Chapter Two

I drew out the cell phone from my pocket as I strolled through the lot to my car. It was an old fashioned phone, you know, the ones with actual buttons that you can press and everything. I slid it open, the screen lit up cheerily. I hit the left soft key and a list of contacts popped up, which I scrolled through.

A guy working in my field gotta have connections, ones that can supply you with untraceable guns, ammunition and fake IDs when you need it.

Ones that you definitely wouldn’t want to be caught red-handed with.

If the DA got her hands on this, she is going to have one hell of a field day.

Names and numbers paraded across the screen.

Hmmf, first thing I would need is to dig up more information

I flicked through the digits a second time and went through my “J”s.

I overshot the name I was looking for and had to dial a few back, stopping at “Jase”.

Jase was your guy if you wanted accurate info and wanted it fast. If he doesn’t know, he knew someone who knew.

I’ve done business with him a few times, Jase does good work, but he doesn’t work for just anybody.

And as a saying goes, everyone has their vices, mine is booze, obviously. Jase’s, however, is cocaine.

Lucky for me, I work in the police department, so getting my paws on the white stuff isn’t really an obstacle.

I hit dial, it rang three times before a click and a quiet voice rasped, “Hello?”

“Jase,” I replied amiably, “This is Sarvis.”

“Sarvis,” his voice had a little hint of strain, “This line probably isn’t secure.”

“I know,” I agreed affably, nor were his four other lines, because I was the one to tap them, but I wasn’t about to tell him. Jase had access to one too many resources, that made him dangerous, and I liked keeping tabs on dangerous people. “How do you feel about getting paid?” I asked.

“What’s the job?”

“Does not require you holding a weapon of any sort, luckily.”

“Whatever,” I heard a series of keyboard tapping in the background, “You know where to find me.”

“Aye,” I agreed and hung up.

 

Twenty minutes later, I halted my car beside a worn two-storey house in the edge of the slum and peered through the window.

This wasn’t the best place in town, but hell, you could do a lot worse.

Killing the engine I tugged out the key, grabbed the cigarette case on the passenger seat and stepped out.

Trudging up the cracked pavement leading to his house, I saw the security camera mounted above the door swivel around to scrutinize me, so did the six others hidden cameras follow suit.

Christ, Jase does take his safety pretty seriously, doesn’t he?

I trudged up to his off-white porch leaning slightly to one side and pounded on the wooden door with flaking paint.

It’s mainly just formality.

“Sarvis? Is that you?” Jase’s tinny voice squawked from the rusty speaker hanging lopsidedly besides the door.

“No, I’m the pizza delivery guy.” I replied, “Christ, who else could it be?”

A series of small clicks were emitted from somewhere behind the door, and then a solid clack as the master bolt withdrew. The door swung inwards.

Insecure much?

I stepped in.

His place was, well, I guess normal for a guy who never leaves his house.

Can’t say that I wasn’t more than a bit surprised when I first saw it, maybe even a little disturbed, but I guess it was to be expected.

The shades were drawn turning the noon lighting into dusk, a scent of stale food hung in the air. Towers of empty pizza boxes loomed grotesquely out of the gloom, like in some forgotten realm. I kid you not, at least half of them were as tall as me, and most were leaning in the most unsettling fashion.

All was quiet.

Skirting precariously around a few stacks that swayed ominously, I treaded carefully further into the house.

The kitchenette was surprisingly clean in comparison, the sink was free of any dishes, nor do I believe it was ever used to wash dishes, the trash can next to the food-stained refrigerator, however, was a whole different story, overflowing with disposable napkins, Styrofoam cups and bowls like some mutated volcano.

I sniffed disapprovingly, hell, I was a messy guy, but this… this is way over the top.

Reaching the corridor, a door was left slightly ajar to my right. Blue light pulsed through the crack, and with it, I heard the harsh clicking of a keyboard being brutally assaulted.

Nudging the door open with my foot, I poked my head in.

Jase sat facing me. Compared to the floor littered with random objects and trash, his desk was surprisingly clean and clutter-free, and on the desk sat a state-of-the-art quad screen monitor. The walls were lined to the ceiling with high-tech gizmos. Monitors pulsed with a steady blue light, lines of programming ran through each flashing screen.

“Sarvis,” The thin man nodded as I pushed the door all the way open and entered, “I was starting to get worried you were lost.”

“Briefly, in the Pizza box maze you’ve left back there,” I hooked my thumb toward where I came from, toeing a few random litters out of my way, “It’s bigger than I last remembered.”

“Could be,” Jase scratched at his three-day growth of stubbles, “I’ve lost track.”

“Huh,” I grunted and held up the box, “Let’s talk business.”

“Very well,” the lanky man said, “What do you want?”

“Intel.” I tossed the pack of cigarettes on his desk.

