Chapter one: A Dark Meeting
The informant shivered in the cold night air as he walked briskly down the street. The street was abandoned this time of night which worried him. He hated meeting these people under these conditions, always dark secluded areas away from public eye, in the middle of the night when he'd rather be home asleep and worst of all, the unshakeable feeling of being watched. He stopped on the corner he had been told too and waited. A slow moment passed when finally his cell phone went off. He answered it hastily, nearly dropping it as he pulled it out of his pocket. It was a short simple text.
Go North.
The informant looked around the surrounding rooftops and behind him. No signs of life anywhere save for the odd stray dog. He really hated this. He continued up the street heading north as the text said. About ten minutes later, his phone rang again. This time the text read:
Alley between Smith and Wesson.
The informant nodded o himself and walked down the street until he came upon the alley. It was dark, so dark that the minute he stepped into the alley, he disappeared.
"H-hello?" he called into the darkness.
"Were you followed?" a soft voice asked.
"W-who's-"
A light clicked on over head, dimly illuminating the dark alley in a harsh yellow light. Standing in front of the informant was a tall man. He was wearing a trench coat that was buttoned all the way to the collar, along with a black hat that casted a dark shadow over his face, completely hiding it from view. In the middle of the area that should have been his face was a single red dot from his cigarette. He took a drag, briefly illuminating his eyes. Cold and unfeeling. The eyes of an assassin.
"Where you followed?" he asked again.
"N-no." The informant said.
The assassin held his hand forward and motioned with his fingers. The informant had dealt with these guys long enough to know it wasn't a request, it was a demand. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small manila envelope. He handed it quickly to the assassin, who took it and opened it with the tip of a switchblade. He reached inside and took out the contents, a photograph and a sheet of paper with an address. He memorized the face and name, took out a lighter and burned them both.
"Uh, anyway…." the informant began. He hated bringing up the subject up. "My pay?"
The assassin dropped the smoldering paper on the ground and slowly reached into his pocket. The informants blood ran cold, his hand twitched slightly on his left hand side, a few inches from the gun in his waistband. The assassin removed his hand from his pocket and dropped a roll of money on the ground next to the photo. The informant dropped down and scrambled to collect the money. When he stood back up, the assassin was gone. The light bulb above the alley flickered as the wind picked up. The photo was almost completely burned out by now; all that remained was a piece of face and a name: Arnold Shortman. The informant almost felt surge of pity in his stomach. He shrugged and walked out of the alley eager to get home.
Sucks to be you, kid. He thought.
