A/N: So sorry to put this up this late, you guys! I've just been really busy lately. I'll try not to let it happen again!
Chapter Six: The Boy and His Gun
The house was tucked away in its own garden, off of the road quite a while. Amidst the suburbs just outside of Chicago. The closest neighbor was so far that they almost didn't matter. Even still, Mickey scouted out the place the night before, after his getting that damn gift from Alice. Found all of his outs, should there be a need. And today he had sat in the brush across the street from the sole neighbor, with a bottle of water and a container of barbeque Pringles, waiting, watching. Finally the entire family left the house; this had only taken from eight until noon. Which was fine with Mickey, considering Allen wouldn't get home until one in the afternoon. According to Alice, her son was with the sitter until after five, when Alice would return home to find her husband dead and house looted. Would call the police and make sure the child was far away from the scene. Would be certain to have the kid elsewhere. In the car, maybe. Mickey didn't fuck around with that kind of thing. His own childhood had scarred him too deep. Too many times had Mickey's father dragged so-called friends into the house. Too many times. Mickey had been eight the first time he realized his father didn't have friends. Had been eight still the first time he walked in on his father beating the fuck out of some guy until the floor was slick with the dead man's blood. Eight years old the first time his father gave him a rag and some bleach, told Mickey to clean up. Leaving a kid fatherless, Mickey had no problem with. Hell, most fathers were basically burdens to their children. Mothers too. In Mickey's opinion. Mothers, or at least Mickey's had, relied too much on the fuck-up fathers and paid too little attention until things had gone too far. Or they died. Or both, simultaneously.
Thinking this, Mickey shuffled to his feet, stuffed his trash into the small shoulder bag he had brought along. Then covered the bag in the bushes, until he would come back for it later. He began his walk to Alice's home, already covered in dirt and a few twigs.
Mickey was a hit-man, but not the type seen on television. Not classy, well paid, or any of that shit. No. Mickey was the real thing; a grubby, killer for hire. And he was fucking great at it. Hadn't fucked up once. Not even his first hit. Had never even been suspected. The only three things Mickey had ever served time for were already wiped from his juvenile record; attempted robbery, possession of over an ounce of marijuana with intent to distribute (which he hadn't been), and assault on an officer. The later two in a combination, during the same arrest. But never once had any of his victims murders been investigated hard enough to sniff out Mickey. Probably because Mickey's favorite associate out of four, Rex. Rex handled clean up. And by clean up, that meant Rex had someone ready to finger during the aftermath. Like this time. Mickey didn't know who it would be. Never did. But this time Rex would come by and plant some fake evidence after Mickey ramshacked the place. Only a couple of things. Maybe just one. And maybe the police would find it, maybe they wouldn't. The clean up was always just for in case. In case a detective actually decided to do his job properly. Which usually didn't happen. Really, it broke all of Mickey's faith in the law, if he'd ever had any to begin with. Which he hadn't.
After walking for at least a mile, Mickey stepped into Alice and Allen Godfrey's front lawn. The lawn was well maintained; had a fountain and a bunch of flowers and cobbled stoned bull-crap. The house was too big and flamboyant. At least a six bedroom, Mickey figured. He stood there staring up at a second story window. Gloved hands stuffed in his pants pockets, hot under the collar because of his thick black jacket, and and yet freezing in the icy, late February weather. Yesterday's snow had long since melted, as it hadn't been a lot to begin with. All the same, Mickey was wearing shoes that were far too small for his feet. Shoes that he would toss into the back of a random garbage truck later. Shoes that, if footprints were found later, which they probably would be, wouldn't lead back to Mickey. The shoes made walking a real bitch, though. Just standing around was killing Mickey's feet. He wondered if his circulation was doing all right, given how long he had been wearing the shoes at this point.
Pulling his eyes from the window, Mickey looked around for signs of a vehicle. When he saw none, Mickey was satisfied for now, and hurried across to the front door. Alice had given him a key. Had shut off her alarm system from her phone. He entered the house without hitch. And without touching anything, walked up the winding staircase and found Allen's office, just where Alice had told Mickey the guy would come right after work. Thankfully his shoes hadn't left behind wet prints. Mickey made sure to watch his footing closely. When he reached the office, he sat in the corner chair, by the window, watching through the curtain for Allen to pull in. Not ten minutes later, Allen's car slid into the separated garage. Mickey knitted his brow because Allen was slightly early. But shook off the thought and readied himself. He pulled his toss away gun from jacket pocket.
