“Isn’t this a beautiful night for bloodshed?”
Jaxx watches the woman climb in the town car and leave. Moving towards the building she has just exited, his favourites are close to hand- knives, spare clips, extra handguns along with his two specialized Walther P93s -he checks his watch, when the minute hand reaches twelve, he watches as a courier leaves the building next. He then enters.
Maxine eyes the box the mercenary sets down in front of her, a special delivery from her son, which brings tears to her eyes even as a strange sensation creeps up her spine. Maxine pushes back from her chair, pointing a manicured fingernail at one of the men, “Bring me that bitch and her shadow’s goddamn bodies. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Several mercenaries exit the office. The rest fill in the missing gaps of the perimeter even as Vicktor remains in his spot. Vicktor tries to say something, but she cuts him off.
“You,” Maxine says pointing to another mercenary. “Open it.”
She glares at the box as the man steps forward, tearing it open. Inside: a silver case. Fat fingers snap the clips up as Maxine watches. He turns the case to face her.
“What the hell?”
The stun grenade explodes in the hall, as Jaxx comes out of the elevator shooting and moving fast towards the barricaded office. He fires, killing every shadow in his path.
Jaxx jabs a wrist into the mercenary’s throat, following it up with a blade to the jugular. As the smoke clears, only bodies lie at his feet. Steadying his heart rate, Jaxx looks at the door to the office. He slaps C4 on it, and turns down a corridor. The door clicks open. He smiles, pressing the button in his hand.
Smoke and debris fill the corridor as Jaxx advances. Some asshole gets in a lucky shot, hitting first the bulletproof vest, and then putting a bullet into his thigh. Jaxx doesn’t miss as he pulls the trigger, placing a bloody hole in the center of each man’s forehead. He dispatches the remaining mercenaries in a matter of moments.
He pivots in order to shoot the Glock out of Maxine’s hand. She screams in pain as he limps over, giving a swift punch to her face and knocking her out. She would be last. Vicktor raises bare knuckles at him. Funny, Jaxx thinks.
Jaxx shrugs, holstering his guns. He raises his fists, stepping forward jabbing. Vicktor has some moves, but he’s old. Jaxx plays with him a while before slamming an uppercut into Vicktor’s chin, a gut shot follows before a hard fist connects with his temple. Wanting to end this, Jaxx takes the man by the head. “The sins of the son,” he whispers, snapping the man’s neck.
When Maxine comes too she finds herself tied to her chair, a sniper’s bullet on the desk and the killer across from her with a strange smile on his lips. He lifts something and sets it beside the bullet. It’s a tablet with an image of her; a younger version of her with her first deceased husband and the newly deceased Vicktor shaking hands, between then Tao Chan. Maxine is in the background a smile on her lips.
Jaxx taps the screen, showing another picture of her a few years older, her first husband dead at her feet. A smirk unconsciously spreads across her lips. He taps again, and a series of photos of her with her dead husbands and Patri follow. Goddamn bastard, she thinks wearily, before looking back at Jaxx.
“I guess it’s all in a night’s work for you,” he says.
“Go to hell.”
Jaxx laughs, “The money was too good, but I’ve never been paid to think. Then a year later, someone tries to murder me. I still didn’t see a connection. I do have enemies. I probably wouldn’t have cared until that little prick, Patri, slapped my sister around. Then – then I saw these pictures and it began to make a lot of sense.”
Maxine shrugged, “I couldn’t afford to let you stay alive.”
“You ambitious little bitch.”
Maxine looks away, “Someone had to be. I did what needed to be done. I had played the dutiful wife, suffered, and given up everything and for those weak men.”
“Both your dead husbands wanted to legitimatize their businesses. I guess that must have burned you. Nevertheless, their deaths ensured only one thing, you would gain power or Wentworth would. You already had Patri. You thought I would care if you became head bitch? Well I wouldn’t. I didn’t.”
The woman said nothing for a moment. “You needed to be eliminated. You had knowledge. I couldn’t risk you coming back.”
“So you go after my sister to bring me back after your assassin fails to kill me in Bora Bora. Figure I’d come back seeking retribution, and you’d have me killed by your cheap mercenaries? Shouldn’t pay children to kill their parents, it never works out well.”
Maxine scoffs. “What can I say, I underestimated your skills.”
“That you did,” Jaxx responds, lifting the Walther from the holster, and pulling the trigger.
BIO:
Rhesa Sealy currently works in the Logistics Industry, and is from Brampton, Ontario in Canada. Rhesa graduated from the University of Waterloo, earned a BA in English Language and Literature, and received a Book and Magazine Publishing certificate from Centennial College.
Rhesa contributed to Beginning of Line, a fan-fiction blog dedicated to continuing the Caprica story when the TV series was cancelled, she has written a two-part story called “Vengeance is Mine” and recently had a horror story accepted by Grey Matter Press.
MAN ABOUT TOWN:
A Jonny Hustler Story by Alan Griffiths
I read about Archie Knox shortly after I’d put my papers in. Red-top headlines shouting:
“Macabre Slaying of Petty Thief”
“Crook’s Grisly End”
“’Armless Villain Left Legless”
Archie was a villain you see. A habitual criminal. A light-fingered Tea-Leaf who had a rap sheet that repeated like a scratched vinyl disc.
Me? Until recently I was a Detective Inspector in the Flying Squad. Archie was an underworld contact; an informant and a friend. What can I say? In the job sometimes demarcation lines get a little blurry.
Somebody had taken Archie for an early hours ride around the M25. Along the way the bastards chucked out bits of his body. Nice, eh.
Archie’s legs were discovered in Leatherhead. Arms in Watford. Torso in Romford. And his head, resembling a Halloween pumpkin with seven kinds of shit kicked out of it, rolled up in Sevenoaks.
You could say Archie was a Man About Town. Now there’s a headline.
Amid the tabloid brouhaha of Archie’s demise his daughter Lucy left a message on my ansaphone. Short and Sweet:
“Mr Hustler, my dad always said to call you if ever I was in trouble. I think I am…”
Needless to say she sounded lonely and frightened.
Lucy’s address is the arsehole end of South East London. If truth be told there’s no better end.
Parking my Ford I get out and survey my surroundings. A dull, drab and dilapidated concrete monstrosity rises above me. Hilton Heights is the pus-filled pimple on South East London’s rear-end and a million miles from the plush Mayfair hotel.
A bitter autumnal wind whips me like a cat o' nine tails as I approach the building. Storm clouds are brewing over the high-rise block; an omen for bad things to come.
The first heavy drops of rain fall, splattering the pavement as the piss-stained entrance doors suddenly swing open revealing two Neanderthals. Lucy is between them.
I flick the butt of my B &H, shouting “Lucy!”
I close on them fast as Lucy pluckily kicks out at the gorilla holding her, catching him on the shin. I pull a police issue truncheon from the inside Sky Rocket of my car coat. As Tweedledum prepares to backhand the struggling Lucy I crack it down hard on his elbow. He lets out a scream like a wonky fan belt. I cut it off by striking him again, across the throat.