Hit And Sprint

five

I stand up, looking down at my blood covered hands and silently thanking whoever the hell invented gloves.

A small bullet was in my left palm, having just been dislodged from Grant Scott's chest. I thought it looked similar to the ammo that my glock took, but I couldn't tell with the maroon coating on the object. I had also found the shell casing next to the body, which was beside to the bullet now, just as bloody.

Robert and Roy were still stood behind me, surprisingly. I hadn't expected for them to make it through the entire procedure, but they proved themselves.

"Is there a sink somewhere?" I inquire, making eye contact with Roy. Holding up my hands as to keep the blood away from my clothes, I wonder if I look anything like a surgeon fresh out of the operation room. Probably not.

"Yeah," is all he manages to say, likely a bit shocked. He jerks his head to the left, then turns, indicating that I should follow.

I do, and Robert comes after me. I could almost feel his eyes burning into the back of my head.

This must have been weird for him. Here I was, a local hitman that he only knew through his son, cutting open his best friend's body. How unique the world of crime could be.

Getting to a bathroom, Roy opens the door for me and turns on the sink, hyper aware of the blood on my hands. He then steps back, giving me space to enter.

As I start to rinse off my gloved hands, I can hear a quiet discussion occuring behind me. Whether or not it was supposed to be heard, I was unsure.

"Can't believe she just... why did I never hear about..."

"... it's her job, dad... easy for her."

I glance over my shoulder. "Is this a three person conversation, or am I just really good at eavesdropping?" Looking back at the bullet in my palm, I realize that it still visibly reminded me of the ammo in my gun. 9 millimeter ammunition was common, so, unfortunately, that didn't do a lot.

It's silent for a beat, before Robert explains, "Oh, no. I just don't understand how you did that so easily." He doesn't sound apologetic, so I assume that he means it in a complimentary way.

"Believe me, I've done far worse," I quip, keeping my voice monotone. Rolling the casing in my hand, I catch sight of what seems to be scratch marks on it. "I would tell you some of my favorites, but I guess now's not the time. Check this out." I pull off my gloves, tossing them in the sink and turning toward the two, holding out the brass objects.

Roy hesitantly takes them, probably not liking the weight of what the objects had done. He mumbles, "Nine millimeters," under his breath, proving my idea correct. Then, his eyebrows sink, and a hard line forms between them. "Is there something scratched on there?" he asks, referring to the casing.

Robert becomes interested as well, squinting and craning his neck in order to see what Roy was seeing. His eyes looked far older when he's focusing, as though the strain aged him. "Maybe an 'A'?" he suggests.

I shrug indifferently. "Doesn't help if we don't know for sure. You guys work on that. Try zooming in with your phone cameras. I'm gonna take care of the body before it gets cold." I turn back for a second and grab the nitrile gloves that I had rinsed off, slipping them back onto my hands.

"You need any help?" Roy asks, expecting me to say yes.

"No, thanks."

His chin tilts downward. He's unimpressed. "There's no way you can carry it."

"I'm not carrying it all at once," I say, hoping that he would take the hint and not ask any further questions. It was going to be gruesome, and he didn't need to know the details. "I'll be back in about an hour. I just have to bring it to a place I know where I can burn it."