An Assassin in Turmoil

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic


Just an Expert from a short story I'm working on at the moment. I hope whoever reads this enjoys a bit of action.

Submitted: October 24, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 24, 2017

A A A

A A A


Don’t go thinking you’re special.

Is this what you do with my teachings?

Do that again, and I’ll dig that swelling heart of yours out myself.

You don’t have what it takes.

You’re dead to me.

YOU’RE DEAD!

 

Smoke as black as toiling tar rolled throughout his apartment, corrupting the air in every corridor with toxic particles that promised a slow but certain death. Bright orange flames danced with devilish excitement a few feet from his face. Its hyperactive attitude for destruction spread fast across his compacted living space.

Coming back to a world engulfed in flames, Miguel’s pulsating vision sent his swelling brain into a fit of pain. Shaking it off to the best of his abilities, he wasn’t about to let a headache be the death of him. Heavy slaps to the side of his dome fought off sheets of darkness intruding over his vision. Hacking up bits of poison clinging to his alveoli, a blackened wad of coagulated saliva slithered past darkened lips.

His recollection of recent events was nonexistent. His brain tried its best to play back what had happened minutes before disaster struck, but it was about as helpful as a faulty VHS tape. There was no time to digest the details. The only thing worth knowing was that he was still in danger. Scanning his surroundings, most would have panicked at the sight of famished flames aggressively devouring everything in their wake, reducing everything in a place once called home to cinder and ash, but not him.

A 9mm pistol hot to the touch caught his attention at the speed of sound. Crawling towards the weapon, his motor skills were slow to catch on with the program. Heated air lashed at his exposed skin, but he treated it like a summer breeze. A blast of steam caught the right side of his arm, causing his adrenaline to redline. With the prowess of a panther on the hunt for a crafty dinner, his ligaments moved like dorsal fins flowing through smooth patches of ocean. Despite the awakening of his killer instincts, it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t get out of the building.

Burning metal imprinted its serrations onto his fingertips as he peeled back the slide. Grizzled brass sat snug in the chamber, ready to perform Satan’s bidding at the pull of a trigger. Attempting to stand, his muscles screamed back in pain. The force of the blast knocked a sizable amount of tension into his body, but it was nothing he couldn’t work through.

Stressed hollers sounded off from both above and below. A mother screamed in hysterical Spanish to her husband, demanding he check on their little Meija. Below was a middle-class family down on their luck. They must have been to be stuck in a dump like this. He could make out what sounded like their eldest daughter commanding her younger brother to fill a pot with cold water. These people were in trouble, in pain, all because of him. Gripping the pistol with enough hatred to have it melt through his hand, he didn’t give a steaming shit who suffered, who was in pain, or who cried. The only thing solidified in certainty was the fact that people were going to die tonight.

Locking onto the slightest sign of movement like a hungry hawk, a man in a two-piece suit writhed on the floor a few feet in front of him, grabbing at his knee with a mug full of grimace. There was no second thought to it, no question as to whether this was right or wrong, no time spent thinking of the repercussions or regrets. Miguel could have ended his pain in the time it took for him to blink, but he didn’t. Instead, he walked until his presence suffocated the man’s feeble existence, and waited for his eyes to meet with him.

The goon’s dark brown irises held a reflection of terror; similar to how a roaming deer would look moments after it engaged in a losing battle with a hungry predator. He was well aware there was no chance in winning the scuffle. Any hope to slightly better the odds and flee would end in him dying tired. Eventually, he would trip, become exhausted, or just give up, and be consumed. Just like the deer. All that it lived for, all the memories, experiences, and aspirations it had accumulated would die then and there, destined to be forever lost in the winds of time. Just like him. The squealing man’s eyes reflected the fear of a dying Caribou. Miguel’s bloodshot irises reflected the hunger of an alpha male starving for the succulent taste of raw meat and fresh blood. Peeling off a full metal jacket, his shot hit on the tip of his nose, caving his face inwards. A section of his skull blasted out the back with brain matter hot on the bullet’s tail.

This wasn’t him. Screaming from within, pounding at the glass behind his eyeballs, the old Miguel yelled with the pain of a thousand widows. His alter-ego reborn in the purging flames of hell had just murdered someone in cold blood. Bruising his knuckles purple, frigid tears rich with fear streamed down his cheeks. He could do nothing but stand idly by and watch the anger consume his soul. He was nothing now, nothing. Crying profusely, the personality he had called his very own throughout his shortened lifetime retreated from the horror and curled into a fetal position. This was its time of dying, and like an F5 tornado roaming through the Midwest, there was nothing anyone could do to stop his alternate personality.

