Chapter 2
You never get over losing someone you love.
Trust me, I knew all about it.
I witnessed it. First with my father, then my mother.
Life’s was a bitch, right?
Yeah, you might go on livin’, eatin’, and fuckin’ your way through the years, but that shit doesn’t get any easier.
I mean how could you ever get over watching the life drain from your mother’s eyes? Or watching the smile that used to brighten up the darkest of days suddenly fade away into nothing?
That’s what happens when you mix with the wrong crowd.
It always ends in pain, blood, death, and destruction.
Thing is, I never bent the rules as a kid.
I was always top of my class: A+ material.
Shit, despite being a poor motherfucker I was even popular.
My teachers used to say I was like a walking, breathing calculator on top of being an encyclopaedia.
My marks never slipped, well… until the day that they did.
The day my father received his diagnosis was the day everything changed.
I was mad. Mad at the world. Mad at my dad.
Mad at everyone. That was the day I became friends with the one and only Frank Hamilton, heir to the Hamilton estates, the biggest and most renowned criminal organisation in the whole of the UK.
They had their fingers in so many pies, you couldn’t tell who they had in their pocket.
Considering his family’s notorious ongoings, that kid, Frank Hamilton, was born with a fucking silver spoon in his mouth.
He basically slept on a mattress of cash, and he was a malicious bastard.
We were complete opposites, in that he had everything while I had nothing.
But the moment I embedded myself in his inner circle, that changed.
I made more cash than I knew what to do with.
But no matter how loaded my pockets got, my father's health still deteriorated quickly. The day he died I buried myself further and further into Frank’s father’s dodgy business dealings.
And to my shame, when my mum needed me the most, I was barely ever home.
I could say I regret the decisions I made.
I could admit I wish Frank’s father hadn’t taken me under his wing.
But that’d be a lie. Thanks to him, and six years of painful, meticulous training, I’d become one of the best damn assassins the crime underworld had ever heard of.
Now, if I still had a heart, I might have been scared about the amount of lives I took.
But it was all too easy. There was never any guilt.
Job’s a job, innit? Each disgusting soul I tossed into the ground made my pain less.
The only thing I gave two shits about was my mum and making sure she was taken care of.
I had hated watching her slave away through countless jobs just to make sure we had food on the table.
So when it came down to it, I took the lives of the ones who’d wronged the Hamiltons and in return me and my mum lived an easy life.
The best part was, I didn’t mind it. In fact, I rather enjoyed it… after the first ten or so anyway.
I can still remember my first kill like it was yesterday.
My hand was shaking like no one's business when I pressed my blade up against his exposed neck. Each inch the blade opened, blood seeped out onto the guy’s tattered, sweaty shirt, making him more of a mess than he already was.
We’d put him through hell leading up to that.
I watched Frank’s father torture that poor sod until his gut-wrenching screams stopped and all that was left of him was a pool of begging misery, sobbing for us to end his pathetic, lonely existence.
His body was so beaten, bloody, and bruised he was barely recognisable.
And the whole time we worked, my best friend, Frank, just sat back and grinned that sinister smile I have no doubt he inherited from his father.
Me though? I had to fight the urge to spew my guts out at the quivering guy’s feet.
I remember watching the bastard's body pulsate in the rickety wooden chair, with his head flopped lifelessly back like a dead fish. My mouth tasted of battery acid, and my head throbbed so badly I thought I’d pass out.
But I wouldn’t show weakness to the Hamiltons…
I had more sense than that, even at sixteen.
I had to show them I was to be taken seriously and from that moment on, I was.
“Good job fella,” Mr Hamilton said before clapping me on the back.
“I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting that from you, you surprised me.
The slit could have been cleaner, but for your first time, it wasn’t not so bad.
” His next words were ones that stayed with me up until now. “Welcome to the family, lad.”
It wasn’t until a certain gruesome event—one I hate talking or even thinking about—ten years later, that I walked away from the Hamiltons and went solo.
