The Songbird’s Shadow

Chapter 1

Chapter One

It's been days since I've had blood on my hands. Days since I've felt it dripping from my fingers like wet silk. An excited tremor ripples through them at the thought.

My phone vibrates through the pocket of my jeans, and I open it to find a text message.

Another vibrate and a photo appears on the screen: a picture of a man who looks to be in his late thirties.

The guy looks like shit. His hair is disheveled, the gray, greasy locks flopping over his wrinkled brow.

His eyes are sunken and tired. It looks like what I'm about to do might be a relief for him.

I’m an independent contractor, performing wet work for numerous entities, local and otherwise. I don’t concern myself much with details—that’s Shawn's job. He deals with the customers and makes sure the money is green before sending me the information I need.

This guy Barry stole from the Volkovs, a local branch of the Bratva. Not a smart move for anyone wanting to stay alive in this city. I may not have any allegiances, but I know who the players are around here, or at least enough to keep myself alive.

I park my black Ford Taurus next to an industrial dumpster behind the Filchon Street warehouses. It’s not a flashy car, but it meets my needs; something that’s common and doesn’t call attention to itself. In the dark, it’s barely noticeable.

It’s been idling for the last twenty minutes, as I wait for darkness to blanket the city.

The wait and the numbing hum of the engine make my palms itch with anticipation.

Luckily for me, it’s September, so the sun is almost down by 7:30 p.m. After the sun dips below the horizon, I switch off the ignition.

Grabbing my black duffel bag from the passenger seat, I make my way toward the back entrance of the defunct warehouse.

Like a lot of the buildings in this part of the city, it’s been abandoned and neglected for a few years.

Forced to step around broken beer bottles and used needles, I slowly approach the gray giant.

The building is structurally sound for now, but you can see the concrete beginning to crumble around the corners and seams. The hard walls climb upward to broken windows where shards of glass stick out like dirty icicles. What a shithole.

Pausing at the door, my ears prick up, listening for movement or voices, but find only silence.

The rusted, metal door squeals as I shove it open.

Immediately, stale air hits my face with the fragrant bouquet of piss and vomit.

The building is almost empty, save the remnants of squatters and drug addicts.

The room is littered with old sleeping bags, broken crack pipes, and garbage.

Still and silent, I scan the area from the dark edges of the room.

It’s only a moment before my eyes lock on my target, crouching next to an old filing cabinet, Glock in hand.

Given his options, the cement-lined fireproof cabinet isn’t a half bad spot to hide from a mob gunman. Unfortunately for him, I’m not one.

Our eyes meet, and panic whirls through Barry’s eyes as he starts shooting haphazardly. I step back into the shadows, tucking my body behind a rusted, metal barrel.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

He makes quick waste of his bullets. Grabbing the closet empty beer bottle off of the dusty floor, I huck it across the room. It explodes with impact just yards away from him and he lets out a shriek.

6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11.

A laugh pulls itself up from my belly, but dies in my throat. He’s making this too easy. I grab another piece of trash, a crunched up Pepsi can, and throw it against the wall twenty feet to my right.

12, 13, 14, 15, click, click.

A grin spreads across my face. It’s my turn now.

Stepping out from the shadows, I move quickly toward the puddle of a man huddled on the floor.

He jumps up, swiveling his head around, seemingly deciding on his best exit strategy before making a beeline for the nearest door.

He pushes it open, and the sound of his feet hitting the concrete echoes as he pounds up the stairs.

A light chuckle escapes my lips; it’s so much more interesting when they run.

My duffel bag is deep and holds everything needed for a job: a folded up tarp, a few knives, a small ax, and more.

I feel my way through the bag before settling on a piece of nylon rope about five yards long.

I listen to his footfalls and the crashing of a door opening on what sounds like at least two floors up.

“There’s no way down from there, Barry,” I call out, my voice dripping with glee.

The sour air blows over my face as I charge up the stairs.

The scent of damp and rust flood my nose until I stop on the third flood landing.

