Seconds - Shadows Sequel | Creative Writing Contest

[mybeary]

 

It'd been a pretty bleak night; the sky had been littered with smog and smoke, as shadows pierced and filled the sky with its demanding stature, as the vibrant city below made such a shocking contrast in luminosity. A busy, bustling city, there'd however be a force of shadows within such a city which fuels the bleakness of night - where the greed of the city's Mafia governed the underground industrial world. It hadn't been often that dead bodies would end up in alleyways, shot until their very essence had been completely erased from the earth; what was most worrying though was if a body had one singular hole which pierced straight through their body. Even darkness couldn't fill in that hole.

 

Within a secluded private villa, a man sighed, leaning against the walls of the villa, and looked around the premises, looking for any possible action at all within this dumb party. Noticing static in his ear, he readjusted his earphone, and sighed yet again, shifting in place. Being forced to go to this masquerade was one thing, but being ditched by your own partner while at the masquerade was trouble already. What a mouthful he'll get from Deeph if he returns to the headquarters carrying his partner drunk as hell... good grief!

 

He readjusted his sidearm, inspecting the craft of the firearm, and taking note of the loaded magazine for the fifty-eighth time; he felt back, and double checked his spare magazine count for the seventy-second time. He then noted the amount of times he tapped his foot since the last call for dinner had been called, but never delivered - one hundred and fifty three times to be exact - and just took into account the number of times he received static since Jackson left him, which had just only been now up to this point. He stopped, and thought to himself; he thought it to be weird that he'd only receive static only now, now that Jackson was gone.

 

Looking around once more, he decided to request an agent as they lazily yet frivolously enjoyed themselves to fill in with him; what mattered to him was not his job, but the concern and safety of his own partner. He then made his way to the exit of the establishment, and hurried outside, with a shove to the glass doors. The doors opening easily, the man checked himself out, with the alias name "Thistle." 

 

Immediately, Thistle started to take out his cell in order to track his partner; however, he realized that his connection had been compromised. Fear started to seep into the young man, and even though he never showed it, he started to worry about the moment he had first received static in his headset on this very night. Something had been very wrong here.

 

As luck would have it, Thistle noticed quite a few dirt stains trailing from the nearest field. Thistle immediately gave chase to the footprints; if he knew his partner well, these footprints served as a definite guide to where he had been, in the case an urgent situation came to rise, had Jackson not been able to fire off a flare. All Thistle had to do was to follow the markings by the corners of the fields.

 

Left, right, right, left, straight, left, right; by the time Thistle reached his eighth marking, a gunshot had echoed in the distance. He paused, in sudden shock in fear, as his ears replayed the ripping, rending sound of certain bullet flying through the air in a whisper of death and sorrow; silent agony befell the city soon after. As Thistle longed to hear the scream that followed soon after, he hurried his advance as gunshots filled the air, knowing full well that if a scream had not followed soon after, they had either died from the first shot, or the Angel had missed. His eyes narrowed at the thought; the Angel doesn't ever miss a shot. His legs left the ground, as he turned the corner in a sudden rush.

 

He stopped, confused in his place.

 

What looked to be his partner Jackson and an unmasked Angel was standing before a band of what would seem like an unlikely team. Beyond Jackson had been Special Ops Commissioner Deeph Eriksson, with his arm extended with a firearm pointed at Jackson; beyond him still had been wanted Mafia assailants. Had Jackson disappointed him; then again, why were two Mafia assailants beyond Jackson and with Deeph, not lifting a finger to kill Deeph. Was Deeph not their target, despite Deeph having the capability to end the Mafia with his power?

 

Gunshot. Jackson screamed in pain as his leg buckled out from beneath him.

 

Thistle's eyes widened, and as though Deeph had been focused on Jackson alone, he took out his firearm without Deeph noticing; however, the other two noticed him, and began observing him as they reloaded their own weapons. Thistle quickly took cover, as he knew that out in the open, he'd be shot if he took a shot now, and yet, he knew he had to do something. 

 

"Screw it."

 

Noticing an angle he could shoot out of, he placed the barrel of his pistol directly against a window, aiming in the general direction of the conflict; he knew that he wouldn't be guaranteed to tag anybody with this shot, but it was the effort that counted in his head. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

 

Gunshot.

 

Immediately, Jackson fell to his knees, as glass shattered behind him. Deeph took a glance off of Jackson for one moment, lifting his hand to aim at whatever support Jackson may have called in, forgetting that whatever communication Jackson may have used would have been jammed. The moment Deeph caught sight of the broken window, he stepped forward, distracted by the sudden turn of events, and wanting to secure the kill himself.

