Day 5: J - Alleycat
He had to keep running even if it meant that his heart would explode. If he didn’t make it, there would be nothing to go back to. He didn’t need to be told twice. The marks were still there from the first time and that was more than enough to keep him going.
He moved his way through an intricate maze of poorly lit back alleys, making sharp quick turns around dumpsters and broken skids.
The cold night air burned something fierce in his lungs, setting them on fire as the cobblestone pathway sent shocking sensations up his ankles, rubbing his knees raw.
Just a little further now.
A red lantern on a black shop door signaled the turn a couple meters ahead. After that, he had to look for a trash bin with a cat graffitied on it.
There was a vibration coming from his pocket, amplified by the quietness of the alley. It would be her, wondering where he was this late at night, not knowing that someone was keeping eyes on her, just in case he fucked up, didn’t make it in time or bailed like a coward.
If he squinted hard, he could make out the cat with a messed-up eye just to his right. He stopped short and crouched against the dumpster, hoping to be absorbed into the metal.
He checked his watch. 12:38. He had two minutes to calm his breathing down. Blood was pumping so hard in his ears, he would miss the whole drop if he couldn’t get his heartrate under control. Sweat dripped down his face and off the edge of his nose. Would anyone be able to detect his presence there two months down the road? Once it was over and he would be free, would they trace his steps back to this night in an alley on the wrong side of town?
A door opened just beyond the wall and he held his breath. The footsteps of one, then two people sounded before the door shut behind them.
“You know, I thought this was going to be easy,” the first voice said. Male, chain smoker laced with bourbon.
“This isn’t the business for easy,” said the second voice. Female, Russian accent, steel. “If you want easy, better sell drugs instead of women.”
“When will they arrive then?” the man growled. He was impatient.
“I am not the keeper of delivery men. It was your job to see that they made it here on time, but of course this was too much responsibility for the likes of an American man.”
There was a shuffle, a thud, and a gasp for air.
“All you women think you can control men with your pretty little tits,” he breathed out dangerously low between her chokes for air. “But let me be the one to tell you that you're just a pawn like the ones being shipped here. And I’ll make sure that when they get here, there’ll be a nice spot for you among them.” Her gasps were getting shorter, panicked. “Ah but don’t worry, I’ll make sure I get a pretty penny out of you.”
With that he must have let go because her whimpers for air turned into violent coughs wracking her esophagus.
“Tell your boss this is the last deal we ever make,” he barked. The door opened once again, but only one pair of footsteps stalked off inside.
The alleyway fell into silence.
A late delivery meant that they could still be intercepted, that he still had a way to keep everything around him together so long as he made it out ok.
His knees protested as he slowly raised himself up but just as he turned to leave, his phone went off again. The vibrations seemed to echo off the brick walls around him. He fumbled for his pocket, hoping he could shut it up before whoever was still outside noticed. But it was too late, the noise was too loud, or maybe it was his frantic searching that tipped them off. Footsteps stalked over to the wall, a head poked out and the Russian woman stood staring into his eyes without the briefest sense of alarm.
“Well, what do we have here?” she whispered in her thick accent. Slight bruises were beginning to form around her neck.
He stood, shell shocked. His phone vibrated once more. A voicemail. He knew he should have been home, but what did it matter now? There would be no home.
“A little spy it seems,” she answered, reaching down along the side of her dress.
He needed to run, but it seemed as if he was fresh out.
“Now, we can’t have that,” she concluded shortly. She grabbed the pistol from beneath her dress, a movement so smooth she must have done it millions of times before. He noticed the way it glinted for just the briefest moment and last thing he remembered was the warm steel colliding with the side of his head.
He moved his way through an intricate maze of poorly lit back alleys, making sharp quick turns around dumpsters and broken skids.
The cold night air burned something fierce in his lungs, setting them on fire as the cobblestone pathway sent shocking sensations up his ankles, rubbing his knees raw.
Just a little further now.
A red lantern on a black shop door signaled the turn a couple meters ahead. After that, he had to look for a trash bin with a cat graffitied on it.
There was a vibration coming from his pocket, amplified by the quietness of the alley. It would be her, wondering where he was this late at night, not knowing that someone was keeping eyes on her, just in case he fucked up, didn’t make it in time or bailed like a coward.
If he squinted hard, he could make out the cat with a messed-up eye just to his right. He stopped short and crouched against the dumpster, hoping to be absorbed into the metal.
He checked his watch. 12:38. He had two minutes to calm his breathing down. Blood was pumping so hard in his ears, he would miss the whole drop if he couldn’t get his heartrate under control. Sweat dripped down his face and off the edge of his nose. Would anyone be able to detect his presence there two months down the road? Once it was over and he would be free, would they trace his steps back to this night in an alley on the wrong side of town?
A door opened just beyond the wall and he held his breath. The footsteps of one, then two people sounded before the door shut behind them.
“You know, I thought this was going to be easy,” the first voice said. Male, chain smoker laced with bourbon.
“This isn’t the business for easy,” said the second voice. Female, Russian accent, steel. “If you want easy, better sell drugs instead of women.”
“When will they arrive then?” the man growled. He was impatient.
“I am not the keeper of delivery men. It was your job to see that they made it here on time, but of course this was too much responsibility for the likes of an American man.”
There was a shuffle, a thud, and a gasp for air.
“All you women think you can control men with your pretty little tits,” he breathed out dangerously low between her chokes for air. “But let me be the one to tell you that you're just a pawn like the ones being shipped here. And I’ll make sure that when they get here, there’ll be a nice spot for you among them.” Her gasps were getting shorter, panicked. “Ah but don’t worry, I’ll make sure I get a pretty penny out of you.”
With that he must have let go because her whimpers for air turned into violent coughs wracking her esophagus.
He held his breath for what would come next. From what he knew of the woman, she was proud but delusional. She was the type to think that she would never let a man tell her what to do, not like the girls they kidnapped and sold, but she was always taking orders just in a different light.
“Tell your boss this is the last deal we ever make,” he barked. The door opened once again, but only one pair of footsteps stalked off inside.
The alleyway fell into silence.
A late delivery meant that they could still be intercepted, that he still had a way to keep everything around him together so long as he made it out ok.
His knees protested as he slowly raised himself up but just as he turned to leave, his phone went off again. The vibrations seemed to echo off the brick walls around him. He fumbled for his pocket, hoping he could shut it up before whoever was still outside noticed. But it was too late, the noise was too loud, or maybe it was his frantic searching that tipped them off. Footsteps stalked over to the wall, a head poked out and the Russian woman stood staring into his eyes without the briefest sense of alarm.
“Well, what do we have here?” she whispered in her thick accent. Slight bruises were beginning to form around her neck.
He stood, shell shocked. His phone vibrated once more. A voicemail. He knew he should have been home, but what did it matter now? There would be no home.
“A little spy it seems,” she answered, reaching down along the side of her dress.
He needed to run, but it seemed as if he was fresh out.
“Now, we can’t have that,” she concluded shortly. She grabbed the pistol from beneath her dress, a movement so smooth she must have done it millions of times before. He noticed the way it glinted for just the briefest moment and last thing he remembered was the warm steel colliding with the side of his head.
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Prompt: Eavesdropping - told from the perspective of the listener.
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