It was pissing rain in Manchester, New Hampshire.
Though it was midday, the sun was obscured by a thick woolen blanket of gray clouds that turned the light to a dull steel gray, and it seemed to seep the life out of the normally bustling city. Few people dared brave the sidewalks that had been submerged by the pounding torrent from the heavens, but here and there a raggedy character would shamble down the street to the cover of some other bar or restaurant; a beep of a car horn here or there, and the mini-light show of the obliviously functioning traffic signals. Elm Street, the main drag where this scene is set, was almost devoid of life. Save one man.
In a small open air plaza next to the tallest office building in the city, a man sat on a simple stone bench near the sidewalk, his head bowed as if acknowledging the worsening storm with an odd sort of reverence. His longer brown hair had been completely matted flat by the impact of water drops, and was hanging down around his face like a closed show curtain. The eyes behind those curtains were gently closed, and for a reason; the man was praying. Not to the rain, as it may have looked from the outside; the man was praying to God silently, willing him to guide his mission to success.
As the man finished his prayer, a limousine rounded the far corner to his left, coming off of the bridge over the Merrimack river; there was one black sedan in front and two in back, sticking to the stretch limo like flies to rotting meat. The man on the bench watched, and waited. The convoy closed in, and pulled to the curb directly in front of him. For a few seconds, all there was in the world was the cars, the man, and the rain. Then some doors swung open.
A Hispanic man wearing a slightly open purple shirt stepped out of the passenger side of the lead sedan, along with a sweat-shirted, straggly haired, baggy pant toting, white Rastafarian looking character. The darker skinned one cursed the rain and his lack of appropriate clothing, and the other pulled his hood over his head. The man on the bench kept his head bowed.
Sweat-shirt noticed the man sitting first, and indicated him to the other man with a jerk of his thumb. The Hispanic man stopped complaining for a second, and a grimace crossed his face; he quickly removed his designer sunglasses, put them in his front pocket, and mounted the curb to face the man on the bench.
"Hey man…you can't be here right now."
The man on the bench said nothing.
"Hey…hey, I'm talking to you!"
"Maybe he's deaf or something?" Sweat-shirt said.
The other man glared at him, then turned his attention back to the bench man.
"Listen," the guy said, planting himself on the bench next to the man; he casually brushed the edge of the guy's trench coat away, revealing a dry spot to sit.
The Hispanic man subtly motioned to his compatriot, who grudgingly sat himself down on the other side of the man on the bench.
"You can't be here right now, alright? We've got some business to attend to, and we can't have random people just lounging around here, alright?" The man slapped the bench guy on the shoulder, and expected him to move.
He didn't.
"Why are you wearing sun glasses in the rain, man?" Bench man finally said.
"I'm getting tired of this bull-"
The word caught in sweat-shirt's throat as three bullets ripped from the inside of Bench man's trench coat and sent him rolling off the edge, blood clouds shooting out of his back.
The man on the other side barely had time to register his comrade's death as two bullets ripped out of the other side of the same trench coat, tearing through his throat and exploding out of the back of his neck.
Two down.
Bench man rose with a flourish, flinging his trench coat open and brandishing two identical Glock pistols. The doors of the sedans were already flinging open; six from the back two, one more from the lead. The limousine didn't budge.
Good.
The last man to get out of the first sedan popped up from the street side of the parked car, in the process of leveling a pistol the bench man couldn't quite make out. Regardless, the bench man raised his right hand pistol and put a quick round through the rising assailants left eye, expelling a spray of blood and gray matter from the side of his head. The guy seemed to drop faster than the bullet had traveled.
At this moment, the six men down the street rose from their open door cover and started emptying the full fury of their combined nine millimeter weapons over the limo's roof to tear apart the lead sedan and the entire area around it.
Bench man spun and ducked, stopping with his back against the front bumper of the car. He ducked lower as chips of paint, pavement, and glass filled the air around him, all the individual pieces twirling crazily like planes that had each lost one wing.
As the hiding gunman waited for the deluge of flying lead to cease, he heard the horrid screech of tires that had barely kept whatever vehicle they were attached to on the ground. For a minute, the gunman was afraid that the limo man had phoned for back up.
But he smiled broadly as the screams of the other men that had been shooting at him mingled with the deafening sound of a huge vehicle impacting the rear of the column.
He was a little late, the fuck.
