Post by Tyr Odinson on Jun 12, 2008 21:54:54 GMT -8
Several hours earlier
Andrew stared out the large window, his glasses adding a dark tint to the sunrise outside. In his left hand, an eagle, his favorite gun. His hair hung down just over his eyes, adding to the dark feeling his frame gave off. He was only seventeen, but looked to be around the age of thirty, a quality he used to his advantage on many occasions. He was never questioned when he went to buy alcohol, nor did anyone question him about whether or not he was old enough for the business he had made for himself. Growing up with his father, a man who had someone killed on a regular basis, Andrew had seen plenty of death, plenty of murders, plenty of the dark side of life. He didn’t flinch when it came to his work. He merely wanted money. That’s the whole purpose of a job. To make the cash. Whether the person was innocent was of no consequence to him. He was being paid to do a job, and he did it.
The body, which was now lying on the floor behind him, was that of Jack Statton, a car dealer who had borrowed far too much money from the wrong person. Andrew was the man hired to retrieve the money, or retire the man. Since Jack didn’t have the money, things hadn’t gone over well for him. Luckily enough for Andrew, he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger. Apparently, Jack was in a state of bankruptcy, his dealership repossessed and his family no longer on speaking terms with him. A state of depression had washed over the fellow, and he had been contemplating suicide. So when Andrew had told him he had to pay up or permanently retire, Jack chosen the latter (as though he HAD a choice), requesting to do it himself. Andrew obliged. He didn’t care how it got done, as long as it had the same end result.
He wasn’t heartless, or cold, as most people would assume. He wasn’t one of those who could just shut out the world, or just not feel it was wrong. He knew it was wrong, he knew how he lived, and he just didn’t care enough to change. What reason was there for him to change? His family? They hardly ever talked to him. His friends? What friends. His girlfriend? As if. He didn’t need to change himself, and therefore, he continued on in the life he had created.
Turning away from the window, Andrew stuck the gun back in its holster on the outside of his right thigh. He had the twin to the gun he held on his left thigh, and a large hunting knife across the small of his back. His jacket, which was pure leather, fit comfortably to his frame. A black t-shirt hugged his massive frame, showing well the muscles he had grown up working so hard for. His jeans, which were a dark blue, would hold no blood stains this day. His shoes, black in color, did. But it didn’t show well, and so he didn’t care to take the time to wash them off. He walked down the small flight of steps, not bothering to talk to any of the men his employer had insisted sending along. He wasn’t the most conversational of people, but he guessed the people he worked for probably liked it just as much as he did. The less talking needed, the better.
His shoes made little noise as he reached the parking garage on the bottom level of the building he had taken jack into. It was actually jacks. It was the building the man had bought with the money he had borrowed, a cliché metaphor the employer had insisted upon. He apparently thought it fitting the man died it the building he had purchased with his money. Andrew pulled out the keys to his Mustang GT, opened the sleek black door, and hopped inside. He cracked his neck, and sighed. Sticking the key in the ignition, he turned, a rare smile coming to his lips as the 600 hp engine roared to life. He had put a lot of time and money into the car, and, though many people had one, it was still his favorite. He slowly backed out, tires spinning as he flew out of the small parking area jack had built for his car dealership. It was time to collect his cash.
His employer, Donald Humphrey, was a fat bastard, and a cowardly pig. Albeit, a pig with well of half a billion dollars hard earned by his father, the late Nicholas Anderson, CEO of Anderson Ind., a weapons manufacturer for third world countries. Donald, though overweight and money-loaded, knew good business, and was more than happy to hire Andrew to get his dirty work done. Though typically a small time worker, Andrew had been finding himself called upon by big-time names of late, and, after thorough background checks and secret meetings, ha set up a price and negotiated the specifications of his job. A clean bullet, no fingerprints, and no way to trace it back to either himself or Mr. Humphrey.
Not to mention a pretty little twenty thousand dollar paycheck in Andrews pocket.
