[center][img]https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Fimages.fineartamerica.com%2Fimages%2Fartworkimages%2Fmediumlarge%2F3%2Fabstract-black-and-white-art-whispering-mists-danielle-fernandez.jpg&f=1&nofb=1&ipt=16d3e0aeab93a1945433b9ecb116cc2b137d8599c2a9d60a2a9d00d080b29a18[/img][/center] [hr] the run: part one [hr] [b] that night [/b] If he could see his breath in this winter, the man in the hat knew someone was going to die tonight. Thick wisps of hot breath poured out of his mouth as he climbed the ladder one rung at a time. His bones ached, and the man found himself wishing he had more time. It hurt to hold the cold, scalding metal with his fingers as he pulled himself up, joints squeaking like rusted old hinges. He made his way onto the roof and took a moment to check if the coast was clear before gulping down some air. He wiped the edge of his mouth and scanned the skyline. Clear. No witnesses. That's a relief. The target was three-quarters of a klick away, walking in a park. He could see a field of streetlamps and gnarled oak trees from this distance. He took the telescope out of his coat pocket and closed one eye to look through it. Two figures, male. He couldn't quite make much out at this distance. He sheathed the telescope and looked in the general direction. There it was again. That familiar hesitation. The questions. Why did he have to pick his job? Was it really necessary? Couldn't he get someone else to do it? He tried to find excuses. He licked his fingers and pointed them up to the sky, but the taste of the wind could not dissuade him. He checked the perimeter again. No one to distract him. His hands weren't trembling, so it meant he could handle it. He searched long and hard before he shrugged his shoulders, unslinging a scoped Lee-Enfield. There was something unnatural about the act of planning to kill someone else. The pathetic nature of it. Most men like him tried to blind themselves to it by taking joy or sorrow in the act, but the man in the hat treated it like a chore to keep himself sane. He lost himself in the preparation of the act, the ritual. He pulled out a squat magazine from his belt and examined the bullets in it: rows of symmetrical, brass-forged lead arrows. Full metal jacket. He pulled the bolt back and loaded the magazine into the receiver. The barrel rested on the concrete edge of the tenement as he waited. He counted down. Four this time. They're too far away from the lamppost for a three. He shouldered the rifle and paced his breathing. Four. He pulled the trigger. The butt of the Enfield bent his collarbone, mailing him a bruise with interest for tomorrow. There was a brief puff of red under the streetlamp like a match being struck. He couldn't see the other person's mouth at this range, but he had seen enough funerals to know all the familiar words. He took a brief sigh and stopped watching through the scope. The chrome barrel was steaming, wispy trails of snowmelt coruscating along its length. He pulled the bolt, caught the brass, and holstered the rifle back on his back. The man dusted off his gloves and produced a dishrag, wiping each footprint he made as he stepped off the roof and onto the rickety, rusty ladder behind him. [b]somewhere outside of Mineenoona[/b] Santiago wanted three men for the gun run to Kenosha. Pike thought it would have been easier with two, but Pike wasn't keen on arguing the finer points with Santiago. Muskie could have sorted him out, maybe even come to a deal, but Pike was just blessed with deft fingers, not a deft tongue. Santiago made the job seem simple. Transport some heavy iron to Kenosha to trade with some provos. Pike didn't like the provos, not one bit. Common criminals were easy to understand, but revolutionaries, commies, pinkos, and anarchists were simply unpredictable. Some of the older Irish back at his parents' place loudly boasted about how they were patriots for the homeland, but Ireland was scuffed bottles of Guinness, his mom's corned beef and potatoes, and some jaunty Irish tune the local drunks at O'Callahan's would break out in every single afternoon. It was yet another label that the world was determined to saddle him with. All went well. The route was a common one he took down Highway 31, and Santiago had organized the meeting place. For once, everything was working out for Pike. Well, until the Ford broke down. The pickup was currently resting near the lip of some ditch, a dried-up oxbow lake in the distance next to a spring-parched meadow. The sun had set already, and the scorching path that it had seared through the autumn sky was lacquered over by the evening. Pike kept an eye out on the road that cut through the rolling hills, his back leant against the truck's side, whilst Connor, one of Santiago's lackeys, had his arms