On the outside, Miguel moved on. Shifting his way through the apartment, he kept his shirt tied around his mouth and stayed hunched. Rusted pipes sizzled, moldy wood popped, and the roar of a growing inferno grew louder by the second. His primary interested wasn’t in escaping. How could it of been when there was still some split ends that needed cutting? Another cleaner was coming to on the floor of what used to be his hallway, but he would have had better luck playing dead. Three shots to the head made his body flop like a bludgeoned tuna.

The concussive blasts of the gunshots knocking on unprotected ears would have made most wanna-be warriors drop the gun, but not him. Adrenaline thumped against his eardrums like a Zulu warrior beating on war drums. Not only did it repel the ear-splitting cracks of sealed gunpowder rapidly igniting, but it fed off the violent pops, yearning for more.

Sliding into the remains of his kitchen, two men were up and yelling for their comrades. He related them to drowning rats trying to make sense of a flooding maze. One man spotted Miguel a second too late. The moment he had eyes on him, Miguel had two rounds gunning for his heart. Punching it out of his chest, the second man had enough time to swivel his pistol on target, but that was as far as he got. One round to the Adam’s apple spun him around and sprawled him out on the floor. Clawing at his throat, hot blood gushed from his wound and began to bubble when it touched superheated linoleum. Miguel had no time for mercy killings.

Moving on, he crossed into what used to be his living room. What was once his favorite spot to unwind after a hectic day at work was now filled with smoke. Flames climbed up the walls but ignored the center of the room for some reason. Standing by his recliner was a man drunk with delirium swaying back and forth with a crowbar. His face was plush with soot, but he was still a threat. Charging back his right arm, the man lunged for Miguel. He did nothing but speed up his demise. Missing by a mile, Miguel kicked at his kneecap with enough force to pop it out of place. Crying in pain, the man fell to the ground. Two shots between the eyes made him go stiff before his heart got the memo to stop beating.

Heavy footsteps banged like artillery shells to his right, coming down the stairwell. Taking aim, he held the pistol’s front dot on a pre-selected spot and waited for the head of his enemy to appear. It was an instant from the time he saw said head to the time it took to pull the trigger. Blood splattered behind him as his body tumbled the rest of the way down. But that didn’t silence the footsteps. Jumping down a few steps, another assailant revealed himself and opened up with a submachine gun. Slamming his chest on the deck, Miguel drilled two shots into his chest and one in his right eye. Hot blood flowed down the steps, drenching the dead man’s leather jacket in a river of crimson.

Hopping to his feet, Miguel scanned the kitchen one last time before flinching at the sound of failing supports. The apartment was coming down, and the entire complex could follow suit. Taking one more look around the living room, he made a last moment decision and grabbed a framed picture from atop his dusty hope chest. German silver hotter than a spent casing threatened to peel the skin from his hand, but he gritted his teeth past the pain and stuffed the picture in his sweater.

The smoke was closing in. His lungs were beginning to shutter. Thick clouds of black began to cut through his makeshift oxygen filter. The time to vacate was now. Bounding to his front door, he grabbed the submachine gun and a few extra magazines off the dead goon. Blood clung to the metal like a hungry toddler glued to the teat of its mother. Delivering two fireman kicks to his front door, rotted wood flew off its hinges and skidded down concrete steps.

Dampened air alleviated his lungs from the weight of death. Pushing his shirt away from his air hole, he began hacking up black powder from the back of his throat. Believing it to be the end of his ordeal, recollection was far from the dinner table as five henchmen stood flabbergasted at the sight of a living, breathing, cleaner. The fastest draw belonged to a Harlem native with an AK-47, but raising your gun into the firing position meant nothing if you didn’t hit what you were aiming at. Eight rounds of Soviet fury whizzed past Miguel’s shoulder and found their final resting places somewhere inside his burning apartment. Raising the MP5, Miguel delivered a fatal burst of lead to his chest.

Knowing others were already training their weapons of choice on his head, he hopped the railing and went left. One thug with a berretta dove after Miguel, intent on delivering a pistol whip to be had for the ages. There was a slight hiccup in his plan when five rounds of 9mm decimated his genitals. Karate kicking him to the ground, Miguel twisted around and dropped two men in two seconds flat. Giving off its trademark Brrap, the MP5 didn’t care what stood downrange. All that mattered to the savage little scrapper was that it had something to spit out. Five shots tore a hole the size of two fists in one man’s chest while the other received four rounds across the head, effectively decapitating him at the forehead.