Hits were rolling in the moment the word got out that I was for hire and no longer exclusive to one crime lord.
But tonight would be my final hit, and one I’d remember as well as my first. Only this time I was experienced, lethal, and one fucker nobody messed with.
Not that my current target knew that. I lived like a ghost, being known by name only to most and by face to few and far between.
The flat I sat in was by far one of the most disgusting places I’d been in.
Yeah, I might’ve been a hitman, but I liked things clean and tidy.
The peeling walls were enough to make my fingers itch.
He was definitely a hoarder, his apartment was full to the brim with crap, and it stunk of stale takeout, sex, and cheap booze.
Empty bottles decorated the scratched and damaged floorboards which had obviously once homed a carpet.
God, where was this bellend?
I sank back in his recliner as I strummed my leather gloved fingers on the worn arm of the chair.
All I could do was wait for this piece of shit to return home and meet his maker.
The minutes turned to hours as the room darkened with each passing one, I was just about to light my fourth cigarette when I heard the key turn tormentingly slowly in the lock.
I slid across the room, hiding behind the door to make myself scarce.
Seconds later it was pushed open, sending the stench of vodka, piss, and puke up my nostrils.
He was trollied. Damn, that wasn’t going to make my final kill any damn fun at all.
He stumbled into the apartment, swaying from side to side, I placed my hand on the door and shoved it shut. Not too loud to be heard from the other residents but loud enough for him to know he wasn’t alone.
“Evenin’, Malcolm. You took your time. Fun night?” I drawled which caused the thieving bastard to stop dead in his tracks.
“Take whatev-ever you wa-want, I—” He slurred.
“I’m only here for one thing, and that’s to collect your debt to Bobby.” I stepped closer and his breathing quickened. It was the best sound I’d heard all night.
“I don’t have?—”
“Save your breath, mate, while you still can.” I closed the distance between us, staring down at his trembling body until his glassy eyes found mine.
“Please… I—” His bottom lip quivered. He was too intoxicated to scream for help. Fear had made him freeze. It was actually quite entertaining.
“For fucks sake, don’t beg.” I frowned, bringing my lips to his ear and whispering. “At least go out with some dignity.”
As his fist wobbled its way toward my chin, I leaned back on an eye roll, making him stumble and tumble onto his arse.
Idiot had obviously underestimated how drunk he was.
Cursing, I hauled him up and dumped him on the dining chair I’d prepared earlier.
The twat barely protested. This shit was growing duller by the second.
Is it too much to ask for a little fight these days?
I tightened the cable ties around his limbs to the chair with quick, practised movements.
The moment I stood back, the stinky little fucker’s eyes began to widen—yeah, bellend, shit just got real.
Sweat poured from his brow just as quick as the pits of his lemon shirt darkened.
He knew he was nearing his end, he didn’t need to be told.
I cocked my head to the side as I tapped my index finger to my lips.
The plastic sheet beneath my boots crinkled, it was a sound I wasn’t used to.
I was usually in and out within seconds, no trace left.
But tonight was different. Tonight Bobby, the man who had hired me, wanted Malcolm to suffer before his life was taken.
It was safe to say my payment had tripled for the evening and it was a hefty packet to bow out on.
“Please, dude. I don’t know who you are but whatever it is I h-haven’t done anything… J-just stop! Please!” He begged.
Well, look who decided to sober the fuck up all of a sudden.
Fuck, maybe the fear was too much. Who knew?
I would have loved nothing more than to put a bullet in the back of his head the second he stepped into the apartment.
But Bobby needed proof. Proof I’d tortured this prick and that meant pictures.
One upside I suppose was that I could torture, kill, and fuck off again and just leave the clean up to the professionals.
After all, these guys had seen it all—and you’d hope so considering how much Bobby was likely forking out. A shiny bob or two, I’d reckon.
