Chapter 1
Bronx
Most days I hate my job.
Like today for instance, where I’m literally drenched in mud, pig shit, and what I’m hoping to God is rotten cabbage instead of something worse like pieces of a partially decomposed rat.
Days where I have to make the choice whether to kill this sick, sonofabitch who for the past six months has been trimming off his ballhair and consistently mailing it to my client – as a “love token” – along with graphic letters detailing a murder, suicide situation so that they can be together forever or simply incapacitate him and risk the judicial system fucking up and giving this creep the opportunity to continue to terrorize this young pop star’s life.
Given that I don’t have much faith in the fucked-up structure that pretends to be the foundation we stand on as a society, the choice isn’t difficult.
I just don’t enjoy having to directly make the decision.
I prefer to get overly detailed orders rather than leave shit like this open for interpretation.
Rescue.
Recover.
Save.
Eliminate.
The things that are black and white.
Bold print.
Cut and dry.
Things that don’t require deep contemplation or weigh heavily on the conscience.
Unfortunately – too often – it’s the fine print written in gray ink that comes with a better price tag attached.
And that’s basically what I’m all about at this point in my life.
Keeping that number high enough to financially support my parents who while we were growing up broke their backs to provide for us, help out my youngest sister who seems to be allergic to long term employment, and have a little leftover to treat myself to some high-quality tacos de lengua or huaraches – the food, not the shoes.
Lucy Marks – whose stage name is Moonwater – keeps her face anxiously pressed to the glass of the SUV she was instructed to wait in while I dealt with the lurking threat.
She honestly doesn’t listen any better than her fucking security team – if we’re really gonna call them that. For the last six weeks, it feels like I’ve been talking to a child who doesn’t comprehend a pinch of fucking English and that’s coming from someone that had a harder time than his siblings with the damn language. I tell her not to do something stupid or reckless such as going to Cory Gibson’s yacht party and where do I end up four hours later? Stuck outside a bedroom listening to her get DPed by the country asshole himself and one of his lackeys in the middle of the goddamn ocean where we have no direct escape route if her stalker were to somehow magically appear out of thin air. Exit strategies and keeping disclosed locations were literally the first things I discussed with her and the men who don’t take protecting her seriously.
And what do they get for their lack of professionalism?
Their lack of wanting to listen to me because I don’t have a background in law enforcement and occasionally have the tiniest accent when I speak?
One may never walk again due to the knife in his spine while the other – who took great pleasure in repeatedly reminding me that he used to work the nightshift for some hoity-toity beach resort in Camelot – will need a new career altogether since he’s hiding like a punk bitch in the upstairs bathroom of the farmhouse she’s renting for the week.
This little R&R trip would’ve been a great opportunity to sit down and discuss the discoveries regarding the identity of the threat – something I managed to collect with minimal effort despite my “lack” of education – with her or more likely her manager – the man bright enough to hire me to save his irresponsible, Grammy-nominated, show pony – yet less than twenty-four hours after our arrival, she’s posting all over social media exactly where the fuck we are.
I’ve had gut suspicions for the last eighteen hours that Allan was physically following us – again a subject I had planned to bring up – but this violent attack verifies it.
Knew I should’ve moved faster on my instincts.
Hesitation rarely ever ends well in these types of situations.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are…” Allan menacingly commands at the same time he rounds the corner of the old red barn I purposely drew him towards.
The further I can get him away from the client the better, especially considering the only thing that’s keeping Punky Boobster safe right now is a locked SUV door.
And that’s assuming she listened to me when I said to lock it.
Allan’s crooked tooth smile widens over the sight of finally spotting me again.
Not exactly hard to miss in this condition.
I may not be glowing in neon body paint like I was for that job in Toronto, but I still stand out.
For fucks sake, I haven’t felt this filthy since assisting in that rescue mission in Rio de Janeiro.
Don’t even get me started on how I was “randomly” recruited for the excessively dirty assignments one right after another.
They both made me miss my custom dual shower system.
God, I can’t wait to get back to my condo in Highland and enjoy a nice, long, hot session with it.
Allan purposely flings more pig shit in my direction with the pitchfork he’s lazily dragging.
Three.
Three long, hot showers back-to-back to fucking back.
Without a word, I disappear through the cracked open space, giving the illusion I’m being hunted as opposed to doing the hunting.
Maniacal laughter can be heard upon his approaching; however, it doesn’t rattle me, which I’m sure is what he’s hoping for. That’s quite a hard thing to do considering I’ve got seven years at this shit under my belt. Some yellow-toothed, pale-skinned hobgoblin toting around a rusty farm tool doesn’t even make the list of top fifty things that get my adrenaline going. Honestly, the sicknesses I could catch from the pig feces I’m drenched in are more frightening than he could ever be.
He crosses the threshold, eyes initially looking left like most people tend to, providing me with the open opportunity I need for an attack. The first punch is propelled into his face the instant his head moves my direction. He stumbles backward from the hard hit yet manages to remain on his feet. Another strike is delivered lower, closer to his ribcage, forcing his frame to crinkle and his hold on the tool to loosen. Groans of discomfort reverberate throughout the dreary space, and I simply use the echoes of agony to fuel the momentum of my movements. Not wanting the innocent – albeit negligent – woman he’s been suggesting romantic, watery deaths to and swearing that he’ll show his undying love in the form of self-mutilations to suffer the same sounds or worse, I keep my execution quick. Precise. I deliver a blow to his forearm to unleash his grasp on the makeshift weapon followed by a right hook that sends him flying. Professionally trained reflexes have me catching the handle before it can hit the ground and swiftly jamming the pointy end of the object through the chest of my attacker. Allan’s initial gasp of shock is overpowered by the racket of the metal anchoring itself into the wooden door behind him. It loudly creaks with every continued push as I don’t stop stomping onward until it's damn near falling off its hinges. Blood gushes out of the holes made, along with the four prongs, and down to the ground where it joins the other excretions that have left him. The choking on his own vital fluid is scrutinized closely, grip on the gardening equipment unwavering until all actions of the enemy completely cease.