Hey guys!
Honestly, I did not realize how long this chapter is until I reread and fixed all the mistakes in it. It's nearly 4000 words. So, sorry if you don't like long updates, but this is a long update.
And I've decided that I'm going to update on the weekends, either Saturday or Sundays. So if I don't update next weekend, I give you permission to track me down and make me update.
Other than that, there's nothing really going on. I have no news to give you guys. Criticism is still appreciated, as long as it isn't given in a hurtful way. Read and review!
Despite his automatic fear, Fang leans closer to the door. He needs to know what else is going on. The news has shocked the drunkenness from his brain, and now that he can actually comprehend what's going on, he's terrified. He should probably leave, at least try to run but he can't bring himself to move.
"He has," the woman pauses, "angered me. He made a bad choice, one that I didn't approve of. Now the consequences come." Fang's mind races as he tries to remember that voice. Nothing comes to him. He's probably angered dozens of people over the years. Being an assassin tends to do that.
The shuffling of paper can be heard, and he knows Maximum is being handed a file. Usually a file on the victim's whereabouts and history. A good assassin can retell a man's life by a file like that.
"Now comes the important matter. Payment," a voice that is distinctly Jeb announces, and somebody clears their throat.
"I am willing to give you fifty thousand dollars. No more, no less. I expect him dead and delivered to me by the thirtieth," Anne declares, pausing for a moment before continuing. "Call me on this cell phone if you need any additional information or when the job is done. That is all. I expect to hear from you soon."
Fang barely has enough time to get out of the way before the door is pushed open and a blonde haired woman walked out. As if the place is toxic, she walks as quickly as she can out of the bar, refusing to look at anyone or anything. Merely a second later Maximum and Jeb emerge from the office, too, talking almost silently.
After the woman had left, Jeb turns and gently hugs Maximum before returning to his office. Fang gapes. He didn't believe that she would let a man touch her, the boss or not. She had been hurt before, he could tell that much. Whether it was by a tragedy, a death, or a romantic disaster, he could not yet tell. He is determined to find out. Oh, and save his life. But having been through a tragedy himself, that's the second thing on his list.
MAXIMUM RIDE
In the back corner of the bar where nobody can see what she's doing, Max flips through the file, carefully combing through it. She needs every small detail she can get.
Nicholas Martinez.
Possible whereabouts: Anywhere on the east coast/New England/New York
Skills: Trained with many weapons/Hand to hand combat
Underneath the words is a small picture, and it gives Max a startling sense of recognition. Those onyx eyes, filled to the brim with emotion. The olive skin, she knows she has laid eyes on it before. Gently, she places a finger on the photo, hoping touch could tell her more. But no. Nothing more comes from the picture other than a bit of frustration as she tries to remember where she had seen that face.
The boy in the picture is young, maybe fifteen years old. A look of indifference covers his face, practically saying that he thinks caring is the stupidest thing in the world. His posture is atrocious, Max notes, shaking her head in disappointment. Again, she swears she recognizes the boy. Desperately, she tries to remember, but nothing solid comes into her mind.
So instead she examines his dark brown, almost black, hair, and green shirt. But her eyes always flickered back up to the dark eyes. They would bring her to the brink of remembrance before slowly backing away.
With an irritated sigh she flips the page.
There are only two more papers in the file, one filled with extensive details on the prey's skill, the other with some of the prey's history.
While the list of skills seemingly goes on and on, the history is unbelievably brief. For a woman willing to pay fifty thousand dollars, she provided sparse information.
Max shakes her head in annoyance and focuses in on the history. His skill doesn't matter much. There's no way he can beat her no matter how good he is.
Nicholas Martinez. Born in Boston, Massachusetts. Raised in a small town in New Hampshire by two abusive parents.
She winces as soon as she reads the third sentence. It always pains her a little to hear about parents abusing their children. Sure, she kills people for money. But at least she knows and acknowledges that she's an awful person. I'm a shitty person, but at least these people aren't my children, she thinks, fingering the page. The thought of what this man has been through should have made her rethink her decision to kill him, but it doesn't. It's simple in her mind. It always has been. She receives money for killing people. There are no ugly shades of gray to confuse her. It's simple and clear, something Max loves. She doesn't have to argue with herself before pulling the trigger. She doesn't have to focus on her history with her victim because there is none. She's doing somebody else's work.
As soon as Nicholas was 18, he moved to New York City. Trained by an ex-gang member, he quickly became deadly.
