RDM | MW [✔]

11. Mingyu

Rain pelted the roof of my car. The sharp, cutting sound was strangely reminiscent of gunfire, and with an exhale, I let that familiar, pensive sound wash over me in a wave of anticipation. Heat blasted me from all directions, warming my cheeks and my trigger finger as I held my gun in my lap—waiting.

My windshield wipers squealed with each pass they made, pushing those bullet-like raindrops toward the edges of the glass until they cascaded down my windows and made a puddle against the cracked pavement.

The soft glow of the clock on my dashboard was all I needed as I studied the rundown structure before me. Crafted of brick and forged of rubble, the circular dwelling was missing several walls and half of its roof—much like most of the buildings lining these desolate streets.

A man I recognized paused at the entrance, glancing over his shoulder in the direction I waited. The absence of my headlights made him uncertain of my presence, and with the harrowing sounds of the weather camouflaging the low rumble of my car, I knew I was nothing more than an eerie feeling, crawling up the divots of his spine in a sensation he'd have to shake off later.

He slipped past the crooked archway, likely battling his paranoia as he approached the circle of men I already knew were inside. A nearly implausible combination of this city's men stood poised between those walls—forming allies with an absence of decency and the promise of money.

Scum.

All of them.

I rarely judged a man for omitting ethics, but there were arbitrary lines a human did not cross, and the fuckers inside that building had poured gasoline across each one of them, covering them in a crowd of flames.

Little did they know that simple, symbolic flick of a match signed their death warrant and pinned a ticket to hell straight to their forehead.

With the flick of my hood, I wrapped my hand around the handle of my car and pushed open the door with the heel of my boot. Gun to my chest, I stepped out into the rain. The droplets felt like icicles piercing my previously heated skin, saturating the cotton of my sweatshirt and filling the boots I wore. The feeling was unpleasant, but I'd taken shots in worse weather, with less protection and an older gun.

This?

This was child's play, and the modest challenge the weather posed did nothing but make my cock hard as I maneuvered myself on the roof of my car, stomach down. Elbows digging the metal, I positioned my gun in front of me and stared down the scope. The rain obstructed my vision, but still, I wrapped my finger around the trigger, ready and waiting.

I'd surveillanced this meeting nearly three times before, and if the habits of my target remained accurate, he was seconds away from approaching that crooked doorway.

One...

Two...

Three...

Target in position.

He hesitated, and in turn, so did I. With a flick of his chin, the man I'd come to kill looked fully in my direction, as if he sensed my muted presence more than the last man did.

I gave myself a single second to memorize each feature of his face as he peered in my direction, eyes narrow and forehead sloped. His chest fell beneath the jacket he wore, and before another thought could swell inside his brain, I pulled the trigger and blew it to pieces.

The door opened, and through the haze of my memory, I saw the face of a man I used to know—one possessing features far too reminiscent of the man I'd killed years ago.