It was about a fiftieth of what Donald had loaned jack, and was a small price to pay for a well placed example to anyone else who owed him money. Hits were always the priciest thing about Andrews work, and while this wasn’t the first one he had ever done, it was the biggest paycheck he had so far earned. His usual suspects were one thousand to five thousand. Low-life drug-dealers who had given the wrong product, or wives who had wanted they’re cheating husbands to pay the ultimate price for they’re infidelity. Andrew didn’t care, as long as the people paid, he’d do the work.
Twenty minutes ago
Andrew took the next exit, scanning the beach for the person he was going to meet in order to collect the blood money owed to him. He pulled over, put the GT in park, and took out the keys. He got out, the women who were leaning against the wall by he parked his car giving him smiles and winks. Andrew ignored them. He walked one block back to the beach, and, stepping along the path, walked down the beach, and around a small mountain outcropping that totally blocked him from view. There, he found the man he was waiting for. The guy held a small bag, almost like a purse but with no strap, and looked to Andrew. The guy was old, probably in his fifties. Black hair mingling with gray in a bull cut that was totally unfitting of his age. Hs eyes could cut steel, however, and in hand a revolver. Andrew’s eyes locked on it, and his own hand found his gun. He drew it, but didn’t point, and the man didn’t budge as Andrew did so.
“Our employer is very satisfied with your work, Mr. Stevens.”
Michael Stevens was an alternate name Andrew had developed for himself in the world that he worked in, and everyone who he had ever associated with as in that world knew him by that name. The man turned to Andrew, and reached up, replacing his gun under the jacket of his gray suit.
“Here’s your money. You’ll be hearing from us again.”
The man tossed the cash to Andrew, who caught it with his empty left hand. The man turned, entering the large cigarette boat he had come in, and, turning the ignition, sped away. Andrew looked down at the bag, opened it, and after satisfying himself as to whether it was all there, stuffed it in the large pocket in his jacket. He replaced his gun, then turned, exiting the small area in which he had entered, more than satisfied with the job he had completed. He returned by the same path to his car, only to find a man leaning against it. Andrew approached.
“Can I help you?” Andrew asked, his deep voice calm and collected.
The man stood, and, flashing a badge, spoke. “My name is detective Ronald Mitchell. I’m sorry to bother you as I expect you’re very busy, but may I see the license you must surely have in order to carry those weapons?” Andrew, whose eyes couldn’t be seen under the glasses, was flicking his gaze to a few new cars that were parked around his, most of them having black tinted windows and a large antenna on the top. He grinned.
“Why, of course officer.”
He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and retrieved the license he had had made for him. It wasn’t cheap, but having a seventeen year old carrying guns openly wasn’t exactly the best of ideas, so Andrew had gladly forked over the cash for the little piece of paper. The Detective reached into his back pocket, pulled out a small hand held computer, and stuck the slip in the side. A slight bell sound was made, and the officer handed Andrew back the slip with a small smile of reassurance.
“Thank you sir, we have you registered now so it shouldn’t be a problem from now on. Try and keep those things hidden from now on, ok? Having them out in the open causes us a bit of worry.” Andrew nodded. “Ill keep that in mind.” The officer nodded bacl, then turned, making a circle above his head with his index finger. The three cars Andrew had noticed pulled away, and the cop got into the one that had been sitting in front of Andrews GT, and pulled away.
Present
Andrew’s watch went off as he opened his car door, and he looked at the time. “Shit, I’m late for school.” He got into the drivers seat, than smiled again at the fact that he, a boy whose life revolved around killing, guarding, watching, and stealing, had just stated that he was late for school. The engine came to life once more, and he drove off, not going more than a few miles before he reached the school at which he would be starting that day. He parked, left his jacket and t-shirt in the car along with his guns, then entered the school, his Black tank giving him far more breathing room than what he had been wearing moments before. He took a quick look around then headed for the front desk, intent on asking for a slip with his school classes on it, so he could begin what he could only assume to be a very, very long day.
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