Ace

LEBRON

               I hid behind a cement post about thirty meters away from my agent's car, holding my tranquilizer gun. Rodriguez came out of the building. He looked at the car, then slowly approached it. I noticed that he had a limp.

               The agent rolled down his window and asked,

               "Can I help you, sir?"

               "Don't give me that, you know exactly who I am," Rodriguez shot back, "What are you doing here?"

               "In case you haven't noticed," the agent replied, "This is a parking garage."

               "You're outside the railing. Technically you're not in the parking garage," Rodriguez pointed out. "Also, in case you haven't noticed, this place is no longer in business."

               "Then what are you doing in it?" my agent asked him, snarling at Rodriguez's snarky remarks. Rodriguez pulled a gun on him.

               "Don't play stupid, you already knew what went on here. The SIU has eyes everywhere," he said.

               "Hey, Rodriguez," the agent put his hands up. "We're both on the same side. I know things have got you on edge recently, but you don't want to shoot me."

               "You're right," Rodriguez returned, "I don't want to. But I will if I have to."

               "How many people have you killed today?" the agent asked. Rodriguez lowered his gun, then dropped it. This was my chance, while he still had his guard lowered. I raised my tranq gun, aimed at Rodriguez's neck, and pulled the trigger.

               Bullseye.

               Rodriguez stumbled, identifying what had pierced him, then fell to the cement floor. I ran to the car, opened the door, and drug Rodriguez into the backseat. The agent drove away fast due to the many sirens coming our way.

               "I can't believe I had to do that all by myself," I complained, "What happened? I mean, you had the tranq gun right next to you!"

               "I couldn't move," he protested, "He had a weapon!"

               "You're useless. It looks like you're the one in need of training," I took out a knife. "Were you not strictly trained to ignore pain?"

               "We were," he said. "Why do you–" I slit a cut on his face with the knife.

               He screamed and covered the wound. "Curse you, LeBron!" he hit the brakes. I slit his hand, which covered the wound.

               "Don't touch it!" I yelled, "Just keep driving! Pretend like your cut is not even there. If you pay attention to it, I'll only cut you more," I pointed at his foot, which was on the brake pedal. "Your foot will be next. I'll throw my knife at it, and trust me," I paused, "I won't miss. Now, drive," He eased off the pedal, panting because of the pain. "Oh, and some advice, or...more like a rule to follow. Never, ever treat a wound during a fight, unless it's on your neck, which you probably wouldn't survive if the wound on your throat is fatal." I chuckled. "Only tend to the injury after the fight is over," I paused, then put my knife away. "Okay, this fight is over. I won," I shrugged.

               "We're here," he grumbled, "The SIU, Special Investigative Unit."