The last man fired blindly into the stairwell, hoping to kill the demon hiding behind the concrete. A light drizzle coupled with the smoke made it hard for the thug to see anything the closer he got. By the time his vision began to go blurry, his Hi-point clicked dry. Unaware his plastic hunk of primitive junk was out, the click pinged sharp in Miguel’s ringing ears. Rising up from cover, tensed muscles guided the iron sights to momentarily rest between his eyes. Flushed cheeks didn’t do him any good as the remaining rounds turned his face into pulverized flesh.

Realizing the MP5 had shot its final load into the chubby henchman’s face; he threw it to the side and walked over to the pile of corpses. Water trapped in the cracks of the pavement reflected the dim orange glow of softly humming streetlights, making it slightly easier to search for the AK-47.It was bloody, but functional. He dug into the man’s pockets in search of a few spare magazines.

Right on cue, he could hear cars tearing rubber a few blocks down. No sirens accompanied the hustle, no scruffy voice behind an aging intercom demanded the perpetrator in question drop his or her weapon. The telltale roar of a speeding Crown Vic. was absent in this equation. Whatever was coming for him, it sounded like it held the power of a bull underneath its hood, but kept the agility of a Black Mamba.

Walking to the center of the street, he was exposed on his right and left, but he didn’t expect the attackers to take those routes. All his focus laid directly up the street. Apartment buildings lining the ghetto block came alive with yellow lights, but he knew these people were smart enough to stay indoors when gunshots rang off into the night. Powerful engines were being pushed to their limits. Despite being five miles from Manhattan, this exciting night was particularly quiet.

Pulling back the blocky action on the AK, he stood frozen in place for what felt like a century, transfixed on how the steel casing shined dully in the light. Was all this real? Or was this entire scene ripped from a Schwarzenegger flick? Could all of this just be a culmination of his overactive imagination mixed with too much sugar before bed? This bore similarity to a lot of his other dreams he had in the past. Only when the climax approached, he would always be jarred awake by an unknown force.

There was a strong possibility that all of this would disappear the second he closed his eyes, but it felt all too real. The gentle drizzle on his heated skin made it flare with goosebumps. Dopamine surged through his heart as he let the action slam back into place. His pulse was fast enough to leave a formula one race car in the dust. The smell of blood and burning wood was still fresh in his nostrils, too vivid to be fabricated in a dream. If this was really a byproduct of his imagination, would he be disappointed to wake up?

Shutting his eyes tight, the only thing alive in his mind were the sounds of screeching muscle cars eager to spread his innards across the road and the redwood of the AK’s pistol grip. Bright white headlights flashed down the road as two cars skirted parallel to each other. Sensing their presence, if there was any a time to wake up, it was here and now. There were no final seconds of reconsideration. Both cars didn’t do like the movies did and sat with revving engines, giving the good guy precious seconds to think up a last second plan. The only thing prominent in the quiet city night was the sound of peeling rubber.

Two one and a half ton hunks of metal sped towards Miguel, engines bellowing with rage. This is where reality differed from his dreams. In his own world, they would scream that they have his girl, to drop the gun, get in the car, and meet the boss downtown. In his dreams, there was always an opportunity to de-escalate the situation. He never took that route, but the opportunity presented itself time and time again. In this scenario, they just wanted him dead.

Inhaling slowly, he squeezed the slack out of his eyelids and exhaled sharp enough to slice his nose off. Focusing on the car closest to him, savage .30 caliber rounds barked out the muzzle of Mother Russia’s finest export. The unwieldy amalgamation of burning wood and milled metal wanted to climb up a thousand feet in the air, but he let most of the recoil mash into his shoulder. Flames of fury flashed in front of his face, but it didn’t disturb his aim in the slightest.

Taking about two and a half seconds for noticeable results, the car on his left lost control and veered hard to the right. Hopping the curb, it gained a few feet of air before slamming into a stairwell. Three rolls devastated the exterior of the vehicle. Glass shattered into thousands of tiny shards, rubber tore at the wheels and lashed out onto the pavement, and malleable aluminum crumpled like an empty beer can under a work boot.