The thick coating of dust on the door is smudged, revealing a sweaty handprint on the metal bar handle.

The door is heavy as my shoulder shoves it open.

My duffel falls to the floor with a light clap.

I ready the rope in my hands, stretching it taught and wrapping each end around my knuckles.

There’s just enough light struggling through the busted windows to reveal the room beyond; the floor is mostly empty.

Rusted chemical drums and rotted wood pallets are stacked in high columns around the perimeter, the only remaining evidence that this used to be a bustling commercial operation.

Out of the corner of my eye, there’s movement.

I whip my head around just in time to catch sight of my target hurtling toward me, a shard of broken glass in hand.

Barry barrels toward me, forcing me to pivot and throw my elbow out, protecting my head. Sharp, hot pain surges down my arm as the glass slices my skin. Warm blood spreads over my skin and the anger rises in my throat like an exhale of hot smoke.

“You fucker!” I yell, throwing the full weight of my body into him, smashing him into the concrete wall.

With my shoulder against his chest, I snatch his wrist in my hand, twisting until he cries in pain.

The glass shard falls to the ground with a clink that rings out against the emptiness of the room.

The rope, still wrapped around my hands, pulls tight in my grip, ripping at my skin.

In a flash of movement, the rope is against Barry’s neck and my hands are grasping both ends from behind him, forcing him to spin around until his back is against my chest. One swift kick to the back of his left knee sends him crashing to the floor.

Pulling the rope tight, he thrashes his body against me, wheezing, choking, grabbing desperately at my jeans.

He gasps loudly as I loosen my grip, giving the rope slack around his neck.

His body eases and his muscles relax. The hope flooding through him is palpable as he breathes deeply.

He rolls his eyes upward and turns his head toward mine to search my face.

His expression begs for mercy that I won’t give.

Beaming down at him, my eyes are bright and my smile is wide before my face dissolves into laughter.

The optimism drains from his eyes like water dribbling out of a broken bucket.

It reminds me of that old children’s song.

“There’s a hole in the bucket Liz-a, Liz-a,” I hum, pulling the rope taught around his neck again.

He grunts and gurgles as his body convulses.

He lingers there a moment, in that place between life and death, listening to my song until the weight of his body falls forward, collapsing against the rope.

I let the rope slip out of my hands and watch his corpse thud against the floor.

My boot shoves against his torso, rolling him over.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, snap a quick photo, and text it to Shawn.

He’ll send it to the customer as evidence of a job well done before they wire the remainder of the money.

It’s good that he handles that end of the business—customer service isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse.

My duffel is still lying next to the door.

I pull out a tightly folded plastic tarp and lay it down flat on the floor before rolling Barry’s lifeless body into its center.

I fold the sides over his feet and head before enveloping him entirely, then fastening his plastic tomb with rope.

After throwing the duffel over my shoulder, I grab the foot-end of the tarp.

Dragging Barry with me, we haul down the stairs, Barry’s body knocking against each step.

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

The sky is dark when I exit the building, towing the body back to my car.

The trunk opens with a click, allowing me to throw my duffel into my backseat.

Barry isn’t a terribly large man, allowing me to hoist him into the trunk before slamming it shut.

Walking around to the front driver's side door, I take in my reflection in the dark windows.

My hair is disheveled, making me rake my fingers through it, calming it and wiping away any remnants of the dusty building.

The forearm of my black, thermal shirt is ripped and hanging in two long strips around my wound. Damn, I really liked this shirt.

Climbing into the car, it’s time for me to plan the remainder of my evening.

I’ll need to wrap my wound with the gauze that lives in the glovebox; a standard hazard of the job.

The heart of the city is close to the warehouse district.

I’ll park my car in the garage on Hart Street and walk the few blocks to the men’s clothing store to replace my shirt.

It’s cool enough outside to leave the corpse in the trunk for an hour. Plus, it’s not like he’ll mind.

I’ll dispose of him tonight, just pass the witching hour, when the world is quiet and no one is around.