buried under the truck's hood. Pike glanced once and saw an oil- and grease-soaked wrench clutched in Connor's right hand. "No luck?" Pike asked, a cigarette nested between his fingers. "I wouldn't mind a fag right now," Connor groaned, the wrench clattering on the asphalt. "We had to take that piece of shit's truck, didn't we?" Pike knew who he was talking about. The man he'd mentioned, the plus one, had been sent off to a gas station to fetch some motor oil, but it was mostly to keep the fucker busy. Pike nodded in sympathy, scrunching the cigarette under his foot, before walking over to the front of the truck. "Alright, let me see if we can get this over with—" "You boys need a hand?" Both Connor's and Pike's hands twitched to their back holsters, peering to the side of the truck to see a black-and-white patrol car parked behind the pickup. A uniformed patrol cop with a squashed cap and a bomber jacket walked over to them, his spine straight like a railroad spike. "Hey there, officer. In fact, we just called a guy to come pick us up," Connor lied, chuckling. "Nothing to see here, just a shitload of bad luck." "You could be waiting here until tomorrow morning when that pickup comes, son. I could take you to a phone or wherever you need to be while I get your truck sorted-" "No! No, it's just that -" Pike gulped, rubbing the pads of his fingers together, "-we're actually delivering this truck here to our cousins down in Madison. He'd kill us if he had to go pick it up himself." The officer scratched his chin as a Mustang bolted past them, tires screeching on the asphalt as its passage scattered loose gravel and leaves. Pike tensed as the officer checked his watch, wondering if they've been caught. "Well, lemme see if I can get it sorted then." The officer took off his cap and pushed it into Connor's arms without a word. Connor mouthed silently to Pike some curse he couldn't make out as the officer's fingers moved around the crevasses of the Ford's hood like a musician's. "Your battery connections look good. You're obviously not running a flat. Engine oil and coolant look topped up. Alternator's fine. Probably has something to do with—ah—." Pike intimately knows that glint in the man's eye, the fervor one feels after nights of oiling and disassembling guns for years on end. "It's the timing chain. It's loose. It isn't supposed to be loose. You just have to twist it a little and—" The officer grunted, twisting something down within the interior of the hood. "Try it now." Connor, hand still behind his back, walked to the driver's door and poked his hand through the window. A moment later, and Pike heard the engine thrumming once more with relief. "You two aren't much in the way of mechanics, are ya?" The officer wiped his oil-slick hands on a napkin, a grin on his face. "Where do you hang out? Never seen you two before." "Uh, the Soiree, O'Callahan's, Blue Lights," Pike lied about the last two. They were dive bars located on the south side of Mineenoona, far away from his own shop. "O'Callahan's, huh? You ever played brag?" "Nah, nah," Pike shook his head, not too fast to seem suspicious. "Not a brag guy?" "More darts. Pool," Pike said, wiping away the sweat on his forehead. "Maybe a little bit of twenty-five every now and then." "Right, well, I'll be off then." The officer turned away, strolling to his Cadillac before pausing and turning back to face them. "Uh, didn't catch your names- " A silver blade suddenly sprouted out through the officer's tongue. Connor swore out loud, and Pike's stomach heaved. He stumbled for his revolver as the officer's eyes wobbled and twitched in agony, unable to breathe with three inches of steel in his mouth. The knife dragged its way through the back of his neck, carving a red line through his cheek. Pike saw the cop's molars, rows of pearly white teeth. The knife disappeared in a geyser of red, and the cop fell to the ground, a limp corpse of meat. Raul stood over him, blood scattered over the sleeve of his dress shirt and a river of red dripping down the stalactite point of his knife. The two of them watched Raul dumbly, like deer in headlights, Connor with his mouth agape like a fish and Pike's lips pressed tight enough to break a needle in half. Raul didn't even notice their expressions, busy using the cop's dress shirt to wipe the blood off his knife. After a while, he looked at their shocked expressions and nonchalantly shrugged. "What? He's a cop. Was gonna rat on us eventually. Better for him to be dead than alive." [hr] [i] Midnight. Saw some pet cat stomach burst open by a truck tire. Eyes were still blinking. Murder of a cop outside the city limits. Patrol officer. Same routes as the ones down near New Jersey. Washington can't ignore this now. Maybe, they'll finally send me the men I need. [/i]