CHAPTER 3

Confused? Yes, I was. Everything that had happened didn't seem to add up. Dead Tate, the sexy amateur, and now bad guys. Were they in it together? Did they have a motive? What was it? Did they need me for something? I doubted, if not they wouldn't try to shoot my head off. Why did they want me dead at this time then? Five years ago, I'd ditched an important job and fled, faking my death. Five years now, people I didn't know were trying to kill me. What really was happening? I'd have to stay alive to find out. Seven guys approached me. This one's were Suits, I was sure of it. They weren't attacking carelessly like the other henchmen. They advanced slowly, as if weighing their attack options. I didn't move back. I didn't flinch. I wanted to see what they'd do. If I showed even a hint of fear, they'd take my life as easily as they could. My stiletto was hidden underneath my jacket sleeves. The silenced Derringer pistol was tucked at my back. Two throwing knives shot past me. Three of them used that small moment to rush forward, knives forward. They swiped at me. One cut my chin, another scraped my left thigh. I moved back slowly, baiting them. They took the bait and rushed forward in a frantic move to kill me quickly. I sashayed to the right, grabbed one's arm and pushed him towards the other. The third rushed forward. I kicked him in the groin, punched his face—hard, and flung him over the balcony. He fell with a loud yelp. The other two stood up. The four at the back joined in the attack. I ducked, kicked one off his feet, my stiletto stabbed his neck. One flung his knife at me. I jerked an apartment door open to block it, jammed it straight to the guy's face and pummeled his face with stabs. He fell, dead. The other three moved back, their breathing strained. It looked like they were having a hard time rushing forward like before. I grinned. Someone kicked my back from behind. I staggered forward. Two at the front swayed knives at me. I managed to dodge one, the other slashed my arm. I ducked, and rammed a dagger from under his mouth. He coughed blood. I kicked him towards his companion. The 'Suit' guy who'd kicked me earlier, grabbed for my jacket. I pulled out of it, and turned. His hands got stuck at the collar. I drew him close, whacked his jaw hard and kicked him backward. My skills weren't rusty after all. The other two who'd been waiting downstairs ran towards their car. Flintlock in hand, I continued squeezing the trigger. Bullets pummeled them from all sides. I stopped when the rounds finished. The other three guys and the suit guys were staggering backwards—scared. I grinned widely, more the psychopathic smile. I loaded my gun and watched them, none moved. I pointed the muzzle to the first. One shot to the head, he went down. The others stared, afraid, unable to move as if awaiting their execution. I turned to the next. He went down also. The last lunged at me with what I'd call—his last strength. I kicked the knife from his grasp and punched him hard on the face. Again. And again. And again. His bloody face fell along with his body. He lay there whimpering. Three of my shots pummeled his forehead. The suit guy made a stab feint, I didn't fall for it. He made a run, I was faster. I whacked his head with the butt of my gun. He fell also—not dead.

'Suit' guy woke up about thirty minutes later, groaning. I'd found a sturdy wooden chair upstairs in one of the apartment. I tied him to it with a thin metal wire I'd brought along. He tried to wriggle out of it, but he and I knew it was a very useless move on his part. I removed the gag from his mouth, and he spat at me. I turned my face as spittle flew past me. "You fucker!" he roared. I took a cigar from his pocket, minty London flavor. I lit it and fumed smoke in his face. He coughed frantically.

"Tell me what I want to know" I fumed smoke in his face again. He was still coughing.

"Ain't telling you shit, you fucker!" he spat at me again, missed.

"Figured you'd day that" I puffed again and threw the cigar to the floor. He was still staring intently at me, that I'm-gonna-kill-you look. I grinned, pulling out a revolver.

"This is a west style Red London revolver" I began. I opened that cartridge. It had seven rounds in it's chamber. I took out a single bullet and placed it in one round, then closed the cartridge. 'Suit' guy was watching me.

"I'm only going to ask you questions—once" my eyes were bloodshot now. I'd learnt this torture technique in Grey London: The place was more a gang haven.

"Name?" I asked. He looked at me as if contemplating to answer or not. I hated waiting. Although patience was one thing I'd always considered when I worked as a suit. Mine had it's limits. I spun the barrel, cocked the gun to his forehead and shot. Nothing. The guy gasped loudly, sweating and cussing.

"just once" I repeated. I took another cigar from his pocket. This one was a different brand. Rich lemon flavored. I lit it and puffed it in his face, he just stared helplessly.

"Name?" I asked, slowly this time.

"Maco" he shouted.

"Maco Wexler" he completed, almost gasping.

I spun the barrel, cocked it to his forehead and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Maco gasped louder than before, rocking in the chair.

"What the hell?!" he yelled. He struggled to reach me, his face lunging forward. Hopeless.

"you said I had to answer your questions, what was that for?!" he yelled again. I puffed on the cigar watching him struggle.

"Ah ah ah" I waved the revolver in his face.

"I decide the rules here" I laughed, and puffed again.

"Who sent you?" there were so many questions I wanted to ask. But I started with this. He didn't answer immediately. I spun the barrel.

"I don't know!" he yelled. I squeezed the trigger. The bullet grazed his scalp, almost searing his hair off. He yelped in pain and struggled in the chair. Fact was, I already had the timing down for each round. So I'd been playing with him the previous times. He stared at me again, not angry this time. As if he was begging me.

"I'm not gonna miss twice" I told him. I spun the barrel again.

"who sent you?" I asked.

"I swear to heavens, I don't know!" he retorted almost immediately. He didn't look like he was lying and I could tell he wasn't –another thing I'd learnt. But that didn't matter anyway. I spun the barrel again, cocked the muzzle to his forehead again and shot. Nothing. I laughed. Maco looked like he'd peed in his pants. He was dead scared. I laughed again, at him this time.

"Tell me what I want to hear" I told him. I spun the barrel and cocked it to his head again.

"O-Okay I-I swear—" he cleared his throat, sweating profusely.

"My-My h-h-handler" he stuttered. Most Suits usually had handlers. Your handler gave you contracts. They usually had contact with the main client, got the contract and handed it to the suit. The contract pay went through them also. They were more like an intermediary.

"Who?" I asked. My finger sat on the trigger, squeezing slowly.

"Ka-Kaki B-Bl-Blithe" he stammered again. I could hear his heartbeat this time. Poor Maco's afraid of death, I laughed. Kaki Blithe? The name rang a bell. But I couldn't really out it.

"How did you find me?" I asked, squeezing the trigger.

"H-he—" I pulled the trigger. Nothing. He gasped and almost fainted.

"Stop stuttering!!" I yelled this time. He gulped, and looked at me. His eyes red, as if about to cry. He really looked like an amateur this time.

"he gave me a name and a photo" he gulped again.

"S-Said an I formant had given your location and he'd provide it " he added. Informant? I urged him on.

"He gave you my location?" I asked. He nodded.

"what name did he give you?" as much as I prayed he'd made a mistake with the name or maybe it was Mac spewter he wanted dead. I prayed it was so.

"A-Ark" he stammered. I turned pale.

"Ark Vloseif"