He heard Allen walking around down stairs. Heard the guy come up, walk around some more. All was quiet for a few minutes. Mickey trained his eyes on the doorway, left open because that's how he had found it. Finally footsteps approached. Allen stood the in doorway for a second, yawning and undoing his tie. Mickey was hidden enough in the shadows that he hadn't been noticed yet. Not that it mattered. He watched Allen toss his tie onto the oak desk while walking in and rubbing his face. He studied the man before him quickly. Allen was tall, broad, and had a full head of bleached blonde hair. Looked older than Alice by a solid ten years or more. But that might have been because the man looked so tired. He was a pilot, which meant he probably had jet lag. Was handsome and had one of those kind faces that didn't look like the type to deserve what was about to happen to him. But then, Mickey figured most of his hits hadn't. He almost wished he could wear a blindfold sometimes. Because ever once in a while, Mickey couldn't get certain faces out of his dreams. It was as Mickey pondered Alice's reasoning that Allen's eyes fell on Mickey.
Frozen beside of his desk chair, half sitting, Allen stared, eyes growing wide. "Who the hell are you?" Allen breathed, stunned. "Why are you in my house?" he went on, voiced with a hint of fury somewhere deep in the throes of terror. The only sound in this dead silence.
"No hard feelings," Mickey said, detached, pointing the gun at Allen's face. He pulled the trigger. Disconnected himself, and pocketed the gun while Allen landed against the wall. Mickey's stomach lurched a little and he squashed it fast. It didn't matter how long he was in this business, Mickey fucking hated the sight of blood. He tried not to look directly at Allen's body. The man's face was blasted in and unrecognizable. Mickey turned toward the door. His breathe caught in his lungs. Eyebrows darting up, and eyes going wide, Mickey stared into the face of a little boy, no older than six, standing in the doorway, looking back at Mickey, scared. The kid burst into crying, fat tears streaking down his face. And ran. Mickey panicked. "God damn it," he growled under his breath.
Fucking Alice. Mickey had made sure his throw away prepaid cell phone had service in her house. Had told Alice to call him when she was coming home. Or if something went wrong. Bitch didn't know how to follow directions for shit. Mickey's blood boiled as he ran out of the room, after the kid. Heart racing. Guts in a knots. A sick feeling in his chest.
The child had made it to the top of the stair case, still scream-crying, when Mickey swooped him up and clamped a hand over the boy's mouth on instinct. Because Mickey had no idea how the kid had gotten here. Obviously Alice wasn't home. Mickey's heart pounded in his head as he looked around, expected to maybe find a babysitter calling the police. He didn't.
Suddenly the boy bit down on Mickey's hand. Thankfully Mickey's gloves stopped most of the clamp. Mickey pinched the kid's arm hard. "Shut up," he said as he did this. The kid struggled to fall from Mickey's arms, kicking Mickey in the nuts. Mickey grunted and dropped him. Bit down on the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. "You little shit!" he spat, watching the kid hit the floor, scrape his tiny knee, hold it, and cry more.
At this point, watching the kid, Mickey knew no one else was home. It occurred to him that Allen's early return clearly had something to do with the kid's unexpected presence. Mickey cursed under his breath.
The kid backed against the stair rails, hugging himself, pants soaked in piss, staring at Mickey and screaming. His tiny face was beet-red and slowly turning a strange sort of purple. His screaming became hushed, almost silent, yet his mouth remained wide open and the boy looked more than strained. Mickey was at a loss. This had never happened to him in his entire life. He was going to fucking kill Alice.
"Shut up," he repeated slowly, squatting down in front of the kid, gloved hands dangling between his thighs. Mickey sighed, turning his face away as the kid went on cutting off his own oxygen. And quickly, Mickey decided on his best course of action. Because no way was he going to be responsible for the kid going unconscious. So Mickey turned his gaze back on the kid, leaned forward and blew in the boy's face hard in one swift motion. The action worked. Startled, the boy sucked in a deep breath. Slowly his face went back to a normal shade. He hiccuped at Mickey, sniffling and shaking.
"You going to stop now?" Mickey asked gruffly.
The boy nodded pitifully. "My daddy!" he whispered, hiccuping more. "You hurt my daddy!"
"Yeah," Mickey said, biting down on his tongue to keep from saying something to damage the kid's psyche worse. "But I'm not going to hurt you," he went on, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the gun. He laid it beside of himself and cocked a brow, staring hard at the kid. The gun was unloaded. Mickey only usually brought along a single bullet, unless otherwise necessary. Today it hadn't been necessary. "Go on," he said to the boy, sliding the gun toward his socked feet, "take it from me."