There is more about his skills, and probably why this Anne Walker is pissed at him, but Max has all she really needs to know. Who, where, and skills. History is just a bonus. In a talk, information can be a lifesaver.
Closing the manila material, she heads for the door.
As she walks, she feels eyes following her. Her eyes scan the bar, but all she sees is the few souls who haven't got a job to attend to and too messed up to go home just yet. They all nurse drinks and look depressed. Nobody that sets off her alarms.
She bites her lip before turning back around and exiting the bar at a brisk pace.
Shaking off the feeling of being watched, she strides out of the bar, intent on getting home and getting started on this case.
Her walk is quick. She dodges the crowds of tourists that are out this early in the morning before she manages to make it to the empty street that her house is on. When she does see her home, she relaxes a bit, only loosely holding the file now.
The feeling of home doesn't comfort her all that much, but being alone does. She embraces loneliness, unlike unrealistic people who reject it. You will be alone during at least one point in your life, why not recognize and accept this fact?
As soon as she is seated, she spreads out the file and begins her detective work.
This is why I'm a good assassin, Max thinks, piecing together the man's life, I already know where to look for this asshole.
She quickly throws together a bag of clothes, a small pistol, and a few poison laced darts along with the file. She hates not being able to bring a weapon that she likes to use, but her small suitcase restricts that necessity.
"Boston, here I come," she murmurs to herself, gripping the bag in her right hand and keys in her left.
MAXIMUM RIDE
"Wow! Way to be an asshole!" some random dirt bag shouts through the window of his RV, watching as Max weaves through the barely moving traffic with ease.
In response, she flips him off and simply pushes the motorcycle to move even faster.
He must've shouted again, because she can hear his yell fading through the wind. It doesn't matter to her what the middle aged man thinks, she just needs to get to Boston, where she knows she can find the ex-gang member that will lead her to her target.
"Finally," she hisses under her breath as soon as she exits the highway. Sitting on that bike for that long makes her butt too sore. If she could live the rest of her life without touching her butt back to that seat, she'd die happily.
For a second, Max forgets about her job. All she does is look around the city with wonder coloring her face. Sure, she lives in New York City, but Boston is something else. It just feels different. The look, the atmosphere, the sounds; it sure does smell different.
Dismissing the strong sense of amazement, she quickly makes her way through the city. She has only one destination, one purpose, and that is to kill Nicholas Martinez. This man she is searching for will help her do just that. She can't focus on anything other than that until the job is finished.
After a couple minutes of her combat boots hitting the pavement in a strong rhythm, she finds the apartment building she's looking for.
It's a little ratty, but not completely disgusting. The brick walls are splattered with dirt and a bit of graffiti, but they aren't crumbling or in need of reconstruction. Her own home is in much better condition, but that's only because she takes very good care of it. The outside of this building is in need of a good wash, but other than that, it's fine. It doesn't look old or run down, just a little filthy. But that's okay, she can deal with filthy.
The inside of the complex holds the same description as its outside, and so does the employee working at the front desk. Max grimaces before realizing she needs a way to get past this grease ball without actually committing a crime. There's no need to have the police called because she doesn't have the energy to deal with a man in need of a shower. Sighing, she approaches him, her plan already in mind.
"Hello," she drawls slowly to the man at the front desk, "I was wondering if you could tell me which apartment Sam Taylors happens to live in." A flirty smile is delivered to the wide eyed man along with her words. "He's an old friend. He told me which apartment he lives in, but I completely forgot to write it down." A little giggle is added to the end of her performance. Max nearly grimaces, but manages to hold it back.
"O-of course, ma'am," the flustered man stutters. After the clicks of his keyboard he leans forward on his elbows. "Maybe after you see him, you can come see me."
Max bites her lip coyly. God, she hates this act more than she's hated anything in a long time. He is way too close to her. She can smell him a little too clearly. "And do what?"
"You'll see," he leans even closer, closing his eyes and puckering his lips. She nearly vomits.
All Max has to do is roll her eyes and turn the computer screen towards her to see the apartment number. 414.
"I'm going to have to decline your invitation," she says brightly, smiling a devious smile. "But thanks for helping me find my friend!" With that she whirls on her heal and stalks away, gagging at the lingering scent of the man's breath. His salary may be small, but toothbrushes are not expensive.
Up a few flights of stairs, and past a few loud doors, and then she's standing in front of the door, numbered 414.
Without hesitation she picks the lock and enters silently, listening for the sound of Sam Taylors.
