EXIT WOUND By Steve Christie
"Right! Out of the car you piece of shit!"
Drake, the man with the bruised face and his wrists tie-wrapped behind his back slowly eased his stiff body out of the boot of the car. He started shivering, due to the cold December wind. He had spent over an hour squeezed into the cramped dark boot of the BMW.
He screwed up his eyes trying desperately to adjust them to the light.
He stood in nothing but his underwear as he looked around and found himself in the middle of nowhere with nothing but trees surrounding him on all sides. The two men marched him further and further into the woods, the space between the individual trees got smaller and smaller with every step.
The daylight seemed to all but disappear, as if someone had flicked a switch, turning day to night.
"That's far enough. Turn around.”
The first gunman turned to the second.
“Are you doing him or am I Billy.
"Toss a coin Frank."
Frank laughed.
"I like your thinking son. I was just about to suggest the same thing."
He turned to their prisoner.
"You've really fucked it up now Drake, shagging Tony's missus, you must have known he'd go ape shit if he found out, which he obviously did or we wouldn't be in this situation.
Drake shrugged his shoulders.
"C'mon guys, cut me a break, eh? We've worked together for years. For fuck sake Frank, I used to work with your old man."
Frank shook his head.
"No can do, bud. If we don't do you, we're dead men ourselves; you know how Tony works. He insists on proof after every hit.”
Frank flicked the coin into the air; the three men watched it spin, it glinted in the low winter sunlight before returning to the back of Frank’s left hand.
He covered it with the other.
"Heads or tails, buddy?"
"Heads," said Billy.
And that's exactly where he shot Frank, straight through the temple.
The two men watched the look of astonishment appear on Frank’s face as he hit the dirt.
Drake gave a huge sigh.
"I was beginning to worry there, Billy."
"I didn't do it out of sentiment Drake. I’m wanting out of this shit. Just give me the twenty five grand you promised me and we’ll be on our way."
"Wait two seconds. You'll have to send Tony the proof of my demise. You got a cigarette?"
Billy lit two, handing one to Drake.
He took a deep draw of nicotine, handed it back and then walked over to Frank’s corpse. He turned him over, scooped up a large handful of blood and brain matter and rubbed it into his own forehead.
"How do I look?"
"Pretty fucking gory."
Billy gave it a closer inspection. He looked impressed.
"Not a bad looking exit wound actually, looks like we shot you through the back of the head."
"Good. Take out your mobile and take the pic.”
Drake lay on the ground and posed for the photo.
He heard a click.
"I’m all done Drake."
"You certainly are boy."
He shot Billy straight through the heart with the gun he'd pried from Frank’s dead hand. He picked up the mobile, found Harry's number and pressed send.
After dragging the two bodies under a holly bush he returned to his black BMW.
He opened the boot and took out the polythene wrapped suit and newly laundered white shirt. He never left home without a change of clothes. You never know when you might need them in our line of work an old acquaintance had once told him
After sprucing himself up, he helped himself to a line of coke from his stash in the glove compartment. He waited for the feeling of euphoria to take him over and then turned on the stereo.
Wagner’s The Ride of the Valkyries filled the car. Great motivational music he thought. It always reminded him of Apocalypse Now.
He floored the accelerator and headed back to town. He had a job to do.
Tony Scarpitta, after receiving the text, left his guests to their own devices at the masked ball he was hosting and wandered through to his study. He unlocked the ornate cupboard in the corner of the room and wirelessly sent the photo he had just received to his printer. He printed off two copies, one for his hall of fame and one for an entirely different reason.
The inside of the cupboard contained dozens of gory photos. He pinned up his newest acquisition.
"I'll put you dead centre Drake"
He laughed to himself, realising what he had just said as he locked the photo away.
Then he called Jennifer through. She looked nervous. He could see her eyes through her mask; they glanced everywhere, everywhere except at him.
"Got your stuff packed darling?"
He smirked.
"I don't know what you mean, are we going somewhere?"
He shook his head.
"Cut the shit!"
He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.
"I have something to show you."
She stared at the photo of Drake and sighed heavily.
She removed her Pierrot mask; the single black tear was replaced by a multitude of real ones. They ran down her face and on to the photo, blurring the newly printed image of her dead lover.
"Thought I didn't know about your little secret, eh?"
He pressed a button under the desk. Seconds later two huge guys entered from a hidden door behind a bookcase at the other side of the room. They seemed to fill the study with their bulk.
"Take my darling wife down to the cellar until I decide what to do with her. I have guests to entertain.”
Drake looked at the clock on the dashboard. He was four miles away from Metro City. He still had an hour and a half left to tidy things up and take off with the girl. He had a private plane on standby.
He'd always planned on taking care of Tony before they both took off into the sunset, the old bastard had a distinct knack of finding people; they would never feel safe as long as he was alive. He'd planned everything perfectly, they were going to take care of Tony and then they’d both sneak off from the masked ball once it was in full flow.
Billy and Frank had fucked that up though, big style.
He’d really thought his number was up.
He couldn't believe it when Frank had gone to take a leak back in his apartment, he knew Billy would switch allegiance when he offered him the money; he'd always been a greedy bastard.
"Shit!"
He saw the blue lights in the mirror. He turned down the stereo; Wagner was replaced by the sound of sirens.
He pulled over to the side of the road and watched in his wing mirror as the traffic cop left the vehicle, the officer put on his hat and approached the car.
Drake waited for him to tap on the window, as he knew he would, they always did, it seemed to be a prerequisite of the job.
The second the cop’s knuckle connected with the glass he rammed the driver’s door into him, knocking him off his feet. He shot him through the head, spun through forty-five degrees and fired two shots through the police vehicle’s windscreen killing his partner instantly. He looked around; the road was still quiet.
Lady Luck seemed to be on his side.
He hauled the cop out the car and rolled him and his partner down the steep embankment, quickly followed by their car. He just made it before a huge HGV approached him from the other side of the road.
That was close, he thought, as he brushed down his black suit before stepping back into the BMW and continuing on his way.
One hour before takeoff he arrived at the Rowans, the large palatial home of Tony Scarpitta. The huge ornate gates, as usual, were patrolled by two of his bodyguards
He parked the BMW around the corner under a broken street lamp and removed the Glock and the silencer from under the leather driver’s seat. Then he put on the mask and walked back to the mansion’s entrance.