The child looked away from Mickey, apprehensive. He stared down at the gun, then rushed to pick it up. Tucking it under his cartoon sleep shirt, the boy hugged the weapon against him tightly, guarding. Then went back to watching Mickey and sniffling. "You got more!" the kid cried, tears falling again. "I know you got more! You're a bad man!"
Mickey nodded and rubbed his bottom lip. A strand of fuzz tickled his chin. "You're right, I am bad," Mickey said, "but I ain't got another gun." he put his arms out by his sides, still crouched. "I'm defenseless now," he finished.
The child looked confused and worried. He hugged himself tighter, drawing in his feet now. "Liar!" he yelled.
Exhaling slowly, Mickey pursed his lips and scowled at the kid. He shook his head and reached into his back pants pocket. The kid tensed up until Mickey pulled out a cell phone and tossed it into the kid's lap. "Call your mom," Mickey said bluntly. "And don't fucking cry again," he went on as he stood upright.
The boy looked up at mickey, brown eyes full of water and lips trembling. Blubbering. Bubbles in his dripping snot. "I don't understand!" he cried to Mickey.
Mickey knitted his brow, frowning. "You're weren't supposed to be here," he told the kid. "What's your name?"
The kid wiped at his face with the hand that held to the cellphone. "David," he mumbled, then went back to crying softly.
"Sorry you saw that, David. Now call your mom. Tell on me," Mickey said, trying to sound indifferent. But the truth was, he did hate that Brian saw that. It wasn't that he liked kids. He actually thought they were disgusting. But he sympathized with this type of child. One from an obviously broken home. And in Mickey's life, he had come to realize people didn't have to be poor to have shitty lives. And if you were poor, it didn't also went the other way. Clearly this kid came from a fucked up family. Mickey watched the boy finally look at the phone and begin dialing a number. Hopefully Alice's. Trying to defuse this situation was more difficult than most anything Mickey could recall. But he figured gaining the boy's weakened trust couldn't hurt. Plus it would upset Alice to have her son call in while in this sort of state. And she deserved it.
A phone call and almost thirty minutes later, Alice was home. Mickey hadn't spoken to her on the phone, had simply allowed David to assume he had been in control; had been tattling and getting Mickey into trouble. It had pacified the child, somewhat. When Alice arrived, she rushed straight upstairs, more concerned if Allen was taken of than she was of settling down David, who had gone back to wailing the minute he heard his mother enter.
"Worry about that later, please," Mickey hissed while Alice ranted about Allen. He pointed down at the screaming child. "Get him the hell out of here, you god damned fuck up!" Mickey screamed in Alice's face, veins popping out around his neck.
Crying herself, now, Alice gathered up her son, gave Mickey his gun back, and began fleeing the house, Mickey hot on her trails. He slammed her front door and didn't bother locking it. Watched Alice load her son into the minivan. She locked the vehicle up and walked back over toward Mickey. She was shaking and looked ill. "What now?" she asked Mickey, sounding terrified.
Mickey could hardly contain his temper. He ground his teeth and stared at Alice with widen, crazed eyes. "You get in you van," Mickey said, stilted and on edge, "and go," he finished. He could see he was scaring her. As well she should be terrified.
"What about the body!" Alice whispered, shaking her head frantically. "What if someone saw you? What if someone saw me! Oh god!" she moaned, holding her face.
Mickey screamed at her, saying, "Lots of what-ifs, Alice! You fucked this one up royally. Just go! I'll handle it!" He pushed her hard, causing her to fall onto her ass. As she sat on the ground before Mickey, staring up, mouth agape, Mickey leaned down and grabbed her face. His gripped her chin, fingers digging into Alice's cheeks and mouth, almost fish-hooking her. "Bitch if you even so much as breath a word of this to anyone, you will get it so much worse than your fucking husband did," he threatened. "Take your kid to fucking McDonalds and fucking stay there until I fucking call you, you piece of fucking shit!" he growled, then shoved her face out of his grasp and spat on the ground beside of him. This whole situation left a bad taste in his mouth. Form the corner of his eyes, he saw David pressed against the driver's side window, hands and face to the glass. Crying still. Calling out for his mother. Mickey remembered calling out to his mother only once when he'd been that age. She'd slapped his face for it hard enough to knock his back tooth out.
