From a Prison Cell
Chapter 1
Hit-man Alfred F. Jones lined his scope up with his target. Robert Paulson. Age: fifty-seven. Height: 5' 8". Weight: 250 pounds. Eyes: Brown. Hair: White. Occupation: CEO of Apple Products California. Wanted dead for stealing from the employer. Other details include him cheating on his wife with a bimbo thirty years younger, raping his niece and beating his dogs. Alfred could honestly think this man deserved to die, whether he got paid or not.
The target was getting out of his armored limo and making his way into his summer home. Robert Paulson lived in Switzerland and visited the sunny state of California between the months of November and April. It was more of a winter home than summer, Alfred thought.
The house was on the edge of the beach with a gated entrance. The front door was luckily facing inland while the back lead to the water. Alfred was across the street perched on top of an apartment building. He had a brown blanket over him to shield his white outfit from the guards who would be scanning the rooftops in about two minutes.
"Alfred," Ivan buzzed in his ear. Alfred's partner was on the street below in their getaway car; a work van with a gun case, live camera feeds and computers jammed in the back. The side proudly depicted a man squashing a bug, telling everyone to call them for their worst bug problems. "Is the target in sight? Guards are starting to gather at the entrance." They had hacked into the security cameras on the house. Ivan kept Alfred informed of those around the target.
"Yeah I got him," Alfred replied. "Start the van."
They pretended to be pest control because they could show up almost anywhere with the excuse of someone complaining about the bugs. Though some people got angry, it was quickly explained that Ivan and Alfred didn't charge unless they had to come back a second time and clean the bugs out. This visit was just to check everything out. They never came back twice.
With a steady breath, Alfred pulled the trigger of his M40 Sniper Rifle. Once Alfred saw Robert Paulson's head pretty much explode, he threw his blanket off and quickly disassembled his gun. After placing all the parts in his case and the blanket on top, he swung it on his back and slammed his white pest control hat on his head.
He didn't run down the stairs of the apartment building. He couldn't act like anything was wrong. He grinned as the manager, a short woman from Europe crossed the lobby to meet him.
"Everything's a-okay, ma'am. You got a pretty nice place here."
The woman grinned. "Oh, I'm so glad. I knew those people I had to kick out would try to get revenge."
"Some people are just petty," Alfred shrugged in a what-can-you-do sort of way. A brisk honk sounded from outside.
"Thank you, again. Have a great day," the woman shook Alfred's hand.
"You too, ma'am," then he was out the double glass doors and in the van.
Ivan pulled away from the curb. "Did you get him?"
"Brains all over his front steps," Alfred replied. He moved from the front seat to the back of the van. He took his gun from the bag and placed it among the other rifles. Tossing the bag in the corner, Alfred clicked on the TV. News of Richard Paulson's death was already headlining.
With a grin, Alfred mentally counted down from ten. The phone rang right when he said zero. It was a throwaway phone, only used to make and close business deals. They changed it every month and contacted their regulars for the new number.
He picked up the phone. "Yellow, Dave and Bill Pest Control, how can I help you?"
"We just saw you completed your task," a very sexy woman's voice said. "Congratulations."
Alfred grinned. "Awe, shucks, it was nothing."
"The rest of your funds have been transferred into your account," the woman said.
Pulling out his real phone, Alfred brought up his bank account and saw the rest of his fees were indeed in the account. "Pleasure doing business with you, miss."
"We will contact you again, should your services be required."
"I'll be here, bye-bye," Alfred hung up the phone and resumed his spot in the front seat.
"They didn't short us anything?" Ivan asked. He slowed for a red light and glanced at Alfred.
"Nah, I made sure before I hung up."
"Good. This thing needs an oil change," Ivan said. Alfred laughed, the light turned green and they were on their way.
Ivan was Alfred's best friend. They met through one of Alfred's employers two years ago. His old partner was stealing from the employers and was taken care of (in other words, he was killed). To repay Alfred for losing his partner, they introduced him to Ivan. He was wanted by the Russian mafia and illegal to the U.S.. He had a cake I.D. naming him Connor MccReady. He fought hard to hide his Russian accent in public, afraid someone would notice and questions would be asked.
They lived together in a small duplex on the side of the beach. The other half of the house was rented out to summer tourists. Alfred and Ivan shared the rent, food and other necessities from Alfred's bank account, since Ivan couldn't get a card, and Alfred took what was left over from their job and split it in half. That total was then cashed out and given to Ivan who was free to do what he wished with it. It was a good system and they had very few fights over money. When they did fight, it was usually over which food they wanted and if vodka was a necessity.
"Okay," Alfred said. "We should have plenty for an oil change. When do we need to renew the plates?"
"Not for a while," Ivan turned down their street. It was really just a one-way alley that was hardly big enough for their van. "I think we need more cereal though."