Moaning and muffled screams reached her ears, coming from the bedroom. She rolls her eyes. Just her luck. Great, just what I need, she thinks, him and his late night companion.
But she has never been a coward, so she approaches the closed door, opens it, and says to the woman rolling around the bed with her suspect, "Get out. I only need him."
The shocked woman had no idea what to do. She simply sits there, covered only by some revealing under garments and gapes. It takes a moment before she rises up, gathers her clothes and exits the apartment. Her mouth never returns from its wide open position.
"Put a shirt on," Max instructs once the man's companion has left, throwing the angry man his top. "I don't need to think about what I just interrupted."
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Who are you?" he is outraged, and very close to violence, Max notes. Good thing violence won't work out for him. He looks strong, but muscles won't get him anywhere if his opponent is Max.
"You don't need to know my name. Nor my business. But I do have a few questions for you."
He reaches forward to shove the glaring woman, who is obviously disgusted with him. But she catches his right arm and twists, easily putting him in an arm bar. She's almost grateful he resorted to violence. It's so much easier for her to show him how powerless he is in this position.
"I need to know about Nicholas Martinez," she whispers menacingly in his ear, not releasing her hold. "Everything. Spill, and I'll consider not breaking your arm, along with your neck."
"No!" James spits, pain clear in his voice. "Nick is my boy! I won't ever mess with that!"
"Oh, James, I think you shouldn't ever mess with me, or else something much more painful than your bond with your friend will be broken." Just to show how much control she has over him, she presses down a little harder on his elbow, causing him to groan in pain.
"Let's start with how you met Nicholas," Max suggests calmly, "or maybe where he is now. Either you give me some extensive history, or we can just cut straight to the chase. I would suggest the second option, it involves much less pain for you, and a lot less hassle for me."
The struggling man resists for another moment more before finally giving up and slumping forward.
"I saved the poor kid from a gang fight. Took him under my wing. Trained him, taught him how to survive, how to fight. He stuck with me for a few years before he decided he wanted more. He liked the fight, the struggle for power of the gangs. He said a bigger, more powerful city was the place for him." That was three years ago. He woulda been twenty two."
Max releases her hold on the poor man before whispering, "Good job, James. That was very helpful. But one more question." She moves so quickly that there is no possible way he can stop her. It only takes a minute before he's in a head lock. "What city, would be a 'powerful city' compared to Boston?"
"I don't know!" the man groans, "take a guess, New York City, D.C., think for yourself!"
Max stops dead. "I would strongly suggest not insulting me. Unless you enjoy morgues. Well, you wouldn't be able to enjoy it, you'd be the body on the slab."
"If I had to take a guess, I'd say NYC, but that's just me," he manages to choke out, obviously trying to placate her.
Max releases him for good. "Thank you, you've been helpful. Don't mess up your life, because I'll be back, and with a strong reason to kill you."
With that she turns, opens the window, and jumps.
To him it looked like she'd fallen four stories down, but in reality she had just caught the fire escape and walked down the stairs.
She finds her way back to her motorcycle and sits back down, already regretting it. The hour or so it took to get the information from James was not long enough to erase the feel of the seat on her butt. "Back to where we started," she grumbles under her breath, before kicking the motorcycle to life and speeding back to New York.
MAXIMUM RIDE
"Shit, shit, shit," Fang mumbles under his breath as he paces through the room, his footsteps echoing. He has a deadly, trained assassin coming after him. Yes, they hold the same job, but literally everybody he's spoken to about her has told him she's the best. He's most likely screwed.
Where is she now? Is she watching him? Stalking him? Following him? He glances over at his bedroom door, and at the three locks holding it shut. There are no windows in his room to lock or cover, simply because of his paranoia when he had bought the place, but now the bare walls are finally serving their purpose. Keeping him alive.
Even while he is deathly afraid of the woman, he can't stop his attraction towards her. She's beautiful, and dangerous. Those two traits combined act as a magnet to him. He's slowly being pulled towards her, whether he likes it or not. (He doesn't like it, but that's only because she's going to try to murder him at some point in the not so distant future).
But for now, he'll stay hidden. Off the streets, and away from people. It's the only way he knows for sure she won't find him immediately. At least he'll have time to plan for when she does find him, if she hasn't already.
With that decided, he rolls over, and falls into a restless sleep of nightmares.
MAXIMUM RIDE
"Back to where I started," Max grumbles under her breath, striding past tourists and locals on the streets. The people like her, who disregard the fact that it is three o'clock in the morning.
