The sound of rapid gunfire was earsplitting, the mounting heat from the flames like an oven turned on high. The whirs of the Hind helicopters circling overhead were like a pack of vultures stalking their prey. He could still remember it like it was yesterday, so fresh in his mind. A man and a woman, his parents, fled for their lives, panting, stumbling over countless times. Even he knew they had no chance of escape. The pursing helicopter had them in its crosshairs as it stilled itself in the air, allowing them only a few seconds left. The twin rockets would launch and lock onto their heat signatures. His heart raced as the moment came and before long…it was all over in one earth-shattering explosion.
At the sound of the fatal screams, Bayman shut his eyes, then reopened them to find himself back on the rapid transit bound for home. Not a day went by where that memory would not catch up with him. Whether it was morning, noon, or night it followed him like a stray dog.
The train jostled a bit and he gripped one of the poles to steady himself, trying to forget, focusing on something less tragic. However, his mind would not have it, rejecting the pleasant, replacing it with images of only pain and sorrow.
Back then, he was only a child, a witness to one of the goriest events he ever saw, and he was powerless to do anything to stop it. All that remained now was his profession and the only person he could count on in this life: himself. He needed nothing else. No friends, no women, no distractions.
Nothing.
He served Victor Donovan for the past several months. His client rented him an apartment, supplied him with whatever he needed for the job itself, and took care of everything else. No matter the situation, Bayman always did as his clients asked without protest, and Victor was no different. He was only to do the job and move on.
'Move on...'
If only his mind could do the same.
Bayman adjusted the dark, fur coat about himself before doing the same to his matching skullcap. The cold of the season did not affect him much. It was nothing compared to the harsh cold found in his homeland of Russia.
His calloused hands still had splotches of dry blood on them from the last operation. He had not had the time to wash his hands as it was a bit of a rush job. The reeking smell was still there too as he sniffed them. However, not potent enough for anyone to notice as he slipped a pair of gloves on for further concealment.
His head turned to the little girl shivering in front of him, her teeth chattering between explosive sneezes. He gave her a blank stare and the moment she saw his face she turned away. His appearance was not exactly the friendly kind, if judging from the looks he got everyday was any indication.
Her body had nothing to keep her warm but a torn jacket and a pair of jeans. Not even a scarf was present around her neck and instead of boots she had on tennis shoes that were coming apart.
Bayman approached her, his hulking shadow looming over her.
His eyes met hers, seeing panic within them. "You cold?" He asked.
She continued to shiver, hesitant before she gave him a quick nod. The look in her eyes said she did not trust him, wanted him to go away and leave her alone. She had a right to be cautious and nervous of an approaching stranger, especially one of his size.
Bayman slipped off his coat and handed it to her. "Here. You take."
Her tiny green eyes seemed to widen in confusion. She did not say a word to express how she felt, but the reaction she gave was enough. Reaching for the coat with a shaky hand, she fumbled with it and put it on. It covered her entire body, but he knew it would keep her warm.
Her smile was her thanks, and he nodded to her just when he noted they had reached his stop. His breath became frosty again as he sighed on stepping out into the city shrouded in white. Flakes came down on his shoulders like little specs of dandruff.
His boots began to trudge through the deep, wet mounds of snow in his path. The streetlights illuminating the roads and sidewalks made his journey home much easier.
According to the numbers on the round-faced clock he had since youth, it was past midnight. He always made sure that it had the right time, that the alarm would always ring to wake him up. It was a gift from his parents. Despite years of accidental abuse, it still ran just as fine as it did when he first got it.
Bayman switched off the lamp and walked through the darkness toward his bedroom. Then he paused, craving one last swallow of milk before he turned in for the night. He returned to the kitchen, reopened the carton, and drunk from it, the cold taste soothing his throat.
As he turned to leave, his senses went into high alarm.
The sudden noise of shattered glass prompted him to drop to the tiled floor. Glass fragments spilled out all over his furniture, and when he saw where the shot had come from, only one thing came to mind.
'Sniper…'
Bayman pulled his scoped pistol from the drawer, using his furniture as cover like a soldier in war did his surroundings. In front of him, he could spot the glowing red dot from the assailant's sniper rifle bouncing off the walls, searching for him. Further upward, he saw the hole where the shot had just missed him.
He stood with his back flattened against the wall, near where the bullet had penetrated his window. Peeking out the other, he saw the assailant dressed in a stealth uniform, crouched on one knee upon the neighboring rooftop.
They fired another round to where his head last went before he pulled it away just in time. With regarding the slow response time of the sniper gun, Bayman exposed himself, took aim, and unloaded a few silent shots of his own. The first three missed and only hit solid brick, but the last caught the assailant above his arm. The next got him in the leg when he tried to flee. He fell back, clutching his shoulder upon his withdrawal from the viewpoint.
Bayman wasted no time and burst out of his apartment, hurtling over parked cars, darting into the next building in nothing but a singlet and sweat pants. He took the stairs, blood pumping with renewed adrenaline, clutching his pistol tight. Upon the rooftop, he found the sniper trying to crawl away on his knees. Blood seeped from his shoulder and leg, his voice groaning from the pain inflicted by the wounds.
The man picked up the rifle single-handed in attempt to defend himself, but Bayman kicked it out of his grasp and let it skitter away. He hoisted his pistol and aimed it at the sniper's head. "Who sent you?"
The man said nothing, just groaned, and continued to nurse his bloodied shoulder.
Bayman shot a bullet into his thigh, creating yet another wound. "I asked you a question: Who sent you?"
"Like I'd tell you. " came the raspy answer after a pained whimper. He knew he would not say anyway. Nowadays, assassins swore under oath never to rat out their clients no matter the circumstance.
Then it all became clear when he noted the uniform up close and ripped off the sniper's night-vision goggles and mask. Bayman let out a silent gasp. He recognized the thin mustache and pale complexion. One of Victor's other hit men.
In this moment, Bayman would have thought his eyes were deceiving him, but he knew what he saw was real.
"Damn." The sniper muttered.
"Why?" Bayman aimed at his forehead this time, eyes narrowed.
"Fuck you." The sniper gave a weak chuckle, which turned out to be his last as Bayman's finger pulled back on the trigger.
It no longer mattered as he felt the dots of blood stain his face.
Bayman pondered as he glared at the corpse. For some reason, Victor Donovan wanted him dead.
He knew if he stayed here, it was likely another sniper would come after him, perhaps even more. Moving out and relocating was his only option. He then balled his hand into a tight fist as it began to tremble, his jaw doing the same.
The question echoed in his mind before he looked to the blackened sky with a new purpose.
'I'll see to it that you suffer dearly for this, Donovan.'