There was no time to slow down and witness the climactic scene. The second driver still had his foot floored to hell. Gripping at a banana magazine, he flicked the used one out of his rifle and locked the fresh one into place. Stout recoil continued to jack into his tender flesh when the rifle flared back to life. Deafening gunshots bounced from building to building, conveying a story of hatred and death to the whole borough. Swerving ever so slightly, the driver wasn’t about to be done in by a rookie with a gun. Standing his ground, Miguel kept the bullet hose on his target as best he could. No matter how agile the bunny was, it couldn’t outrun a bullet. Coming up to the final stretch, Miguel knew he had less than ten rounds in the magazine, but if he couldn’t get it done in five, he was already dead.

Spiraling out of his barrel, a round large enough to blow a hole in a house left his weapon and traveled 30 feet before penetrating the windshield and cracking open the skull of the driver like a heated egg. Skirting hard to the left, the Mitsubishi Lancer ran hood first into a brick wall. Almost fooled into believing his reality was a cartoon rerun, a cleaner jettisoned out the windshield from the backseat and splattered against the jagged edges of the wall.

Falling quiet, Miguel took a look at the first car he shot out of commission before giving the all clear. Shifting shadows behind the car spelled bad news for the lone hitman, and he wasn’t the kind to leave anything to chance. Four rounds blasted through the car’s exterior. Hoarse cries rich with agony sounded on the other side. Judging by the strength of the yelling, the man wasn’t going to die anytime close to instant.

Moving up, a thug with a hi-power pushed his hand out the driver side window and started blasting. Thinking fast, he sent three rounds to his suspended mid-section. Hardy chunks of lead ruptured his stomach, splattered his spleen, minced his colon, and made spaghetti out of his small intestines. Heart crushing howls of pain were caught in his throat, but weren’t fast enough to escape the flow of regurgitated blood as they turned into gurgles of deathly defeat.

Realizing his dealer of death ran dry; he flicked out the spent magazine and loaded a fresh one. Racking back the charging handle, he announced to the world he was serious. Keeping his gun trained behind the car, the growing caw of a hysterical mass emphasized that the sleeping world around him was coming back to life.

Babies wailed for their mothers. Children cried in their beds. Panicked parents and bystanders yelled for answers. Car alarms beeped carelessly into the night sky. But to him, it was all white noise. Flipping over the side of the car, Miguel kept the iron sights of his AK trained on the head of a cleaner bleeding heavily from a few thigh shots. The man looked old, but not old enough to know what he needed to.

“Where the fuck is he?”

“Who?”

“What do you mean who? Your boss, the motherfucker that wants me dead!”

“Look man I don’t know! He wasn’t in the apartment complex today. It’s weird, he usually is when big shit like this goes down.”

“You saying you’re worthless to me?”

“Man, please.”

“There are a lot of people on this world breathing at the same time. Maybe the universe will thank me for getting rid of another pair of useless lungs.”

“Look man LOOK! Tongue twistin Thomas is in the other car you shot to shit, he’d know something!” Perfect timing must have been a theme for the night as the second car’s door creaked open. “

Thanks.”

Pulling the trigger, speeding lead crushed his face into the sidewalk. Swiveling his rifle to face the other car, he met oncoming fire from a handgun, but the pee shooter went silent the moment Miguel’s AK rang off. Smoke lingered in front of his face as moaning could be heard from the other side of the car. Following procedure like a chemist on evaluation day, Miguel twisted the corner to see a skinny Asian man tatted from head to toe bleeding heavily at the waist.

“Kenneth, where is he?”

“Fuck you.”

Seeing the blood start to ooze from his lips and into his gums, Miguel knew he didn’t have much time before the man went into shock. Shooting out his kneecap, Thomas screamed like a maimed howler monkey. To make it worse, Miguel mashed his boot heel into the wound, driving Thomas to the gates of insanity.

“Chi-CHi-CHICAGO!”

“The fuck is he doing there!”

“Sell-el-elling your little piece of ass to the h-hig-est bidding pimp. Ohhhh yeah, little Priscilla’s gonna be loo-ooking pretty nice in fuh-uh-fuck me pumps and dyed hair.”

12 rounds of cold war armament ripped his mid-section to shreds. Painted red and black with a smoking gun, Miguel had to breathe for a few seconds before figuring out what to do. Chicago. She was in Chicago. If he could have controlled his temper, he probably could have learned where in Chicago. But in this instance, he was thankful for a sudden loss of control.

Police sirens sounded off in the distant avenues, his signal to leave. Ditching the AK, he holstered his pistol and took off running. 


© Copyright 2018 jrc1991. All rights reserved.

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