She sighs, pursing her lips. This is her least favorite part of the job. The gangs. Usually they're involved. Nobody hires a contract killer to murder you for no reason, and a connection to a gang is plenty reason for most people. At least eight percent of her kills have been associated with gangs, so she's used to dealing with their bullshit.
If she's lucky, she'll find her target soon, with a direct lead from East Side, where the scum hung out, and she won't have to deal with the gangs for any longer than what is necessary.
She makes her way through the streets, as they slowly grow darker and scarier. Less people are around as she continues to walk. The tourists are replaced with the homeless. One look of two young men, both openly brandishing pistols is all it takes for her to pick up her pace and slip a blade down her sleeve and into her hand. Her other hand stays firmly planted on the pistol tucked into her waistband.
Finally, she reaches her destination, a ratty old bar, and slips inside.
"Hello," her voice catches the attention of several of the men lounging around in the crowded bar. It's not as congested as usual, but there are still more people than there should be for a Thursday night at three in the morning. "Anybody mind giving some directions? I'm a little lost, and can't find my hotel." Max adopts a higher voice with a more innocent tone. She looks up at everyone with wide, trusting eyes. Honestly, if she couldn't be an assassin anymore, she could definitely take up acting.
A taller, blonde man steps forward. Max immediately notes how badly his need for a shave is before putting a smile on her face. "Thanks! Everybody is so nice here!"
Chuckles ring out through the bar, but the man silences them with just a look. "Alright, little lady," he says with a smile of his own. "I'll help you, but we should step into the other room, it's much quieter in there."
Max tilts her head, nodding as she finally places a name with this man's face. He is Jason St. McCloud, but known as Boss to his gang, the Snakes. He's a speck of dirt that the world really wouldn't miss. Max doesn't even blink as she grips the knife in her sleeve.
They step through the threshold together, one of them smiling like an idiot while the other notably grows quieter. The man doesn't notice, but Max plays in her sleeve, sliding it a little further up so it's completely hidden from view.
"So, pretty lady, where do you come from?" Jason queries, trying and failing to keep the atmosphere light. They both know what illegal activity he is going to try tonight, but only one of them knows how badly he's going to fail.
"Not that far, but the city is just one big maze!" Max lies with ease, keeping her brown eyes wide, feigning innocence.
He lifts his hand to her shoulder, his grip too strong to be friendly. That is his first and only mistake.
In a second, his face is on the ground while Max stands above him, his arm twisted backwards in an arm bar while her knee presses into his back to prevent him from getting up. "Now listen," she hisses, her free hand over his mouth to muffle his efforts to call out. Before she continues, she removes the gun from his waistband and tucks it into her own. "I need to know if you've ever even heard of a Nicholas Martinez."
Jason just lets out a wheezing laugh when she lets go of his mouth. "Nick?" he questions, humor lacing his tone. "That's really all you want to know about?" He lets out another laugh.
Max knows his tactics, how he wants to push her guard away so he can take the upper hand. But she's much too skilled to fall for something so overused. "Yes," is all she says to reply.
"He was here two years ago," Jason says slowly, releasing a little information while he worms his hand out from under his own body to his waistband. Max wants to laugh at his efforts, but continues to listen. "I wasn't Boss yet, but Nick came rolling into town like some sort of Wildman. He killed a few guys then left the East. Said this business didn't have enough dough for him." Jason snickers. "Idiot."
Max rolls her eyes again. He really does think he's going to survive this little ordeal. His hope is a little cute, honestly. It makes her want to laugh. Instead, she says, "So what do you think he did after that?"
When the man doesn't answer right away, Max puts a little more pressure on his arm, earning a groan of pain. "I don't know! He wouldn't tell me! He just said he wanted some job with more money!"
Finally Max is pleased that he doesn't know anything else, so she releases him and allows him to stand. He immediately grabs for his gun, a look of surprise and what seems to be recognition crossing his face when he realizes it isn't there. Recognition of what, Max doesn't know. Maybe that he's going to die?
Within a second Max is back by his side with a knife at his neck. "Thanks for the info," she whispers before dragging the blade across his throat, backing away from the spurting blood. She likes this jacket, and doesn't plan on buying a new one anytime soon.
While he coughs and squirms in an effort to hold onto life, Max slips back out the door, making sure she stays quiet. The men outside hoot and holler and cat call, until they see the blood that isn't her own patterning her face.
One runs at her, while the others all bolt to their boss. Max quickly dodges the smaller, mousy looking man who tries to take out her legs before opening the door and disappearing into the night.