Waking up. It no longer coincided with the smell of coffee and bacon frying but with confusion, pain and fear. It was his fault for being here, even with the best of luck the house always wins in the end. If you stayed in darkness and seclusion long enough would time disappear? For him it had, his life consisted of only fragmented blurs of incoherent consciousness and his memories. Things aren't the same in the dark; anger and hatred turn to fear, happiness and joy to worry and pride to shame and remorse. Not noticing that you're in the dark is a common and effortless thing to do; it's only after you've stepped out of it that you begin noticing things. The only thing worse than being kept in the dark is being kept in the wet dark. The carpet in the six by six room was soaking wet. He knew what was happening and it was something he was ready for. Oddly enough he was wishing that they would hurry up and do something because being six foot two in a six by six room is fairly uncomfortable. As if that wasn't bad enough they had broken his shooting arm, rendering him useless. For now, he blocked out the pain and thought back over the past ten years knowing what he had done was too little too late but it calmed him.
Men of war are often forgotten after the war is over; heroes of war are never forgotten. Vincent Wolfe was a hero; he excelled in combat but had little luck with anything else. Since the war ended and he was sent home he had had several odd jobs, he never held one more than a month. When Nicky showed up at his one room apartment offering him a job that would let him do what he was born to do, he was for some reason reluctant. "Nicky it's been fifteen years since I've even held a gun, I'm not sure I'd be able to do you any good."
"Vincent, do you expect me to believe that a hero with as many awards as you would ever give up fighting? It's easier for me to believe that you robbed a market less than a month ago, but then again there were pictures of that."
His hands started to sweat but he couldn't show that he was nervous. He had to make sure to act normal, he figured she had been trained to pick up on tells from liars.
"I thought you were here to recruit me not blackmail me. I don't know the kind of people you're used to dealing with but I'm not like them. I'm not some low-life you can just bully into a job."
"From reading you're files I'd never have expected you to be so hard headed, I'm not here to blackmail you but to make that go away and get you back to doing something you like. You can't sit there with a smug look on your face and tell me you haven't missed the action, the thrill of battle. This will be different from war though, you'll be working for me. Over the next two years there will be few jobs that I'll contact you to do. Depending on how well you do, you may only have to do two or three jobs for us. No matter how many times you work you will receive a weekly check. This is what you've been dreaming of Vince, we know it."
"The name's Vincent you little paper pusher. I guess you thought you had everything planned out perfectly; well you don't so stop acting like you know what's best for me. I'll do this or I won't, it has nothing to do with what little perks you can offer me.
"I didn't mean it like…"
"Don't interrupt me! Come back in a week or so and if I'm still here then I'll work for you, if not my guess is you'll never hear from me again."
It was exactly one week to the hour when Nicky returned. She knocked on the door; he had opened it before she finished knocking.
"Before this goes any further there are some things you need to know. Firstly, I will always be the one to contact you and give you the assignment. I hate to disappoint you but this is the last time I'll be coming over to your lovely home. From now on every morning you'll take a short walk up and down the block. If there is a white chalk mark on the mail box at the corner then take this key and go to post office box 1428. Your assignment will be waiting for you there."
"I know that I'll be working for you, but who are you working for?"
"We are working for out country and that's all that should matter. Your checks will be slipped under your door every Friday, don't try and check to see who your "tooth fairy" is. This time it won't be your parents and they will be armed. If you do anything to them the deal is off. Don't get lazy on me, be ready for anything anytime."
Before he was able to respond she was out the door and down the stairs. He listened to what she said and every morning on his way to the gym he would check the mailbox at the corner. For two months nothing happened, he was relieved because he had never stopped to think about how out of shape he was. He spent his time working out and shooting at the range.
On February twenty-first he saw the chalk mark on the mail box. He ran as hard and fast as he could, until acid pumped through his veins, to get to the post office. Who ever designed the city did not have the happiness of postmen in mind. The community mail boxes were posted haphazardly throughout the city. Even though most people had a box within a mile of there house the post office could be up to ten miles away. Postmen were not his concern; his mind was racing as fast as he was. He didn't like the idea of walking into a mission blind-folded but there was no other choice. For all he knew they could be sending him to infiltrate an enemy countries army and find out their weapons capabilities or he could be sent to assassinate the Pope. Either way it made little difference. He was a mercenary for his country, a true patriot.
