Day 70 – Half Hour Hitman – Part 1

Thought and written in exactly half an hour.

Word count: 820

Half an hour.  Two in the morning on the busiest street in Mayfair, London. Drunks staggering and swaying; prep-school brats downing sly bottles and snorting sneaky strips along some promiscuous back alleyway and the distant wailing of some far off ambulance speeding through a desolate street in search for some fading soul. Across the road there lay a homeless man, cup held limply in his hand. There was but coppers in it. No one had money to spare on this street.

The nightclubs opened their doors and the intoxicated and badly dressed fell open into the cold, black air. Taxis and limos waited patiently around the corner. The street was alive with the snapping sound of high heels on concrete and the tall, old and illustrious buildings echoed back the manic laughter and drunken nonsense of the gabbling crowd below. Half an hour.

A man smoked a cigarette, shoulder leaning on some blackened building. His figure melted into the darkness behind him such that only the amber tip of his cigarette and the yellow tint of his eyes were conspicuous. He was a man of no name; he did not require one. His name was only his number – a nigh unreachable number that had cost the lives of many men. He was the shadow of the night that plagued the minds of the guilty, the treacherous, the menacing and the sadists. He knew no emotion. To him, each and every life could be calculated and weighed out as coinage and gold. Some were no more than a few pence; some where the crown jewels and this man had taken out them and every other type in between. They were all jobs. That was the cold, hard reality of the Half Hour Hitman.

Deep inside his jacket pocket he felt his phone vibrate. Stubbing out the cigarette, he reached in and blindly accepted the call.

“Yes?” he said, a barely audible whisper. His eyes searched the scene light a sentinel. Three, four, eight, one; he counted the groups of people. He noted their ages, their intentions, and their male to female ratios. This man had every detail in the street accounted for. He had memorized every registration plate of the taxis on the rank. He had counted one hundred and forty nine cars in the past twenty minutes dry by. None of them were his target.

As the voice at the other end of the line finished speaking, he gently nodded and grunted as an affirmative response. He hung up and replaced the phone in his pocket. It was an update from the client. He now knew exactly what the target was wearing and it took him approximately four and a half seconds to look for him. He set the timer on his watch. Half an hour.

Almost as if he were never there, the man slipped away from his spot by the building and merged with the urban life. He did not look out of place. He did not stand out. He was grey, uninteresting; unnoticeable.

The target was on the other side of the street. He seemed to be a part of a group of seven, maybe eight. The man registered them as being acquaintances only. As they reached the taxi rank, they filtered off into their own group of twos and threes like a waterfall. The target was now the only remaining member of the group still on the pavement.

The man walked casually across the road, looking both ways even though he knew nothing was coming. Behind him he could feel the comfort of the shadows wishing him farewell. He was now on the other side of the camouflage. One false move; one second of eye contact; one bad judgment and it would all be over. But the man never made those elementary mistakes; he never had done and he never would.

The target backtracked on himself and seemed to be returning towards the club. But it was shut now. The man followed him at a reasonable pace. There were a few other night hawks dotted around, but none of them on their side of the street. He was clear. He need only to quicken his pace a little and they would disappear. Perhaps down the alley way to the left, perhaps he would drag him into the small park. The man had not made that call yet. He quickened his pace.

The target seemed young, maybe later twenties. He had longish brown hair. An unshaven beard. The man never questioned why his clients wanted their victims dead. The man never needed to know. But there was something slightly awry with this one. He seemed out of place with respect to his clients. But the man judged no further. He was almost upon him. With one quick movement – faster than an eagle catching its prey – the man pulled the target down the alleyway and out of sight….

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~ by S.G. Mark on December 16, 2011.

2 Responses to “Day 70 – Half Hour Hitman – Part 1”

  1. […] If you haven’t read it, here’s part 1. […]

  2. good

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