Paul pulled the snub-nosed .38 revolver from his ankle holster and wished he had something with more punch on hand. He wiped at the blood that flowed down his face and into his eyes. I've got to be able to see. He knew it was a losing battle; head wounds bled too much to control without a serious bandage. Without taking his eyes from the street, he backed into the door of the basement apartment and tried the doorknob.
A slow but frantic turn to the left met resistance, and a turn to the right verified the fact. Shit. Trapped. The safety-glass window was imbedded with chicken wire.
He ducked into the corner, his eyes closed tight to adjust them to the new level of darkness as quickly as possible. He then stood to his full height and snapped his eyes wide open. He scanned the street, just barely visible above the top of the steps, and looked for any sign of movement. He grunted at a sudden impact to his right shoulder. The revolver fell from his hand, clattering to the pavement at his feet. The wound didn't hurt, per se. Not yet. He knew it would later, though, when the adrenaline wore off. If there was a later.
The little .38 was no good outside of ten feet. Paul fell on the pistol and played dead to bait the man closer. A red blackness threatened to consume his vision, and he fought against the shock that pulled him down into a sleep from which he would never wake. He gripped the gun left-handed, willed himself to alert stillness and waited for his killer to approach. Hopefully, I can kill this bastard before I pass out.
Twenty seconds later, the silhouette of a man appeared at the top of the stairs. The silenced pistol in his right hand was blackened to avoid any unwanted reflection from the streetlights or the moon. The man didn't waste any time trying to explain, to ask questions, or to get him to beg for mercy. He raised the pistol in one smooth motion.
Paul gritted his teeth against the agony in his arm and squeezed the trigger.
Two shots shattered the relative silence of the deserted street with the double-tap all too common in neighborhoods farther north. A small hole appeared in the assassin's left eye. Paul knew there wouldn't be an exit wound from the tiny, low-power round. The second shot followed right behind, blazing through the hole bored by the first bullet. The man collapsed in a heap as Paul crawled up the stairs, scanning the street for any backup as he did so.
Aside from the wind, nothing stirred. A car passed by on the cross-street, followed by another. With a grimace of pain, Paul pulled his emergency oxycodone out of his pocket. He couldn't open the cap; his right hand wasn't responding properly.
He used his teeth to hold the bottle and cranked off the cap with his left hand. He chewed up three of the narcotics dry. His face contorted against the harsh taste. He slapped the lid back on, then stood. He swooned but caught himself on the wall. He stumbled toward the street and dropped to his knees in front of the corpse.
Paul winced at the pain in his shoulder. That's going to bruise. Feeling slowly returned to his right hand as the narcotics kicked in. He looked down at the small hole in his hoodie. This is why we wear our bulletproof vests, kiddies, he thought. As far as he was concerned, "unhealthy paranoia" was an oxymoron.
Paul tore the man's shirt in half and yanked it off the body. He twisted it into a makeshift bandana and used it to bandage his torn scalp. He pulled it tight, then put up the hood to cover the bandage.
A quick search of the body revealed a backup 9mm, which he ignored, and a complete lack of identification. Whoever he was, Paul didn't recognize him. He left the silenced pistol on the sidewalk and rose, steadying himself against the light pole.
Paul stumbled off toward the lighted street to the east, his thoughts ablaze.
* * *
December 12th, 6:18 PM CST; Glenview Manor Apartments, Apartment 4A; St. Louis, Missouri.
Larry Johnson stood in the neighbor's apartment, cutting tomatoes on the tiny kitchen counter. Every night he'd cook, Josh would clean up, and they'd commiserate about the "joys" of being confined to witness protection for over a year. At least Josh gets paid for it. He chided himself for the un-Christian thought. He didn't need the money, anyway. What he needed was for Palomini's team to do their jobs so he could go home. Smuggled, middle-of-the-night visits from his loved ones weren't enough.
Agent Barnhoorn was coming over to check in and inform him of the lack of progress, just as he did every couple of weeks, so sausage-stuffed tomatoes were on the menu. "Hey, Josh!" he called.
"Yeah," Josh replied from in front of the television.
"Can you come in here and get me down the bread crumbs?"
"No problem," Josh said. He came into the kitchen and opened the cupboard, took down the can of crumbs, and set it on the counter. Larry looked at Josh's neck. Something was wrong, something missing. Something out of place. He looked harder, searching.