Out of breath he entered the post office. He managed to ask the man behind the counter where the boxes were at. (Though he breathed between every word) Fred, the post office's day time manager, walked him back to box 1428. He opened the box expecting to find something more than he found. Inside there was a plain manila folder with five sheets of paper. He was expecting more than this. His mind had built up this idea of having to run all throughout town and having to perform death defying feats to come by this information. He felt relieved for he hadn't got much sleep the night before; he was not in the mood for any heroic acts today. The note was short, to the point and quite vague. It read:
February 27th 8:00PM
Outside your apartment there will a van with supplies. Plant the evidence strategically; they have threatened the safety of your fellow citizens. Wear gloves. Be sure and hit rooms 1a, 1d, 2b and 2j. Leave nothing in them, the rest of the structure can withstand minimal-moderate damage. Leave by 9:00, we take no responsibility for you if you leave later. Leave the van out front, it's theirs and will be evidence.
Along with the note there was a map of a parliament building and the rap sheets of four despicable people. They all had several charges; the most serious was that they were communist. He reasoned that the listed rooms were filled with communist propaganda; he would have no problem completing the mission. They had picked the right man for their jobs and he was delighted to be part of this cleansing. He pondered why he hadn't taken any action against the governmental problems over the last years. Like so many others he had turned his blind eyes away from the problems, but those days were over.
Sleep had never come so easy for him, babies don't sleep this well. Every day up to the 28th he went to the building and looked around. He found his entry and exit points as well as the course he would take once he was inside. After hours there was no security so once he was inside there was no danger. His only complaint was that it was too easy, but he knew that things could have been worse so he didn't mind. Other than scoping the site the only exercise he got was from his daily walks, he wanted to save his strength. During the walks he loosely made plans of what he would do on the 28th. He never made real plans, never had and never would. The problem with making an elaborate plan for something as risky as this was that if one thing went wrong the whole thing tumbled in on you. By making almost vague plans he would be able to handle each situation as appeared. He wasn't foolish enough to not have an escape plan if things went south quickly however, for each place he would be visiting he came up with at least two feasible escape routes.
He would laugh when he thought of the people who worked behind a desk eight hours a day and thought they had a meaningful life. Though they had life they knew nothing of living it. They are whittling away at their lives getting a false sense of accomplishment doing mindless work. He had always lived to make a difference and now more than ever he was going to.
On the night of the 28th when 8:00 rolled around he was more than ready. Decked out in the stereotypical black attire with two guns, one on a thigh holster the other in an ankle holster. He'd found that it's better to have a gun and not need it, than to need a gun and not have it. He seriously doubted that he would use them for anything other than for intimidating and controlling his baggage. He went out the door, down the stairs and out the back door of the building. He peered around the corner checking to see that the van was there and that no one else was. He walked around, hopped in the driver seat and then checked the back of the van.
There were all there, four unconscious communists. He was glad they were out cold because they would be easier to leave them in the rooms, if they weren't he would have just introduced the butt of his gun to the back of their heads. Along with them were two two-liter containers of petrol. He started the car and headed straight for the building. That night he was lucky with the lights, green the whole way. When he got to the building he pulled around to the back, and backed right up to the window he found had its lock missing. He opened the window and started loading his stuff inside, the last things to go in where the communists. For the first time he felt glad that there had been a mild food shortage lately, it probably took five or six pound off the guys.
The lights were all off but he had no trouble navigating the building. He went to each of the rooms and opened the doors with his knife. Once inside he poured the petrol in each cabinet, spread some around the room and moved on. He then dragged the bodies into the rooms. He was had just dropped the last body off when he heard a crash somewhere in the darkness followed by a howl. He ran to the room he heard the sound came from and turned on a light to find that one of the communists has woken up and tipped over one of the filing cabinets. He drew his gun and made his way across the room. The man started to say something but it didn't make much since and before he could keep talking his sentence was interrupted by a Colt crashing into his head. Vincent waited and saw that the wound was bleeding. The main thing he had to remember was that these guys were the ones who started the fire but inhaled too much smoke and passed out. A wound to the head would not fit in with that scenario so he made sure it wouldn't be visible. He threw some of the petrol on him and made his way out the door. He walked down the hall to the furthest room and flicked the lit match into it. He did this to all the rooms as he made his way back towards the van. Once outside he took off the black outfit and threw it in a large public trash can. He put attached the gun around his hip to his other ankle and began his walk home, whistling all the way.