He tucked his hand back and then stepped out. Lexi was reloading as he fired. She lunged for cover, but his first round clipped her thigh. She screamed and fell sprawling out of view.
“Stop!” Cara was shouting. “Just wait for the police, for God’s sake!”
“Nah!” The man yelled back. “I’m having too much fun!”
Lexi crawled over to the front door, where Tommy was standing. He was pressed against it, trembling and mouth wide open in a silent scream.
Lexi had dropped the loaded magazine in the exchange and was frantically searching her pockets for her last one. Glancing up at Tommy, she spat, “Don’t just fucking stand there! Shoot the cunt!”
Han reached the bottom of the stairs as Tommy fumbled for his revolver. His hand was shaking so violently he dropped it. He stared at it and then at the naked man as he advanced towards them. “Please…”
“Spare me, kid,” the man said and shot Lexi in the face. Her head smacked against the laminate floor with a wet thud.
“Oh, God… oh, God…”
The man shook his head slowly. “He’s not going to save you. You arseholes catastrophically misjudged your opponent here, I’m afraid.”
His voice a near shriek, Tommy uttered, “Who the fuck are you?”
Han glanced over his shoulder, checking that Cara was out of earshot. She was talking frantically on her mobile.
Leaning in closer, he whispered, “I’m Han Whitman.”
The last remaining colour drained from Tommy’s cheeks. As warm piss jetted down his trouser leg, he muttered, “Oh, God no…”
BIO:
Rod Glenn was brought up in the north east of England and lives in Newcastle upon Tyne with wife, Vanessa. His writing is of a dark nature with darkly humorous undertones. He also dabbles in a little acting; some roles include World War Z, Broken England, The Bad Samaritan Must Die, Run, Vera, Inspector George Gently and 6 Feet Under.
Novels: The King of America
Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre
The King of America: Epic Edition
The Killing Moon
Sinema 2: Sympathy for the Devil
Holiday of the Dead (contributor)
Radgepacket Vol. 1 (contributor)
P.O.W. Wartime Log of F/Sgt T D Glenn (contributor)
Sinema 3: The Troy Consortium
Wild Wolf's Twisted Tails (contributor)
The character “Han Whitman” featured in this short story is the infamous mass-murdering serial killer from Glenn’s Sinema series of books.
THE MISSIONARY by Paul D Brazill
The moon tears me apart. Rips at my flesh. And then I am transformed into a man-wolf that is consumed by a red hot rage. My eyes drowning in crimson. The smell and the taste of blood. The howling.
I stumbled out of a drunken dream and awoke in a burnt out house, my joints throbbing. Throat like sandpaper. Almost choking on the stink of the place.
A bitter, cold February ached for the warmth of spring. Seagulls screeched, sirens screamed and motorbike roared in the distance. A gunshot echoed through my brain. It was dawn and The City was yawning – painfully, desperately.
I struggled to my feet, grasped the window ledge and looked out at the day through bleary, bloodshot eyes. Lighting flashed, thunder boomed and the heavens were gutted.
I stuffed a hand in my raincoat pocket and pulled out a can of Special Brew. Sipped on the sweet beer, slowly and methodically. Coasting a little. Watching the sheets of rain try to cleanse The City. Some chance.
Across the street, a bolt of lightning hit the church steeple and a flock of black birds scattered from the roof before perching on a cluster of graffiti stained gravestones.
A shiver sliced through me and I knew the man I’d been searching for was here.
I finished the beer, crushed the can and threw it into the corner of the room. Unzipped, took out my limp dick, closed my eyes and pissed against the wall.
‘I know you’re there,’ I said when I’d finished, pushing my knob back inside my trousers.
‘Have you been waiting long for this moment, Detective Dalton?’ hissed the voice from the shadows.
‘Long enough,’ I said, turning.
‘Yes, all good things come to those who wait. Or so I have heard,’ said the man in the black suit and wide brimmed hat.
His face was as white as fear, with the consistency of putty. His eyes as black as the darkness between the stars. The Missionary looked just as I’d envisioned him. A stone cold killer. Unkillable, they said.
I’d been undercover for just over a fortnight now. Sleeping rough. Integrating with the homeless. The bums. Waiting for The Missionary to strike again.
He was a creature of legend. Of nightmares. The hit man with a one hundred per cent record who got his kicks wiping out those he considered impure. The poor and the disabled. Whores and hobos. The drunks.
And now he was in front of me. Grinning. He took out a Luger from a shoulder holster and caressed it. He kissed the silhouette of an angel that was carved into the ivory handle.
I shivered as he took a step toward me and pressed the gun against my forehead.
‘A last request?’ he said.
‘Maybe we can go for a beer and talk this over? Man to Missionary? ‘
‘No,’ he said, scratching the scar that sliced down his nose with a skull and crossbones ring that was on the bony index finger of his left hand. ’I think not.’
I took another cigarette from the packet.
‘Another nail in the coffin, then,’ I said.
The Missionary grinned.
I sat on an upturned wooden crate. Lit a cigarette. It tasted foul.
The Missionary took out a bible, held it high and started to sing.
‘Jesus Blood Never Failed Me Yet.
Never failed me.
Yet.’
It was beautiful and, at the same time, horrible.
My hands were shaking with the hangover and the fear. Sweat was oozing through my pores. If ever there was a time when I would have been glad to transform into a werewolf, welcomed that curse, it would have been now. But the cold light of day was no use at all.
And still The Missionary sang.
And so I joined in. As loud as I could, though my voice crumbled like a moth’s wings. Loud enough, though. Loud enough to cover the sound of movement in the pile of trash behind The Missionary.
Loud enough to smother the sound of Duffy crawling through the rubbish and edging slowly toward The Missionary, red cord stretched tight between his fists.
I sang loudly and with all of my still beating heart.
The Missionary’s corpse was quickly zipped into a black body bag and put into the back of the Black Mariah. The cops and SOC team yawned and scratched themselves as they wandered around the derelict building, ignoring Duffy and I. Indifferent. Bored. Jaded. All of the above.
Detective Ivan Walker sipped on a cup of take away coffee, clearly pissed off.
‘Self-defence, eh?’ he said.
He dropped the cup and rubbed his red eyes.
‘Well, yeah,’ said Duffy, through a mouth stuffed with peanuts. ‘When The Missionary is ready to whack you, you don’t try to reason with him, do you?’
Walker growled.
Duffy ran a hand through his inky black quiff. Leaned close to Walker.
‘Well, what else could we do, Ivan?’ he whispered. ‘There was no full moon there to help us out, you know? Roman can’t just turn into a werewolf when he fancies it, eh?’
Walker rubbed the pentangle shaped star on the side of his neck.
‘And,’ continued Duffy. ‘The Missionary is responsible for how many hits? One Hundred? More?’
‘Probably more,’ I said.
‘So, there you are. Good riddance to bad rubbish. It’s not like he was some innocent victim,’ said Duffy. He blew up the peanut bag and clapped it between his hands.