If you're looking for an adventure in the morally grey, and a crash course of the human condition, this is the story for you! What is good and evil? Where is that line drawn, and who decides that? Packed with humor, danger, feels, and awkward relati...
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They had been tailing the inmate for almost two weeks, and he always had the same routine. Every day, just after rush hour, when everyone was packed away into their homes for dinner, he snuck out. Through the side door, hidden between the garage and the house, he departed and headed to the far side of town.
Such a predictable fool. It would be the death of him.
The man was huge, so he would not be a difficult target to hit. That, and when he moved, he bumped into things often, with terrible balance and a poor knowledge of his surroundings. An easy target to inflict the blow he wanted against Emily Levitt.
It was him and Halen ahead of the crew of ten he'd assembled. They would wait at a distance unless signaled. Though he could have assigned the task to anyone, he'd chosen to do it himself. It was the way he was. When someone took from him, he personally took back. It would not be satisfying if another man shot him in the back of his head.
Today, he would settle his debt.
As they approached the place the man usually lingered, Oliver paused and held up his hand to stop Halen from advancing. His enforcer stopped several paces back.
Where did the man go?
There was no way the lumbering fool could have slipped them. The man didn't have the grace. Checking for alternate locations, Oliver slid down the alley and found him. It was strange, since he'd come here at the exact same time and place and just sat there for weeks. Today though, he was on a small bridge that crossed the river that ran on the border of the city.
A shitty position to approach.
Oliver could shoot him from here, but that would do nothing for him. That wasn't the way he was. Instead, he holstered his gun and signaled for Halen to wait at the edge of the alley. Walking around to the next building, he slid down the side of it so that the man was facing away from him. It was not difficult to approach him out of sight, and the man didn't move at all to indicate he'd seen him.
Fingering his gun on his hip holster, he slid over to the edge of the bridge. There was no way the man wouldn't see him out of his peripheral vision, but they were too close now. As long as the man saw the face of his killer, that was satisfying enough for him.
"It's poor manners to shoot a fellow you've never met," the man said in a calm, even tone, not turning his head in the slightest toward him.
Oliver's empty hand left his holster and he stood up straight, no longer needing to pretend he was sneaking up on him.
"You know what I'm here for?" Oliver asked as he took a step onto the bridge. It was a pedestrian bridge–small and not more than a few yards above the water.
For a moment, the man he'd been tailing for some time turned to him and smiled in a genuinely friendly manner. It took Oliver off guard, and he faltered. Why would he look at the face of his killer that way?