Jase eyed the package with narrowed eyes.

“What?” I asked, “I’m dealing in good faith here, as agreed, 30 grams of crack.”

“Or 30 grams of chalk dust,” the lanky man raised his eyes mistrustfully.

Seriously, are cokeheads all this mistrustful?

“Look, that wasn’t me!” I spread my hands, “And I made up to you, didn’t I?”

“And nearly got me killed.”

“Christ, and you forgot all the other happy dealing we’ve had?” I shrugged.

“We’ll see,” Jase remarked darkly and sliced open the case with a pen knife. He ran his fore finger through the white dust that spilled out and rubbed it on his gum.

“Well?” I growled, “Satisfied?”

The man looked thoughtful for a second, “Not the best stuff, but it’ll do.”

“Groovy.”

“Now, what is it that you need so desperately?”

“I need dirt on one Mr. Carl Torlos.”

“The Cobra?” Jase asked in a mildly voice.

“Aye.”

“Yeah,” the man replied, scratching his stubbles, looking at the computer screen, “he’s dead.”

Huh? How the Hell would he know. “Nope,” I replied, trying to sound casual, “Pretty sure he’s still up and about.”

“No, I mean people have stopped dying.”

WHAT?!

“What?” my voice echoed the thought in my head.

“Of all the people,” Jase gave me a lopsided look, “I’d thought you’d be the first to know.”

I was lost for word for a moment, which didn’t happen much, “Yeah, I know.”

“Then you should know Cobra’s dead.”

“We’ve had that notion.”

“So you’re going to have to kill a dead guy.”

“How does this dead thing works?” I questioned, “All of the sudden everyone just stop kicking the bucket?”

“Nah, not that simple, some people still die like they used to, but a small number of people seemed to have lost the ability to pass on. Government’s trying hush things up, but info’s still leaks through the cracks.”

“So… not everyone gets the Walking Dead Package?” I asked.

“Apparently not.”

“How’d you know?” I demanded.

Jase gave me a come on look, “I’ve taken strolls inside the Pentagon database for fun, you really think I can’t get intel on this sort of stuff?”

“…No.”

“Good, now stop harassing me on it.”

Seriously, this guy was starting to creep me out with his capability to get his fingers on things he’s not suppose to know even to exist.

“So you want info on a dead guy?” Jase cut through my thoughts.

“Yes,” I crossed my arms and leaned against the door frame, “hit me.”

“Well,” the man typed a few commands into his computer and the large screen behind his desk lit up, synchronizing with his desktop, “I’d start with his position if I were to you.”

“Go ahead,” I stared at the screen.

He hit a few commands, “With his control over drug trade, I’ve started taking an interest on his gang the Association Serpiente, so I hacked into his base’s computers.”

Heh, no surprise there.

“I’ve extracted his list of drivers,” a catalog of names appeared on the big screen, “They should prove helpful.”

“More so if you just coughed up his exact location.”

“A bit hard,” Jase shrugged, “I’ve tried drawing a bead on his phone signal, but he uses a prepaid phone and discards them more often than he changes his underwear. I guess if you’ve died once, you’d be careful not to repeat that experience.”

“Hmmff.”

“Yeah, so,” The printer in the corner hummed and spat out the list, Jase tugged it out and handed it to me, “This is all I can do for now.”

“Fine,” I accepted the printout, “keep me posted.”

“Will do,” the little guy waved, and returned his attention back to the screens.

I turned and hooked the door close behind me with my foot.

 

As far as my coworkers are concerned, I’m the one-man-army. I kick down the door, nail the poor b*****d and walk away as the whole place blows up in slow motion in the background.

Not true.

While, I am generally the guy who pulls the trigger and do the deed, I don’t do it alone. I’ve got a list of people stowed in my pockets. They are the backup I call in when things get hairy.

And things are just about as hairy as it gets.

Time to visit my other associates.

 

The Cutlass coasted into a parking space a few meters away from Gere’s body shop.

I popped the trunk as I exited the vehicle and retrieved a rather large and dirty gym bag from the back.

Slamming the trunk down with a thunk, I trudged into the shop with the bag thrown over my right shoulder.

The place was well lit, half assembled vehicles raised up on hydraulic arms, wrenches, screw drivers and um, car stuff decorated the wall.

Mechanics were hunched over cars, reaching into engines and repairing cars all around.

Prowling through the mayhem, my eyes searched until they fell on a familiar pair of dirty tennis shoes sticking out from under a 1971 Plymouth Hemi Cuda.

Strutting over, I gave the shoes a not-so-gentle kick, “Up and at ‘em Gere.”

A large left hand poked out from under the car holding a socket wrench and with its middle finger extended, followed by a thick and hairy arm and then the rest of the person.

My friend grinned up at me from his creeper, “So, looks like you’ve managed to crash your cutlass, again.”

