The rain was pounding the ground heavily now. The water beading down his face and washing the sweat away. His heart rate was slowing, pulse coming back down to normal.
Laying at his feet where the corpses of four black teens. Their faces frozen in their last moment of agony. The previous day they had shot down an innocent child who was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. The two year old boy was walking with his mother when this "gang" tried executing a hit on a rival hood. Too often does this happen.
He lifted the goalie mask that he wore to conceal his face, and violently vomited on the pavement. No matter how many lives he takes, it never gets any easier.
As he walks home in the night, he thinks of his own son. Court systems tend to side with the mother in custody battles, and his criminal record didn't help. It had been so long since he had held his little boy, and he longed to feel his weight in his arms. Everything that he does now, he does for him. Taking as many fucks off these streets as possible, trying to make the world a little safer for his little man.
The man opens the door to his apartment and crumbles down into bed. The chemo makes him so weak...he barely functions on these late night hunting trips. God finally punished him for trying to do his work. Throat cancer that can't be operated on, can't hardly be controlled, just kills slowly. Time is running out, and there is still much work to be done.
He closes his eyes, blood drying on his shirt and hands. He'll wash it off in the morning, too weak right now. Tomorrow is the start of the great exodus. All his pain and energy spewed out in a final siege against the scum of this world. However much time he has left will be filled with the blood of the guilty. The world will remember his name......his son will remember his name...