The bench man rose at this, spinning quickly and raising both of his guns. Things seemed to go in slow motion in the next few seconds, and the gunman took in every detail of the scene.
The six men were reeling from the armored bank truck that had just crushed the rear sedan into the middle one, folding the former like an accordion. One was up and shooting wildly at the armored truck, but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off of the thick shielding. Right as the slide on his gun clicked back on empty, a burst of heavy gunfire from the cloud of smoke surrounding the wreck caught him in the chest. The man went flying backwards, sprawling on the ground to reveal his chest cavity to the unflinching sky of a steel disposition.
"HAPPY SAINT PATRICK'S DAY, IAN!"
Another burst of gunfire from behind the armored truck confirmed that Connor had joined the fight, and he'd come equipped for all twelve rounds.
Two of the remaining five men turned towards Ian, who was striding forward confidently amid the hail of ricochets and misdirected shots. Ian raised his Glocks, and emptied the clips into the two men, causing ragged red holes to exploded open their torsos. The two spun in opposite directions, smashing into the pavement with a finality that only death could provide.
Three left.
Ian dropped his empty pistols as one of the last three gunfighter's head exploded from a burst of gunfire from Connor's advancing form; he was wielding an M4 assault rifle, and a sawn-off was swinging from his shoulder.
Ian drew two Colt .45s from his vest holsters as Connor dropped the M4, only to bring the sawn off swinging upwards.
The final two gunfighters went back to back in a hopeless attempt to survive.
Ian leveled both .45s at the cowering man in front of him, who popped off the last shot from his silver pistol, hitting Ian squarely in the chest.
The gunfire stopped.
Ian dropped one of the fully loaded .45s to the street, and gripped the edge of his flailing trench coat; he flung it open.
Light suddenly broke from the clouds, reflecting off some of the pounding rain drops and illuminating Ian's torso.
The new found light revealed an embroidered Celtic-styled cross on a blue bullet proof vest. A small crater in the material denoted the impact of the true bullet.
Ian flashed a smile, and then shot the man across from him through his sternum.
The man dropped to one knee with a pained gasp, clutching the newly opened wound with a clawed hand. The blood quickly flowed out, and then spread down to spill out of the bottom of his tank top and on to his jeans.
The man looked up with teary, furious eyes.
Ian shot him through the tip of his nose. Brain matter exploded, impacting the falling rain and coated the back of the last surviving man.
The sun had now busted through the clouds, and the falling rain drops had taken on a diamond like quality. The drops seemed to glint gaily as the last man dropped to his knees, groveling for mercy. Ian scooped his .45 from the street at his feet, and watched Connor advance on the man, his sawn off trained tightly on him.
"Please, man…don't fucking kill me," he said as Connor moved within inches of him. "I'm just supposed to be guarding this guy! There wasn't supposed to be any fucking problems! It was just an escort job! Please don't fucking kill me." The man implored the last please, tears rolling down his debris flecked cheeks. Connor looked up at Ian from behind a few swinging locks of orange-red hair.
"Stand up."
"No, man, come on, don't do this."
"Stand up. Do it, now."
The man slowly rose to his feet, hanging his head in shame and fear.
Connor spun him around and wrapped an arm around the man's throat; then he began to shuffle forward, the man pinned to him. Ian took this as his cue.
Connor shuffled forward, the man protesting all the way, but he finally got to the back passenger door of the limo; Ian went to the one of the side-walk side. He stepped over a couple bodies, his trench coat silently sweeping across them. Blood was still slowly marching across the dirty, wet pavement.
Connor looked over the car at Ian, and Ian looked back. He nodded.
Connor used his free hand to fling the door open, still clutching the man close.
As expected, a hail of gunfire greeted the mismatched pair. The human shield was torn to shreds.
It must have been a .357 or something, Ian thought, because the shots were a little spaced, and the roar sounded like a blood drunk lion. After the sixth shot, Connor dropped the limp pile of henchman meat to the road, and swung the shotgun up. Ian was already pointing both .45s inside the passenger cabin.
The man inside had his hands up, glancing nervously between the pair of gunman outside the doors of the stretch.
"You guys don't have to do this. You know who I am! Open the briefcase…go ahead, open it! There's two point five million, already washed. Take it, I don't give a fuck, just take it," he paused in puzzlement, glancing back at the two.
"Are you praying?"