Gangsta Confidential

Posted: January 29, 2010 in Fictional stories
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Demun Soriasis flipped the cigarette between his lips, lighted it, the flame of the lighter adding a glint to his maniacal eyes. He inhaled and then exhaled a long stream of putrid smoke that mingled with the dense night fog. His eyes darted, searching in the darkness for unwanted trouble. He stood casually leaning against the door of a dilapidated building, his other hand in his pocket occasionally touching the gun in the holster. The cold metal gave him confidence. He would need it tonight.  The street had occasional drunks and homeless people loitering around.  A couple of drug pushers ambled around pretending to be pedestrians, their eyes darting around sizing up the situation, keeping an alert for cops on the prowl.

His low slung hat shielding his eyes from the glare of a random car that whizzed around with loud music blaring. This was the seediest part of town where the ‘untouchables’ lived, a common phrase used by the cops when they referred to the 12th ward, a few blocks beyond downtown Madrid City. The cops never ventured alone here. They worked in pairs with a backup on the alert, not too far away. He wasn’t worried about the cops, he never was. It was the informers that bothered him; the bounty hunters who prowled around and collected, for tipping off the cops and the rival gangs.

Today he wasn’t going to use his disguise. He would take a chance and see what happens. Demun was never known to be careless at his job. His precision, eye for details and quick executions had earned him the title of the top ‘hit man’. They called him “Quicksilver”. He had never messed up and he worked alone.  He preferred his solitude, not wanting to train any insolent newbie, who might bite his back eventually. He was the master of his domain and he got paid well. Nobody had seen him. The message he got today was cryptic. An apartment number and a street number, all decoded and deciphered by him.  A series of un-associated messages was conveyed to him; none along the conveyor chain knowing the source.  It was hard to trace and nobody cared as long as the job was done.

He looked at his luminescent watch, half- past- one. Another half hour and he would be all set to get on with the job. He had it all figured out and had spent days studying his escape route. The watch was his only reminder of his past. His mother had given it to him the night she died. She had overdosed on some crummy dope; someone had pushed on to her. Her embittered life of drugs and prostitution had come to a painful end that night, as he watched helplessly. She had pushed the watch into his hands muttering something under her breath. He would never know why she wanted him to keep it. But he had kept it as the only source of memory, of a dysfunctional family he had.

The bitterness in life had hardened him into an unfeeling person, which he displayed on his job.  Lately he was sobering down and loosing his edge. He was softening and getting an aversion to the calls he was receiving. He only took the jobs that paid well. He wanted to make a good nest egg and run away somewhere far and start anew. He knew it was a matter of time before the will to continue collapsed and left him adrift. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to spend time behind bars or face the death penalty ever.

The clock ticked away slowly and he steadily walked towards his destination.

“Apartment #24, Langley Court,” the code had said.

“Female,” the next code revealed.

“Eliminate,” was the standard phrase after that.

This was the usual pattern of events and directions for him. It was the first time in eight months the target was a ‘female’. He never needed the answers or clarifications for his targets.

He pried open the window lock and gently lowered him in. His mask, gloves, and shoe mitts took care of evidences.  ‘Swift job and out’ he told himself as he walked towards the bedroom of the house. Tip-toeing around, he found himself in the wrong bedroom. It was the children’s room. There were four bunkers with kids occupying them. The fifth one slept on the floor on a sleeping bag. The dim light from the night-light revealed angelic faces lost in their own dreamland.  He let out a stifled breath of exasperation, cursed and walked to the second bedroom down the hallway.  He nudged open the door and walked towards the bed, the nylon rope taut in his hands.

He looked down at the sleeping face on the pillow and his hands wavered. The serene sleeping face of a mother of five looked back at him. Who the devil wanted this woman dead, his head screamed? His face broke out into a sweat. His money was waiting in a coded mail box somewhere. He lowered the nylon rope gently towards her neck …

He slipped out as quietly as he entered and walked away, as far away as he could and then broke out into a run. His getaway car was waiting in the moonlight. With skidding wheels he hurtled down the highway never looking back, driving on and on into the darkness; the headlights making strange zigzag patterns on the tarred road. He had done it finally. He had won over himself. This was his last chance and the only one he would ever get. He had to take it and run with it, if he wanted to survive.

In Apartment #24, Langley Court the children all sat around the breakfast table wolfing down pancakes while their mother watched over them lovingly. It was another day, another morning…

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