The Shadow of Mikhail

Dark, Dreary Night

New York, New York.

Mikhail was a smuggler of world renown. He did everything: weapons, drugs, money, tools, even people.

Of course Mikhail wasn’t his real name, are you crazy? It was a pseudonym. To be honest, he never gave out his actual name. But it wasn’t like that made any difference, since everyone knew him by his nickname anyways. Not even his son knew his true name, and so be it.

Yes, he did have a son, but no wife. His wife was lost in a tragic dealing with some triads a while back. But Mikhail didn’t dwell on the past. He found that it only fueled his anger. His poor son need not live through this tragedy, yet he insisted. Why, Mikhail did not know.

But, on this night, of all the other nights in this New England town, he thought back to his one nuisance: Mikhail’s Shadow. It wasn’t actually his shadow, more like an immutable bother of a vigilante, some street punk who seemed to follow Mikhail wherever he went, despite his attempts to stay hidden.

Mikhail’s Shadow didn’t attack him or his operations in specific; he actually appeared to stay away from them. Instead, they eliminated all other crime in the area, forcing the authorities to press hard on Mikhail himself, which was horrible for him. You could even tell when Mikhail was in town, because the Shadow would begin his/her work within days of Mikhail’s arrival. It wasn’t long before the crime rate would drop to unprecedented levels, and the pursuit of the legendary smuggler would begin. For the past two years this remained the pattern, never changing nor deviating, always the same. But not today.

Mikhail knew it was not long before his Shadow would turn on him, and he hoped that this shadow would spare his son if he lost. But instead of wait for the attack to come, he decided to take the fight to his tagalong friend, and finish him before it was too late.

Mikhail looked in on his son, now sixteen, sleeping soundly in his room. That boy was his life now, and Mikhail hoped that he would not follow in his father’s footsteps. But in order to do that, he had to make sure he lived to see the day. With that thought, he stepped out the door, and walked for his car.

Tonight, someone was going to die.

------

The Shadow knew this was the spot; it had been the past few days. His target would not deviate from his path, he was too stupid not to. The same routine, the same house, and he was almost tired of waiting in the same place every time. It wasn’t any feat that he wasn’t spotted day after day, all he did was dress like a street bum: lumpy trench coat, half-full wine bottle (it was actually Cherry soda), and worn boots. Yet if there was any fear in the man’s eyes, it was not evident. His target sat at the edge of the alley, waiting for the right person to walk by, and then he would pull them aside, and take what he pleased. Some days it was money, other days it was jewelry, or a cell phone; when he felt like it, some days it was sex. And the Shadow witnessed it all, just another indistinguishable part of the inner city slums, another dazed watcher of some crime he couldn’t even go to the station to complain about, because it would be a waste of time. Besides, he was too ‘drunk’ to care.

But today he did care.

So it was this day that when Mr. Mugger walked back to his apartment, fulfilled with today’s catch, that the Shadow simply stood, and blocked the man’s path.

“What do you think you are doing? Get out of my way, old man.”

The Shadow almost forgot he had been wearing a fake beard and wrinkles. Whoops. “I’m just going home…” He trailed off, some of his Irish evident in his ‘aged’ voice.