Read Part Six HERE
They had her.
For all the crimes the Hitman had committed in his lifetime, he had never felt punishment like knowing these sick fucks had Melissa. Knowing he had failed to protect her.
Not just failed – helped. They couldn’t touch Melissa while the Teacher was alive. They wanted to but Melissa’s mother had put up too much resistance. And the Teacher had wanted Melissa to stay his ‘special girl’. Now, the Teacher was a corpse and Melissa was in their hands.
Part Five HERE
The rifle was awkward to carry, even loaded like it was in the gym bag. The Hitman lugged it over his shoulder, almost limping on one side from the weight. Not as heavy as the barbells he lifted in his routine, but sluggish and unwieldy like full bags of groceries. He remembered the assault rifle he’d carried in the army, and how light they’d felt compared to this.
No matter, he thought, a heavy burden requires an equally heavy cure.
Part four available HERE
The storm raged. The violence came back to him. The men died in droves and screamed, pleaded, begged. He paid them no heed, his rifle a barking cannon in the raging heat of the desert.
The Hitman awoke soaked in sweat. He felt the cool air of his apartment assault his body, an alien sensation next to the fire that raged on his skin. He groped in the darkness and flicked the light switch. The bedroom was a chamber of protection, a mirrored wall the only luxury. Everything else was sterile, defensive. He got to his feet and dressed quickly, picking a suit from the many similar styles in his wardrobe. His white shirt pulled taut over his toned frame. He stared into the mirror for a moment, his sunken eyes analysing the man that stood there. The stranger.
He studied the Teacher’s laptop. Through it, he found the names and addresses of their sick little chatroom. He read the chats they’d had. They were all above suspicion, people that existed in the middle class and higher – people you’d trust your children with. One of them was a policeman. That could cause issues. Continue reading
Read part three HERE
The sun was setting on Oakfelt Terrace by the time the Hitman left that haunted house. The dead autumn leaves were turning to skeletons in front of his eyes. Winter was rapidly approaching, bringing with it the cold and the darkness. Appropriate, he thought.
Tomorrow would be violent. Like the old days. When this was all new to him. The early times had been ultra-violent, dangerous, lucrative.
After he’d made his first hit in the migrant camp, things had progressed quickly. A lawyer was shot in the back of the head walking home from work, a bent cop had his car blow up on him, a banker had his throat slit in an elevator of a popular hotel – people still talked about that one, how the blood oozed out onto every floor the elevator stopped on before they could remove the body. The old, wild days. Continue reading