Breaker
09-27-10, 12:38 AM
The sun cooked everything from pigeon shit on the sidewalk to the skin on the back of his neck. By mid-day in the city the pavement stopped absorbing heat and the streets became an oven. Sweat slid down his shoulders and back but he kept the torn hoodie zipped up half way. By itself, the ratty T-shirt underneath would have betrayed the shape of the Beretta holstered on his back left hip.
To forget about the heat he focused on walking evenly. Hiding the fact that he packed more heat than any of the sand-colored cinderblocks underfoot. His legs would have been cooler without the zippered lower legs of his cargo pants, but he needed those to cover the six shooter strapped to his left ankle.
Shielding his eyes, he turned and glanced across the busy street. Dropped to one knee and re-tied his shoelaces just to double-check the revolver. Why was he carrying so many guns? Guns meant bullets, bullets meant other people dying before him. Who? Why?
He stood up straight and walked again, compulsively checking the plastic digital watch on his wrist. It felt like it weighed a pound. Not an ordinary watch? He couldn't read the time but knew it was near. The next two streets, the way they intersected. At a forty-seven degree angle, exactly. But the architecture of the building on the north side, a red brick bank, had it running at forty seven point five to the parkette just beyond. Sight lines. Why did he know this?
The ratty T-shirt felt soaked. His legs moved faster, propelled him between business-attired people carrying briefcases. They moved slowly, trying not to perspire despite the heavy suits. He looked out of place here, drew uncomfortable stares. It didn't matter, he had to find it, something...
There! A silver car, rolling patiently along between two heavy trucks. The dense traffic forced vehicles to move slower than he could walk. It looked like many other cars, but bore no definitive branding marks. He knew it though, could have picked it out of a ten acre junk yard. Years of preparation and hard work had led to this moment.
He reached for the Beretta as he stepped abreast of the driver's seat, turning and crouching to see who was behind the wheel. A thousand questions should have been answered.
He keeled over instead of crouching. The way his hip hit the concrete, the dry-wood-snapping sound it made, should have sent pain lancing to his brain. Slumped against the silver car, he reached for his ankle holster. Felt nothing but numbness. His hands wouldn't move, or his legs. He couldn't breathe... only stare up into the sunlight as the silver car shifted and changed behind him, absorbing him into captivity.
To forget about the heat he focused on walking evenly. Hiding the fact that he packed more heat than any of the sand-colored cinderblocks underfoot. His legs would have been cooler without the zippered lower legs of his cargo pants, but he needed those to cover the six shooter strapped to his left ankle.
Shielding his eyes, he turned and glanced across the busy street. Dropped to one knee and re-tied his shoelaces just to double-check the revolver. Why was he carrying so many guns? Guns meant bullets, bullets meant other people dying before him. Who? Why?
He stood up straight and walked again, compulsively checking the plastic digital watch on his wrist. It felt like it weighed a pound. Not an ordinary watch? He couldn't read the time but knew it was near. The next two streets, the way they intersected. At a forty-seven degree angle, exactly. But the architecture of the building on the north side, a red brick bank, had it running at forty seven point five to the parkette just beyond. Sight lines. Why did he know this?
The ratty T-shirt felt soaked. His legs moved faster, propelled him between business-attired people carrying briefcases. They moved slowly, trying not to perspire despite the heavy suits. He looked out of place here, drew uncomfortable stares. It didn't matter, he had to find it, something...
There! A silver car, rolling patiently along between two heavy trucks. The dense traffic forced vehicles to move slower than he could walk. It looked like many other cars, but bore no definitive branding marks. He knew it though, could have picked it out of a ten acre junk yard. Years of preparation and hard work had led to this moment.
He reached for the Beretta as he stepped abreast of the driver's seat, turning and crouching to see who was behind the wheel. A thousand questions should have been answered.
He keeled over instead of crouching. The way his hip hit the concrete, the dry-wood-snapping sound it made, should have sent pain lancing to his brain. Slumped against the silver car, he reached for his ankle holster. Felt nothing but numbness. His hands wouldn't move, or his legs. He couldn't breathe... only stare up into the sunlight as the silver car shifted and changed behind him, absorbing him into captivity.