Hmm...my first (real) chaptered story that I actually plan on updating. Wow. The chapters will be short at first because a) I want to mold the story little by little and b) I'm used to oneshots. Read and review, please.
Disclaimer: BlahblahOhbaObatablahdon'townblah.
Pounding loud music.
Flashing lights just daring someone with epilepsy to join in.
Women...lots of women. Handing out drinks, sitting with the fatcats, sniffing up money- er, what was once money turned into that sweet white gold.
Yeah, this was an American club alright. Everyone on the dance floor moved as one, taking in a poor victim one at a time as they neared the group and spitting out the drunks, like an animal that's eaten its fill. He wasn't too surprised to find that he was pretty much the only one sitting at the bar; the bar was for the underdogs, the poor, anyone who couldn't find a vein worth shit. And that was Mello all over. He had just joined these worthless mafia wannabes to catch Kira a little over a year ago; he needed them under his control soon. To keep at the top of his game, he spent all of the money he had in their investments, and he never touched drugs. The last thing he needed was an overdose from someone trying to kill him. Why were they in this trashy club, anyway? Then a voice rang through Mello's earpiece and reminded him.
"Mello. I found him."
In an instant he was on his feet, peeling a few bills out of a clip to pay for the untouched bottle on the bar counter, shoes making a soft click of new sole against tile; the sound of the club drowned it out, however, and Mello was safe from a mugging another day. The cold night air hit him, like walking into a freezer. He dug into the pocket of his pleather jacket, hot skin sticking as he yanked out the small microphone clip, snapping it onto the collar of his jacket as he hurried down the dark sidewalk. The single light that lit the pavement crackled like a bug light, in danger of going out in any second; Mello needed to be gone one it did. His jogging turned to a trot the second it went out, throwing the street into almost total darkness.
"Where's he headed?"
The reply that came back was curt and, if Mello hadn't known Matt better, slightly insulted. "Where do you think? You gave me a job and I did it. He's heading toward you; the idea worked like a charm."
Mello, for lack of a better term; hit the brakes on his trot with a jerk, slamming his back against the wall of some store- Mello spared a glance upwards in pure curiosity. A pet store; how ironic, seeing as they were hunting a rat. Hunting a rat; a job for some of the lower grunts in any gang or mafia. This particulair species of rat, Nollan Stane, informed the local PD about one of their drug partners, sending most of them to jail. But that didn't matter; they would be out, back on the streets in no time. What did matter was that Mello's boss hated rats with a passion. And like all rats, this one had to be exterminated. If Matt was correct, Nollan would be racing by him in a matter of minutes, out of the dark alleyway that he would only be pushed back into.
When Mello took a step into the alley entrance, he was almost ran over by the man; hand found shirt collar, and Nollan barely had time to say, "Wha-" before his back hit the alley wall, head jarred against the hard brick. He was dazed and in terror, because at that moment he knew- he was gonna die. Mello glanced at the short sillouete that was Matt. Matt took his time walking down the alley towards Mello and Nollan. As long as Mello had a grip on the rat, he wasn't gonna get away. When he got there he leaned, one hand against the wall and the other in his jacket pocket, pulling back the hammer of a classic .50 Magnum. Nollan struggled weakly at first; they always did, sweat pouring off them and catching whatever light went by, glistening like an angel preparing for death to come. Nollan's brown eyes were widened in fear. He was so young...
"Alright, Nollan, I think you know what we're here for. Tell us where the drugs are. We don't have to kill you." A lie, a lie that Mello told every time.
"Heh." A nervous sound came from the dirty lips of Nollan Stane, age 23. Schizoid, paranoid, and an addict; he had to die, but if he kept squirming and panting like he was, it wouldn't make their job any easier. Matt brought out the clean gun, the metal flashing as a car passed by. Matt pressed the barrel to Nollan's temple, and the boy let out a whimper from the cold metal against hot skin. "I don't know- ngh- I don't know nothing!" That's what they always claimed.
Mello sighed. "Nollan..." A whack of fist meeting the side of the rat's face, another whimper. "Where are the drugs?" Nollan merely shook his head, shook it back in forth in a daze, sweat droplets flying off and- fist met skull once more. "Where are the drugs, Nollan?!"
Nollan let out a wail, muttering something about it being hot and that it hurt, and Mello tried to tame his fury; he was the hotblooded dog, trained to hunt and kill, and this man was in his way of getting the prize. He needed to calm down and think of where such a man would hide- why was Nollan acting so disorientated? Mello didn't hit him that hard. The light turned on, the switch was flipped, and the wheels turned in Mello's mind. Of course, the one place Nollan could hide the drugs without anyone finding them.
"You're packin', aren't you?" The one place where they wouldn't be found unless Nollan died and was autopsied; his body. Mello let out a chuckle; Nollan was probably too stupid to realize that he was now dying of an overdose. Mello reached into the pocket and pulled out a switchblade, the blade making a smooth noise as if flipped out. Mello nodded to Matt, and the silent man pulled the trigger. Mello let the limp body fall from his grasp and he swept the back of his hand against his left cheek in a half-hearted attempt to wipe off the blood.
"I'll call the Boss." Matt turned on his heels and took three steps into the darkness, taking out a cellphone as he did so. Mello looked down at Nollan Stane with a sigh. He was so young, but then again, Matt and he were young as well. But he couldn't think of Nollan as a person now; he had to think of Nollan as a container. He would soon be digging the blade into Stane's stomach, tearing and cutting and ripping until he met intestine; and then, he would slice through the soft pink tissue and pull out the bags of coke.
This was going to be a long night.