie woke up as ice-cold water was splashed onto his face. A dim light filtered into his eyes, making the whole room as visible as it could be. It was similar to the room Joel held him in before, but as the light began to settle into his eyes, they weren't so similar; this room was lit by tall tiki torches that were around the same height as Johnnie, he thought. The room was covered in a slime-green mold, and the floors and walls had giant holes, probably caused by termites.

            Suddenly, Johnnie was lifted up and dropped down with a loud thud. He noticed that his arms and legs were bound together with thick, uncomfortable ropes that began to irritate his skin immensely.

            Two men walked out from Johnnie's sides and into his line of view. They were both about the same height and build, both carrying AK-47s and wearing the ritualistic black mask with a painted skull on the front. More of the soldiers came into the room, two of whom carried a beaten-up Joel.

            Finally, after about ten soldiers walked into the room, a woman walked inside the little room. She had long brown hair that fell just after the middle of the back. She wore black tight jeans, and a dark-green Sublime shirt. She was intoxicatingly beautiful, with dark brown eyes and tanned skin. But, for some reason, Johnnie felt a strong, utter disgust for her, because he knew, probably, she was going to kill him.

            She snapped her fingers, and a goon knelt down and began untying Johnnie's ropes. "So, Johnnie," she said in a luscious Mexican accent, "do you know who I am?"

            Johnnie knew exactly who she was, but he didn't answer her immediately. He didn't want to show her how deathly afraid of her she was. "We're waiting," she said, tightening the grip on his AK.

            Johnnie stood up. "You're Lisa Torres, obviously."

            Lisa walked over to Joel "who wasn't hiding his fear as easily as Johnnie was, beads of sweat rolling down his black-and-blue face. "You two must think you're really something special, don't you? Trying to take out me and all of my men? You're plan was destined for failure. That's why, Johnnie, I'm going to give you a second chance." She reached behind her, pulling out Joel's .38 Special from her waste band, opening it up and dropping bullets onto the ground, and closed the barrel, handing Johnnie the gun handle-first. "I'm going to let you finish the job I hired you to do; all you have to do is pull the hammer back and squeeze the trigger."

            "Why don't you do it?" Johnnie asked, "You clearly have enough fire power to do it."

            She gave him an angry look and stepped closer, leaving only inches of free space between the two of them. "Because, if you don't do it, my men will put a thousand bullets in you and your little friend's tiny little skulls if you don't." She began to run a long, gentle finger down his arm, but he shook it off. "And if you're thinking about pulling the gun on me, think again. Remember, I only put ONE bullet inside. It might kill me, but not my men." She stepped to the side and raised Johnnie's arm. He slowly pulled the hammer back, and looked into Joel's eyes as a small tear rolled down his cheek and onto the floor. Johnnie had multiple reasons to kill him, and Joel knew too, but Johnnie had multiple reasons not too also.

            In his head, Johnnie formulated a plan, looking at the two soldiers to either side of Joel. Then he acted.

            Johnnie tilted the gun left and fired, the goon falling to the floor, Joel sucker-punching the other one in the face, knocking him down, and took his weapon, tossing the other goon's gun to Johnnie as they ran for cover behind a doorway wall from the hurricane of bullets. Bullets flew through the walls, magically missing them. Then, in periods it seemed like, Joel hopped out of cover, quickly aiming and squeezing the trigger in a matter of seconds, taking out at least one soldier per interval.

            In no less than ten minutes, most of the soldiers were dead on the ground, the rest having escaped. Slowly, they crept low, taking extra ammo off of then dead bodies.

            Johnnie saw two soldiers run out, away from view. He signaled to Joel, and they sprung up, rifles locked and loaded, but they didn't find anybody, only dead bodies. A cold metal touched the back of both of their heads.

            "You move, you die!" Lisa screamed, "and I'm not playing around at all! After most of my precious army is killed, I am in NO mood for games at all, you hear""

            There was a loud clanking noise, followed by a thud as Lisa hit the floor flat on her face. Joel and Johnnie turned to see Danielle standing there, a large frying pan in her hands. "You're welcome," she said, "now come on, let's go!"

            Johnnie knelt next to the unconscious girl, reaching into her pockets. Joel and Danielle stood there with awkward expressions on their faces. "What are you doing?" Joel asked.

            "Getting my pay," Johnnie said, pulling a roll of money from her pocket and getting up.     

 

§12§

 

"YOU'RE ASSASSINS!" Danielle yelled, her voice echoing several times throughout the whole town. "I CAN'T BELIEVE I LET YOU INTO MY APARTMENT!" She began punching Johnnie in the chest as hard as she could, forcing him to cringe in slight pain.

            "Look at the bright side," Joel said, "at least we didn't die."

            Danielle turned to Johnnie. "Didn't this guy KIDNAPP you?!"

            "It's a lot more complicated than that," Joel replied, "technically he was just protecting myself."

            "Well, whatever, I need to go," Danielle said, walking back into Mayfield.

            Joel turned towards Johnnie. "So why didn't you kill me?"

            "Because I could probably use you in the future," Johnnie said, "otherwise, I would've killed you in a heartbeat."

            Joel took out his wallet out of his pocket, pulled a small business card and handed it to Johnnie.  "Just in case you need me."

            Johnnie took the card and flipped it over. On the other side was Joel's contact information. "Thanks," he said. When he looked up, Johnnie was gone, just dust in the wind.

            Johnnie turned around, walking back into town, his mind free of worries.