 

Gerard “Gere” Lucas was about six feet and a half standing up. Built like a gorilla, acts like one, too. He has deep set hazel eyes and his brown hair was in a crew cut.

The thing that stands out, apart from his size, was the fact that every uncovered part of his body was covered in minute cut scars.

“Faceful of glass.” He would say to whoever asked.

This… is technically true, but the more accurate version would be “Face full of glass, through a window, sixty stories above ground, escaping a fire that I started.”

 

I snorted at his comment, hefted the gym bag and looked pointedly at his back room entrance.

The grin vanished, Gere nodded, and got up, “Hey you, Twitchy,” he yelled to a skinny blonde boy who lounging near the back, “Get yer a*s here and finish her up.” He hooked a thumb at the Cuda.

He then fell in step after me, “What gives, Sarvis?”

“More work.” I grunted.

“Goody.”

“Tell me about it.” I stepped aside and let him unlock the door.

After the steel door was clanged shut behind us he asked, “What’s the job?”

“The usual,” I shrugged and flipped up the light switch fluorescent light flooded the spacious storage room lit up, “Guy shows up on government radar and now he is wanted dead.”

“Ah,” Gere nodded and leaned back against, “But before we begin, you know my standard fee.”

In answer, I produced a check.

The big guy took the piece of paper, scanned the sum and nodded.

“Game?” I gave him a crooked smile.

“Game.”

“Groovy,” I said and tossed gym bag onto some crates packed with hubcaps.

“First I’m going to need details if I’m to do the job.” Gere turned around and fiddled with a small panel next to a wall mounted with mufflers.

“Gang boss outlived his welcome.”

“Aren’t they always?”

“This one seems more… tenacious.”

“And where do I come in?”

“I need a thug to pull off this job.”

What’s a thug? Let’s begin with my job as the hitman. I was the assassin, the one who prowls in the shadow, the silent and ever vigilant hunter, and doing those wicked cool slow-mo aerial movements.

Gere? Well, he’s the one kicking down doors, eyes crazy, gun ablaze, screaming his head off and basically causing a hell of a racket, so I can get into position to do what I do best: aerial stunts.

We went through some bad patches together, but made it out in one piece.

Point is, he’s good people and I trust him to watch my back.

I slapped the printout on the lid of the wooden crate.

“Alright, the objective is to polish off this bozo Carl Torlos, who is, I’ve heard, one tough son of a b***h to kill. Problem is that I still haven’t…”

“Not that tough,” my friend scanned the list lazily, “He’s already dead.”

And for the second time of the day, I was speechless. God, I hate that.

“…How the hell did you know?!” I demanded. Seriously, this is a lot of information to dump on a newly deceased hitman, “Where the hell do you guys get your hands on this sort of informa… oh, wait, don’t tell me.”

 

Probably a good time to mention the fact that Gere was a FBI agent.

Yeah, emphasis on the “was”. He was canned for multiple misconducts of authority, technically meaning he dosed out an excessive amount of random destruction, like, driving a freaking metro train into a bank’s front window and then promptly crashing a tank in there within the same hour.

I still wonder how he pulled that one off?

He was basically a humanoid wrecking machine, which apparently didn’t sit well with the Government, but it suited me just fine.

I worked a few cases with him when he was still with the bureau. We got along quite well, him leaving a mountain of flaming wreckage and me a trail of bloodied bodies, it worked. We cooperated flawlessly.

 

“Look, bro, it’s a rumor, or rather, a badly guarded secret.” Gere picked up the list and peered at it, “So, what’s this? Do we have to take care of all these dirtbags? If so, I’m going to have to readjust my price.”

“They’re leads, genius.”

“That’s an awful lot of straws to grasp at. How long do you reckon it’ll take us to go through them all?”

“Not long, we’re just going to knock on their doors and ask them nicely about the whereabouts of the target.”

My friend snorted, “You wish.”

“That’s me, half full glass of water.” I returned brightly.

“Well then,” Gere dropped the printout back and leaned back, “After we’ve located the target we’re gonna need an assault team to storm the fort.”

“I was thinking a more of a hit-and-run.”

“Either way, we’re going to need a team.”

“Agreed,” I nodded, “Wheelman.”

“Abel Kosky.” He replied promptly.

“The drunk Russian?”

“Hey, he drives better than you do sober.”

“That’s not saying much, is it? Pretty much just anyone can drive better than me.”

It’s true. I’m a cool headed person and all that, but I can’t drive for s**t. Seriously, when I’m behind the wheel and flooring the throttle… well, let’s just say that everything on the road is fair game.

“What about Croyle?” I suggested.

“Xavier Croyle?”

“Aye, he’s good at maneuvering tight spots.”

“But lousy at shaking pursuers,” Gere cut in, “we need more of an… innovative getaway driver.”