“Stop? Mate, if you’re expectin’ mercy from me then you’ve no idea how badly you fucked up.
Or maybe I just seem the approachable type.
Either way, I’m not nice. Lost that sort of patience long ago.
” I smirked as I picked up my handy cigar cutter from the counter.
“How about we play a game, shall we? You know eeny, meeny, miny, moe?” I chuckled and the poor bastard looked close to chucking his guts up.
“No, please!” He cried, tears and sweat streamed down his cheeks. I almost felt a little remorseful… But then again, I said a little .
“Hmm… Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, which finger’s got to go?
” I sang as I spun the cutters between my gloved fingers.
“Choice is yours.” I placed duct tape over his trembling mouth to muffle his screams before tapping my lips with my instrument of pain.
“You know what, never mind. I’ll choose.
” I winked as I patted his cheek with a sinister laugh.
“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe… this finger’s got to go.
” I sang gleefully as I landed on his empty ring finger.
“Oh, dear. Hope you ain’t got a missus waitin’ for you to commit.
” As I slid the cutters down his finger his body bucked violently despite the cable ties.
Without hesitation, I clamped the cutters shut, revelling in his muffled screams. “One down, nine to go.”
We had fun over the next hour. I hadn’t tortured anyone in a long time and it was easily the most amusing kill I’d had in a while. Loyalty clearly meant nothing to him. The second that duct tape was off, all sorts of shit started pouring out of his gob. Not that it did him any good.
“Please, just kill me already.” Malcolm cried out as blood dripped from his hands onto the plastic where I’d hacked off his fingers.
“All in good time.” I said, as I dragged my blade across his cheek.
“Just do it, you son of a bitch.” That was it.
I saw red. My knife slid into his skin like it was butter, and all begging, threats, and hope faded from Malcolm’s eyes.
His blood curdling screams brought a smile to my face.
I moved my blade down beneath his collarbone and sank the tip in.
At this point, he didn’t make a sound and began dipping out of consciousness.
Not again.
Tutting, I backhanded his unmangled cheek, which stirred him from his slumber.
“Oi! What you doin’? I need you awake for this,” I frowned as I gripped my hand across his dribbling mouth before plunging my knife into his thigh.
On a wail, Mr Sweaty bit his gnarled teeth into my leather glove.
I repeated the process only the next time it was in his gut.
His chest heaved as he thrashed around in the chair, making his pain worse.
“Nearly done. I promise,” I whispered as I sliced my blade across his chest, the blood coated the steel, and it really was a beautiful sight.
My blade dug into his Adam’s apple.
“Any last words?” I asked as I nicked the skin.
“Actually, you know what? I don’t care.” With that, I ran my blade smoothly across his neck and watched his shirt quickly stain red.
The sight reminded me of my first kill. Sighing, I leaned back.
It was done. I could finally leave this life behind me.
“Nice spendin’ time with you.” I said, wiping my blade on the clean part of his jeans as his chin came to rest on his chest. “Bobby sends his regards.” Standing, I pulled out my phone and dialled.
“Is it done?” A deep voice demanded before the first ring had even finished.
“Yep,” I replied.
“Good. Money’s been wired.”
“Cheers.” I replied before hanging up. Without glancing back, I stepped into the eerie corridor and cracked my neck. I really needed a drink.
It was cool outside as I stepped out into the breeze but not uncomfortable.
I pulled my gloves off and shoved them in my pockets before mounting my bike.
The swirl of adrenaline pulsing around my body had me closing my eyes on a long exhale.
This called for a celebration. The kind that included top shelf scotch and maybe even a half decent shag.
I say maybe because it all depended on someone catching my eye.
Not that it happened very often. I had a certain type, and these women were few and far between.
The thought made me smile as I pulled on my helmet and sped off down the road.
Weaving through the late-night traffic, I allowed myself to enjoy the feeling of the New York air whip against my body.
Now, which bar to go to?