Try Harder

9:45pm

Things were surprisingly serene outside the law offices of Bennett, Olsen, Nygärd, Jørgensen, and Holm. The bottom half of the building was almost entirely engulfed in flames. Waves of bright orange, yellow, and magenta poured out the windows and lapped at the side of the office, charring it black. Black smoke rose up into the night sky, choking out the stars.

The concrete tower burned silently, except for the sound of sirens approaching from the distance. It sounded like there were a lot of them.

***

Halfway between the sixth and seventh floors, Buff was weakly limping down the stairs. His movements were slow and stiff, as though his joints were rusted. He tried not to think about everything he'd just been through, and focus on getting out of the building.

No matter how hard he tried, however, he couldn't shake the image of Marcus pointing a gun in his face. It was something that would haunt him forever. He needed to know why his old friend did it. He needed closure.

When he reached the first landing, he pulled the radio out of his pocket and flicked it on.

"Anybody still out there?" he asked.

There were a few moments of static before Marcus finally answered.

"Oh my Lard, Buff!" he said, in his most innocuous voice. "It's some good to hear yar voice, b'y! What are ya at? How's ya gettin' on? I been worried sick about ya, me cracky!"

"Bullshit," Buff sneered. "You tried to shoot me, you son of a bitch!"

"Easy there, me son. Mind yar tongue. No need for such harsh words, b'y. Yar still alive, ain't ya?"

"Watch yourself, Marcus. Don't get cheeky. I've already killed one old man tonight."

"Ah, so ya did kill that other figger, eh?"

"I did indeed."

"Is ya killin' me next, b'y?"

Buff held his tongue for a moment. In many ways, the betrayal he felt was so strong that he really did want to kill his old friend. However, he knew he would never actually go through with it. There was simply too much history between them. He was also way, way too exhausted and bruised to survive another vicious brawl.

"I was considering it," he said gravely, "but no. I'm walking out the front door, and I'm going to put as much distance between myself and this place as I can. But before I do, I want to know why you did what you did."

"What do ya mean, me cocky?"

"You know what I mean, you old bastard. Why did you stab me in the back? Why did you throw away the thirteen years we've known each other?"

"That's a bit overdramatic there, b'y."

"You tried to kill me, Marcus. I think I'm being the perfect amount of dramatic."

The old man sighed loudly.

"It weren't nothing personal, me son," he said, apologetic. "This was pure business. This was my chance to finally get some regular work, to make a name for meself with a group of real professionals. I'm living in a van, me son! I is as broke as a head with nare tooth, b'y! I'm gutfoundered, Buff me chum. All in, and then some. Maybe you want to break free of the crime life, but she's all I got, b'y."

"I'm not an idiot," Buff said, defiantly. "This wasn't about business. You hate the French and you hate the mob. You wouldn't talk to Jacques if his voice made your dick longer. This was absolutely personal. I saw that look in your eyes. You wanted to kill me."