“Fine,” I conceded, “we’ll see how this Kosky fares.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“I’m already starting to.”

“Real support you’re showing me,” Gere punched me on the arm, which knocked me a few steps back.

“We’re probably going to need extra support fire.” I tapped the list, “this guy doesn’t look like he’s the type to skim on security.”

“Can we call Siren?” Gere asked hopefully.

“Are you serious?” I glanced up, “Oh, hell, you really are.”

Siren is a rather cute, but feisty Asian assassin from an oversea agency. We worked on a case one year back. She was a brilliant sniper and pretty much saved both our asses that night. I think Gere developed a crush on her, and like a fish suddenly sprouting legs, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

It was awkward.

“I’ll try, but she’s in Taiwan, man,” I patted him on the shoulder. “I don’t think the chances are high.”

“Too bad I got her this,” he replied and pulled out a fricking military grade M40A3 bolt action sniper rifle from behind the shelf and placed it on the lid.

“Hell,” I gave a low whistle, “that must’ve set you back a couple grand.”

“It wasn’t cheap.” Gere agreed, “nor legal.”

“Jeez, you a love-struck fool,” I shook my head, “never thought I’d live to see this day.”

“Shut up.”

“Great comeback.”

“I was short on time.”

I grunted and inspected the rifle. It was a fine weapon, sleek and oiled, a seven-kilogram work of art for murder. Pure, simple and very, very accurate.

I straightened up, “Well, I guess we’ll think of someone later.”

“Aye,” Gere replied, picking up the huge sniper rifle and placing it back in the hiding place, “Anything else I can help with?”

“Indeed,” I picked up the worn gym bag, “I’m here for my stuff.”

“I see,” the man grinned and walked to the back of the room.

I followed, “You did take good care of my weapons, right?”

“Aye.” Gere inclined his head and moved a wall mounted with a rather impressive display of hubcaps, grabbing a Pontiac rim, he twisted it a few degrees to the right, then to the left, and then I lost track. I don’t pay much attention to these sorts of things.

Fifteen seconds later, with a loud clack, the display section of the wall slid open, revealing a very remarkable collection of firearms, most of them illegal.

“Huh,” I commented, “seems like you’ve expanded your little collection.”

“A gun for every occasion.”

“Impressive,” I ran my hand over a well-oiled Mac 10, “Where’s my stash?”

“Got it right here,” Gere rumbled, and tossed me my trusty Steyr AUG.

I flipped it over, examining and worked the action to inspect the chamber. All in good shape, my friend has done his job well.

I stuffed it into the gym bag, “Clips?”

“How many?”

“Four will do.”

“Aye,” Gere nodded and slapped four loaded, 50-round magazines in my hand.

Those went into the bag as well.

“And my P90?” I raised an eyebrow, the small boxy gun has gotten me out of many tight corners.

“I was just at it.” My friend complained as the gun was extracted from the top rack, “A little patience.”

“But they want their daddy.” I grinned toothily.

“Catch,” Gere growled and tossed the weapon non-too-carefully down.

“Hey, watch it,” I protested.

“Here’s the ammo.” Four clear plastic clips followed after the P90.

“Will that be all?” he asked.

“No,” I wrinkled my brow, “I also want something big and can deal a hell lot of damage in a short time… and cool-looking, yeah, definitely cool-looking.”

Gere gave me a dead look, “You are behaving really immature right now.”

Coming from a guy who is psychologically four, it was probably my wakeup call.

I shut my mouth.

“Huh, wait, I might have something…” the big guy grunted and plucked chrome plated, drum fed, 12 gauge, USAS 12 from the wall and handed it to me, “This baby should take of that.”

“Sexy,” I ran my fingers against the side plates, it was a world of chaos packed into a nifty 96 centimeters frame, ready to be unleashed at any moment with a pull of a hair trigger.

Gere clacked down a stack of extra magazines on the table beside me, “Have fun.”

“I always do,” I grinned and packed all the gear into the gym bag, “I love my payroll.”

Gere nodded and peered into my gym bag, “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Gere gave me a thumb up and hauled the pane back into place.

I swung the now full and heavy sack over my shoulder and headed toward the exit, “I’m going to grab a bite before we head out.” I called over my shoulder.

“Aye,” my friend replied, “You going to That Diner around the Corner?”

“Where else?” I opened the office door.

“Grab me a Turkey Club while you’re at it.”

I stuck up my thumb and left the room. The door swung shut behind me with a muffled bang.

Author's Note

Any and all comments will be appreciated.

Reviews

[Soma-ko]

Hahaha, loved this one as well. I'm working on a story and I can never seem to write like you do (that type of style), and end up with a slower story with more details. Had great fun reading this and the flow is so smooth that I can't get bored while reading. Love how knowledgeable you are on guns, and great job. :)
Keep it coming.