Hit And Sprint

three

Jumping into the passenger seat of my car, I flick my left wrist in Roy's direction, ordering, "Go."

His expression seems to contemplate it, although his body goes through the motions of starting the vehicle's movement significantly faster. "Is it always this urgent?" he asks, driving down what was practically the center of the road as he spoke. That was a stupid question. He had assisted me with things like this before.

I squint slightly. "Yes, our mark just died. We're in the last part of a timespan where any trace of us still doesn't count as much evidence, okay?" I sounded somewhat harsh, but I knew that Roy would understand that I was just explaining the situation for what it was. "If we were in there any longer and did so much as to move a picture frame after he was dead, that would open up an entire homicide investigation."

His face floods with realization, remembering times before when I had explained that same concept. "Because it couldn't have been him," he adds on.

"Exactly." My lip twitches in an upward motion as I slide down in my seat, drawing my phone from my bag. "Lemme email the buyer. Drive somewhere to get us some food."

Roy gets to a stop sign, but barely slows down before pulling out onto the road. "That's not very specific," he returns, possibly wanting a suggestion.

I arch my eyebrows, probably looking quite disinterested due to my face being in my phone. "No seafood."

He gives an unimpressed sigh, mumbling, "Great, that's just... that's great." Shaking his head with a minimal chuckle, he then digresses, "How's Pinecrest sound?"

I barely even process his suggestion before returning, "Sounds good. Now shut up so I can get this email done."

Loading the last email I had received from Joel Bradford, I scan over it while searching for the 'reply' button.

He had been keeping up the small business russe exceptionally well for someone inexperienced, to the point where his acting was almost as good as mine. He didn't use clear references to the mark, and it was damn impressive. When I first started messaging him, I had wondered how long he was planning this for, but simply forgot about it, since that part wasn't my business.

"I still don't understand what you have against typing," Roy jokes, referring to my speech to text habits.

"I talk faster than I type," I reason, pressing the record button and clearing my throat. "Hi, Mr. Bradford. I've received your first payment, and I'd just like to thank you for that, and discuss a time to meet for the final payment. We can talk about the rest of the ins and outs of my clients and such then. I hope to hear from you soon." Pressing a button again to stop the recording, I begin to check over the message, making sure no typos were made before pressing send.

I shove my phone back into my bag, and kick my feet up on the dash of the car, smugly bragging, "And that, Roy, is how to get ten thousand dollars."

Raising his eyebrows at me, he readjusts in his seat, clearly becoming more comfortable now that I wasn't rushing him to leave. "Hm, so a dead body costs the same as a ziplock bag of heroin?" he proposes. "Good to know."

My eyes unintentionally widen as I return, "I get why that fucker bought the cheap stuff."

Just as Roy's knowledge of organized murder came from me, my knowledge of drugs came entirely from him. Admittedly, what he taught me was helpful, since it made killing certain marks significantly easier.

He laughs in a way that mildly mocks my lack of education. He knew damn well that he was the only person I would allow to mock me. "Ice, most people can O.D. on half a gram, and a 10k bag is like a hundred grams."