 

"Don't worry, once we take care of ol' Trent, finally we will take shares of the stock of Minehut. No longer will we live in the shadows of the city."

 

Gunshot.

 

Thistle now stood at a flank, to an alleyway to the right. He'd ran from when he first fired off that diversion bullet, and he took an opportunity to reposition himself. He'd been lucky he was far enough for the sound of his footsteps not to be noticeable  enough; any wrong step, and he'd already been shot down by now.

 

Deeph's handgun was suddenly shot out from his own hands, along with a finger. Blood trickled from his finger onto Jackson's head, drop by drop. Deeph quickly turned around to the source of the shot, and opened his mouth to say something, but Thistle was already talking.

 

"It's about time for new management. After all, there is a saying that is said."

 

Gunshot.

 

Thistle noticed Jackson's body fall limp, and knew that he hadn't the time to squander - he knew that bullets fired from the Angel's weapon contained a lethal poison. Thistle then started to walk forward, when he noticed a suspicious looking parcel on the side, marked with weird symbols and paint. Thistle sighted the four men aim at him, and he quickly made a hasty dive toward the side, taking refuge behind a garbage disposal. He inspected the package quickly.

 

Dynamite was lain within the parcel, with the fuse moments away from what it seemed to blowing the entire place to smithereens. Panicking, Thistle halted the fuse and threw the parcel at the men, coming right out of cover as he did. This was the zero hour.

 

"Out with the old, and in with the new."

 

The firestorm engulfed the alleyway, setting nearby debris on fire and wasting away every ounce of life except for the three men, who were blown away by the explosion. The explosion hadn't been as big as Thistle thought it'd be, but it was enough to create enough time for him to move in.

 

Thistle arrived at Jackson's body and flipped his partner's body over; and his face was filled with shock! The madman was smiling, knowing that he could have died from Thistle's explosion, and yet, he stayed on the ground. Thistle noticed the wound on Jackson's side, though his body didn't seem to tremble from the Angel's wounds. Jackson's gun laid barren on the floor, with the magazine of the pistol littered with pills and drugs. 

 

Jackson knew that he couldn't fire his weapon, or he'd reveal that he'd suspected that the Angel would arrive, and he'd been prepared for his assault. Jackson knew that the risk was high, taking absolutely no ammunition into the fight, but it'd meant that the fight would take longer, because he couldn't pressure the Angel into shooting him faster. Jackson knew that the briefcase was a trap, yet he'd expected the briefcase to be placed in another location, where more destruction would have ensured. 

 

Jackson stood up, with the help of his partner. Then, taking note of the handgun Deeph once had, he walked over to it, crushing one of the Deeph's fingers in the process, and picked it up, spinning the barrel to his pleasure. He looked at Thistle.

 

"Don't look at me, he's your mess, not mine."

 

They both looked down at the Angel. He was silent now, as the seconds began ticking down. Jackson seemed to be getting closer to the Angel, as the ticking echoed louder and louder in his head, until the Angel was suddenly at Jackson's feet. The Angel lifted his head to greet the open barrel of the handgun. 

 

His face contorted in shock. 

 

Gunshot.

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

The briefcase was brought to the villa, as Jackson carried the Angel on his back. Thistle whistled, as he called the agent who was supposed to be subbing in for him to his location. The agent looked at him, froze for a second, then took the chance to come to him while his legs were still moving. Thistle handed the briefcase back to him, and ordered him to go home. Shivering, the agent hurried out; he'd been planning to get out as soon as he could anyways.

 

"You know sending this man out would be basically sending a dog back to its master, right Thistle?

 

"Yep. I know."

 

Thistle unveiled a detonator hidden under his sleeve, and counted a few seconds. He spotted the agent as he turned around, as the agent looked around quite feverishly. It made him almost too suspicious, now that Thistle knew that this one was ordered to kill Trent at the masquerade. Thistle gave a long, deep sigh, and closed his eyes.

 

Click.

 

He could smell the smog of the air as it rushed into the villa, as the sweet sound of serenading peace filled the air, along with a harmony of echoes. Thistle then walked over to the bar for a few moments, and came over with a few drinks.

 

"A toast?"

 

Jackson took the glass, and beamed.

 

"Toast."

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Original Story ||

Thank you for allowing me to participate in this contest and having not only this story be in the finals, but my first submission as well!

GGs!

 

Edited April 16, 2020 by mybeary

[Jackson85]

We for real need to get you to write a book some day and print it.

15/10 

[MikeTheAngel]

This whole system is rigged.

[mybeary]

On 4/16/2020 at 8:37 AM, MikeTheAngel said:

This whole system is rigged.

Elaborate?