The Trade
It was the perfect night.
Snow was falling and the temperature was fourteen degrees—surely no paparazzi would attack him now.
He walked to the intersection and turned right, keeping close to the buildings lining the street. Many of them were either doing badly in business, shut down or abandoned. This was the vacant section of the Toronto ghetto, and it was February 2, 2008.
He had a handsome face—jet-black hair and a gotee—one that had been on many issues of People or Us—any magazine that featured actors or music stars. Jason Keys was an actor. He had starred in many films that had been Emmy nominated—he was responsible for winning a few of those, ten to be exact—and he had raked in quite a bit of money through these films. He had, in the past, used this money in the right way, giving it to charity and the like, but tonight he was going to use it the wrong way.
There was a dead end where he was right now. There was a little vacant lot standing there, past the dead end. He looked out onto it, then turned to his left. There was a narrow building going six stories up. It was totally abandoned, and the doors and windows were locked, but he had the key. He walked to the door and unlocked it.
Inside there was what was once expensive furniture and a sign-in desk. All of this was torn up and tagged by graffiti. Keys ignored the rubble, and directed his feet towards the stairs. Up five stories high was the roof. He climbed the stairs to it. At the highest landing, he opened a door leading to a small staircase leading to the roof. There was no door to unlock, the door had been taken years ago. He walked out onto the roof, which was empty except for a few ventilation boxes, and the man he wanted to meet. There were several lightly armed thugs behind the man, and one grunted as Keys entered the scene.
The man directed his attention towards Keys and smiled.
"Ah, Jason! Hello boy! I have been waiting for you. What took you so long?"
Ichabod Davenport spoke with an English accent, but looked entirely different than his voice. He looked like someone who was homeless and poor, but actually he was quite wealthy. He was wearing a sweater and jeans, and black tennis shoes. He was just too high most of the time to take care of himself. Davenport was a big dealer in drugs and sometimes weapons. He was wanted by the police and evaded them well.
"You know I can't be seen. That's why I was late. But anyway, let us get this over with."
Davenport grinned and held up a case. "The last batch." There were drugs inside—the trade was fair. Davenport kept on grinning because there was an extra inside. He was so tired of Keys and his forcing him to give him drugs at an outrageously low price. He was planning to stop this today.
"Thank you Ichabod."
"My pleasure sir."
Keys turned and walked away. Behind his back, Davenport looked at his watch—which was actually a timer. He grinned. 5 seconds. 4..3..2..1...
Keys turned around and threw the briefcase off the building and a small gunshot was heard. Before Davenport's thugs was a bloody lifeless being on the ground. It took a second for them to realize that they too, were in danger.
One brought up his gun quickly, aimed at Keys, and smack! another corpse shot from behind. Whoever the assassin was, they needed to get away fast.
The thugs came to their senses and ran at Keys. He had nowhere to go—if he ran down back where he came up from, he'd surely be shot. He looked around quickly and saw a building across the street three stories down with a large window in it—partly broken. He had no other choice.
As the thugs fired their shots, Keys ran to the edge and jumped. The bullets came nowhere close as he flew across the street, five stories high. He landed and everything made it but his left leg. A soft pop was heard and Keys knew it was broken. He also landed hard on his chest and knew he cracked a rib or two. But he had to keep on going—the bullets were flying again. The implant surgically embedded in his ear let him know that his right-hand man had his car waiting at the bottom. If he went through the door that said Fire Exit, he'd be out in the open. There was no other option, so he was stuck. He ran to the other side of the room where there used to be another big window. He looked down out of it and there waiting was his limo.
He had to do something—the thugs were starting to find a bullet path around the broken furniture. But there was nothing he could do! Wait...the limo is right below me... he thought. He stood up wobbly. There was nothing else he could do. He walked over to the window and jumped.
Five hours later, Jason Keys sat in his huge bed in the busy city part of Toronto (one of his three homes), nursing his wounds. He had suffered from the fall, spraining both ankles and fracturing another part of the broken leg. He also suffered from multiple gashes. Good thing he didn't have any parties or press conferences to go to.
His messenger brought in a note from his right-hand-man. It said "Ichabod and his thugs have been eliminated and all that was valuable in his home taken. We can now carry on with Operation Nitesmoke. Hope you fell well soon, Levi Barker".
Jason Keys laid back and smiled, thinking about what was to come from Operation Nitesmoke.