Torment || l.s.

9. Shotgun

Louis' POV

{Mood: Iron Man-Black Sabbath)

Turner's still recovering as I wait for his to calm down from the bouts of dizziness. It's an aftereffect of Ziprasidone, his medication, and I try to give him more space, in case he dry heaves again. But the planning moves smoothly.

I brush the lint off my jacket, smoothing over the creases on my jeans. I've changed out of my uniform a while ago, rummaging through Turner's closet for clothes I've left at some point in the past. I looked like a dickhead prancing around town with my tailcoat and white shirt. I'll compromise the plan if I don't change for tonight.

Now, it's time to wait for instructions. We've spent the whole afternoon, arranging backup in case something goes wrong, along with spies along the lesser known streets. It's supposed to be near flawless –as always. That's another thing that's scary about Turner; he's detailed to the point where he prepares contingent plans in case something unexpected happens.

Turner being mad is an understatement; he's livid when he comes to his senses. Injuries can't be avoided during 'visits', but deaths can be. He looks at me, eyes glinting with excitement. Now I feel fear –the kind that digs into the pit of your being, just burrowing until it spreads like an infection. "We start in a few minutes."

I nod my head, but I take a quick look at the handle of the gun on his belt, "Leave the gun. You're not going to kill anyone."

He snickers in response, making his voice smaller, "Is itty bitty Tommie scared of the big bad gun?" Of fucking course, I'm fucking afraid of a gun. It can kill me in a second. But I don't let him see the fear, instead, I back away.

"Fuck, Turner. Just leave it." I hiss, and He makes a show of it as he takes it out of his belt, before pointing at me. I raise my hands up in surrender, heart pounding against my chest in shock and fear. I see my life flash before my eyes, and I feel the cold air bite into my skin. Fuck, he's not going to kill me now is he?

He lets out a loud laugh, "Got ya!" before he places it inside his wardrobe. Fuck, I feel my heart cave in as it drops to floor. I grit my teeth before turning away from him, ready to start this shit. The faster I'm outside, the better chances I have at living, in case Turner decides to pull that trigger for real.

I rush out the door and into the alley beside his building. We're supposed to act as if we left separately before he picks me up at another location. After that, we make our way to the pub to start the game.

The cold night air bites into my exposed skin and wince at the icy touch on my neck. The burn on the juncture between my neck and shoulder is the worst injury I've got. It's swollen, turning red at the edges, last time I checked and bruises still litter my arms, but the ones from Turner's chokehold have healed. Fucking arsehole didn't have to choke me. He could have just punched me, not sear my skin red.

I reach the end of the alley, turning left when I see the desolated building a few blocks away from a Chinese restaurant. It's a seedy area littered with burly tattooed men and drunk dropouts looking for a quick buck for some coke.

'Empty building. Now. He's at The Angel.' This was the mole's message –our eyes when we couldn't see anything. It's sent through an unknown number and I nod my head, placing my phone back inside my pocket. It seems like he found the location of that fucking client and I'm not going to miss seeing that twat get what he deserves after last night. I feel adrenaline rush through me, a first these days with the lack of problematic clients. The most damage Turner had given was several blows to the ribs and head to knock the man unconscious and several lacerations with his pocket knife; the man lived with no hope of regaining consciousness.