"If you would eat something besides cereal, we wouldn't need to buy a new bag each week," Alfred rolled his eyes. He watched the colorful duplexes and apartments roll slowly past. Many of them were for vacationers, though a select few lived in them. You could tell by how much junk was in the yard. It mostly consisted of water skis, small boats, life jackets and the occasional broken oar the dad swore he would fix but never did.
"Your food is weird here," Ivan countered. "I mean, why would you name it 'hot dog' and expect someone not to think there was actual dog in it?"
Alfred laughed. "Why would we put dog in our food? Everyone loves dogs!"
Ivan shrugged. "This country serves pickles with almost everything. I wouldn't be surprised if I found actual dog in my hot dog one day."
"What's wrong with pickles?" Alfred exclaimed. This was a usual bickering session. Ivan would point out something that he found weird and Alfred would get defensive over whatever it was. The subjects ranged from American food, to sports, shopping, clothes and about everything else.
"Nothing, I just want to know why they come with almost everything I order at restaurants," Ivan said pulled into their garage. It was hardly big enough to fit their van, but that was okay. Ivan didn't have much belongings and Alfred always kept a light load. He hadn't been caught yet, but he never knew when he would have to make a quick getaway.
"It is because they're yummy," Alfred laughed. He hopped out of the van and went through the garage and up the two steps that lead inside the house.
Ivan rolled his eyes and followed, slamming the button to close the garage door. "You Americans are crazy."
"Says the man who can drink a bottle of vodka by himself in an hour," Alfred called over his shoulder. The inside garage door lead to a kitchen. All the appliances were set into a wall that lead to a living room. A small metal table from the seventies Alfred had picked up at a yard sale for fifteen bucks sat in the middle. The kitchen and living room was separated by tile becoming carpet. The living room held a two person couch, a recliner and a small television. To the right of the TV were stairs that lead to the two bedrooms and bathroom symmetrical to the stairs.
"Vodka is good for you," Ivan replied. "My grandma lived to one hundred and she drank a bottle of vodka a day."
"How did she die?" Alfred asked. Ivan didn't talk much of his home life and when he did, Alfred got curious. Somewhat nosey.
Ivan grinned and set the keys in the bowl on the counter. "She was fighting a pack of wolves in the winter. After she killed them all, she went back inside, had a bottle and died of infection."
"Your grandma died fighting off wolves?" Alfred felt his jaw drop.
"Yes. She was a very brave and scary woman," Ivan said solemnly. He then pulled down the collar of his fake work shirt and pointed to a long silvery scar. "She stabbed me there when I refused to do homework."
Alfred choked on air. "What?"
Ivan laughed. "Just kidding. I fell down a slide and a loose screw got me."
"Dammit, Ivan!" Alfred punched his friend. "You totally had me!"
"I know, that's why it is so funny," Ivan said maliciously.
Alfred mocked him before flopping down in front of the TV. He changed the channel to the news. They were still covering his latest victim. They had no leads. Of course. Alfred killed many people and he never used the same gun in a row. They were on a random rotation between at least twenty firearms. It would take a genius or someone to snitch before Alfred and Ivan got caught.
Ivan took his spot on the recliner and passed Alfred a bottle of beer. Alfred switched the channel to a baseball game and they drank in near silence. They exchanged a comment when there was a bad call, when the batter was awful, or pointed out the tits on a random lady in the stands that would result in a rewind and pause session.
Ivan didn't much like the game, but he was growing fond of it the more he watched. He especially liked when the batter was hit with the ball or when an outfielder barely missed the ball. It was quite comical to watch.
Life was easy for these two criminals. Though they didn't consider themselves as such. Alfred never killed an innocent man, and Ivan ran away from the mafia because they wanted him to kill an innocent man. Other than that, they were two regular bachelors. They paid their bills on time, went to the grocery store, drank a little too much after a completed mission and jerked off in the shower.
And though neither have yet to admit it, both were gay. Well, Ivan was bisexual and found he liked men that looked feminine. He hadn't told Alfred because of his time in the mafia. Hookers were common since he was twelve and his father and uncle had been fond of making fun of and actually murdering a few gay men in Russia. It was ingrained in Ivan not to be gay and never really thought of telling his friend. Alfred hadn't spilled his beans for a similar reason. He didn't find the woman body appealing and was set on finding a boyfriend/husband in the future, when he could retire. He didn't know if Ivan was against same-sex relationships and didn't want to ruin their friendship over something so trivial.
However, their sexualities will eventually reveal themselves. It won't be any problem between the two, and it will lead to Alfred's life being spared.
¤ Author's Note: I don't want to romanticize prison with this fic, I just wanted to aim for an original story. This isn't something where the bad guys become good, they will be criminals the entire time. It's my fake prison and my fake rules that are convenient to the plot so please keep "prison isn't like that" comments out. Don't go to prison, stay in school. ¤