Revenant

Chapter 5

Who the hell was this joker? And what was he doing going after my mark?

If he managed to drop Steven instead of me, I'd have to fork over all of the money I'd accepted for the job. You never, ever try to claim credit on a kill that isn't your own - next to sub-contracting a job, that was the biggest no-no there was! If a cleaner was ever caught telling that particular lie, it was guaranteed that nobody'd ever hire them again. And that was the best case scenario.

This guy was going to cost me the whole job, a quarter of a million dollars. Money I actually needed at the moment.

I sat back and simply watched, not bothering to use the scope to get a closer view. If I used the scope I'd only be able to see one of them at a time. I needed to see this happen - watch both figures at the same time and take in how they reacted to each other.

The faux drunk's meandering steps began directing him closer and closer to the second figure in the black leather coat, who appeared to have seen him but was simply standing there, watching him make his way closer.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck . . . who the hell sent you?!" I growled quietly. "What the hell are you still doing this cornball routine for? You're only thirty feet away from him, for Christ's sake!"

Was this guy actually a pro after all? My eyes drifted once more to his ratty half-finger gloves and the gun he was holding.

Relaxed grip, and some very serious hardware. A pro. But what kind of a pro would give up an elevated position just so he could pull this dumb-ass 'cloak and stagger' routine, and all just for the sake of getting closer to the mark?

I kept watching. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. The drunken stagger was less pronounced now, and the gunman's steps became more deliberate. He was getting excited. I switched back to my scope view.

There was a tense moment of silence. A gentle breeze caused a cellophane wrapper to skitter away into the shadows.

Everything was still, and then everything happened at once.

The gunman's arm swung around to point at the still figure, and a sound like a cardboard box being torn in two ripped through the street. I made out a few brief flashes of light, some faint smoke, a leather-clad figure reeling back, and then saw the gunman moving quickly on the balls of his feet and heading to the left side of the street, away from his victim.

And that's when things got crazy.

Steven seemed to come alive at the sight of his would-be murderer fleeing, and, as though he hadn't just been shot, he closed the distance between them in practically no time at all. He grabbed the gunman's filthy coat, and swung him around in a half-circle, opposite to the direction the gunman had been running, and let go.

The tattered gunman flew backwards a good six or seven feet, his feet trailing in the air behind him, and he landed on the sidewalk next to the building on the right with a quiet 'hoof!' sound. He'd barely hit the ground before Steven was on him, impossibly fast . . .

And impossibly strong.

With one hand, he lifted the gunman by the front of his coat and slammed him up against the dark brick wall, holding him in place. The gunman tried bringing his gun around for another shot, but it was slapped out of his grasp by the free hand of his hideously strong opponent.

As I watched, it dawned on me. Charging right at a gunman, bare-handed, likely due to a superhuman amount of drugs. And yet, stupid, but smart . . .

My target was wearing a vest.

The gunman, now sans gun, struggled to release himself from the firm grip of his attacker. As they struggled, I pressed my cheek back into the familiar hollow of the rifle and began lining up my shot. Buddy with the fancy gun wasn't in a terribly advantageous position all of a sudden, and if he was one of Sack's men it would probably be a good idea to help him out a little. If he wasn't, well, maybe I could still salvage this particular contract, and he'd be the one not getting paid.