The air's even thicker outside in the hallway. Men running up and down with guns in their hands and masks of dour on their faces to conceal fear. I walk past purposely not making any eye contacts. Though our faces are practically covered in bruises and wounds, so between hurried footsteps and creaking floorboards, some still stop to give us a few questioning looks.
Enzo occasionally gives me a few glances when he has to squeeze past someone. More specifically, my right hand in my jacket pocket.
Through the solitary door at the end of the hallway, we bump into Dino. He gave me and Enzo another glimpse before he walked towards the room Alonzo in wordlessly.
Tommy is sitting on the staircase, reducing half a cigarette to ashes with a single breath, three extinguished cig butts line up next to him, filter towards the ceiling, standing bolt upright. His thumb brushes the cylinder of his gun. He added the one between his fingers to the bunch when he noticed us. And our faces.
"Please don't tell me you two couldn't kill a half-dead whimp......." Enzo let out a grin and slam his hand on Tommy's shoulder.
"Go check the room and see for yourself. Oh, and bring a mop." Tommy waves his hand like he's flapping flies and pull out another cig from the red-striped pack next to the cig butts.
"Nicky is downstairs waiting for you like a widow waiting for her only son to visit..." He put the cig in his mouth after sniffing the filter. Then he shifts his eyes on me. "And you, go to the back of the kitchen and grab whatever you need, it's on the house today."
"Sí, sí. Fratello." Enzo bypasses him and the line of cigs on the stairs. I follow behind after a nod at Tommy, who lit the fifth cigarette.
***
Ground floor, behind the restaurant. Through the back of the kitchen and a set of iron doors, a guy walks out with a crate. Judging by the way he tenderly holds it, it's probably full of 'last results'. I step away to let him pass the narrow hallway.
11:46. Enzo stops me in front of Nicola's office. With a throaty voice and a smile of a snake, he asks.
"Last chance to back down, kid." My right eyelid twitched and a half-hearted laugh came out of my mouth.
And now he's acting like he gives a fuck.
"Back down to what?" Enzo tilts his head for a moment, eyes shifting to the red patterns on the wallpapers.
"To save yourself first."
Great, even he acknowledge my life more than myself.
"I am doing exactly that. So that's get this over with eh?" I clutch the CZ75 in my right hand, feeling the handle of this clumsy, robust but reliable weapon and how odd Enzo choose this pistol.
Enzo's gaze is still locked on the fleur-de-lis on the wall. A second later, the left corner of his mouth dropped, and a glint of spite or interest pass the blue eyes before he push open the door to Nicola's office.
The crank room is full of unorganized sheets everywhere I lay my eyes on. There's a huge square table in the middle, surrounded by too many folding chairs. On it, are a pump-action shotgun, a load of shells, and 9mm cartridges on top of a poorly drawn map of this building and nearby alleys. The room is surprisingly quiet compared to the army bunk of hallway outside, the only sounds here are the ceiling fan and Nicola's heavy breathing.
The big fella is sitting on the floor next to an opened save at the corner of the room. I don't even need to see his eyes to know he already gave up.
Seconds after we walk in he tries to get up and collect his scattered decency.
"Enzo, how's the snake upstairs?" Patting the invisible dust on his trousers, Nicola asks.
"We were in a bit of a rush, can't find a tuxedo his size. But I'd say he looks sharp enough to leave an impression on the devil's mind when he drags him to hell." Nicola lets out two short laughs and beckons Enzo to come closer.
"Good, good.... now tell me about.." Nicola stops mid-sentence when he sees me standing behind Enzo. The fat around his mouth falls downward. "Merc, go to the back door with everyone else. You got no business here."
"Actually, he does." Enzo grab a folding chair and sat down. Kicking his spotless leather shoes on the square table while Nicola knit his brows together. Enzo gives me a look that says 'Your idea, your pitch', tapping his wrist again before he pulls out a pack of cig.
I take a deep breath and sum up what happened in the past 20 minutes as short as I can. (leaving lots of details of course). Enzo listen with a cigarette in his mouth tilting towards the ceiling, Nicola's facial expression got tenser and tenser.
12 seconds passed 11:47, I told him the plan. He laughed.
"So you think those sons of bitches out there are here for chitchats? Christ, are you fucked in the head? A-and, Enzo you're on board with this?" Enzo, who remains in the same position for the whole time, lets out three words.
"Yeah, I do."
20 seconds passed 11:47, Nicola exhales a long breath and lowered his head. The facade of calm demeanor left his body along with his sign. The notorious Nicola in Little Italy seems so small and unimportant right now.
Waving his hand aimlessly in the air he mutters.
"Do whatever the hell you want to do then." The words were whispered out of his mouth in the end as if he was out of breath. Enzo walks over and pats his boss's shoulder and sang some reassuring words about how this will work.
Wonder if Nicola looks up right now, would he notice the spiteful contemptuous hiding under those blue eyes?
35 seconds passed 11:48, the crew was split in three. On the second-floor room where Alonzo died and behind the bar counter at the restaurant area on the first floor, and the third one is in one of the back rooms behind the kitchen. In case we failed, these guys could at least gain the upper hand in the fight. All got a pistol, revolver, shotgun (I even saw a bolt action rifle) aiming at me and Enzo.
In the hallway leading to the back door and employee smoke room, my heart beats like a sewing machine. The sounds in my brain keep telling me how crazy and stupid I am, how I'm rushing towards a death wish, how all of this is meaningless for me and them.
Fucking hell..... I don't even want to justify my actions to myself since it's impossible. Is this what suicidal people felt halfway falling down a building?
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I check the watch to take my mind off. 70 seconds...... punctuality really is a virtue around here.
Enzo is still the same, calm, and collected, as if what's about to happen has nothing to do with him.
11:49, he tossed away his burned cigarette and crack his neck.
"You put my number on fast dial?" A part of me tries to laugh at how suggestive that was. And I did, but it came out more like a sick dog barking than a laugh.
"Yeah.... Yes I did." Enzo side-eyes me and lets out a silent sign.
"If things escalate out of hand, make a call whatever it takes. Flip your phone open and put it in your pocket. And if you pulled it off, give me a call too. It would make my part easier. Oh. And give me back my gun."
My hand moved on its own and pulls out his pistol, and hand it back to him. He put it back on the back of his belt, under his jacket. In the whole process, I couldn't catch a single hint of haste or a sign of shakiness.
"Grazie and good luck, merc." Without even looking at me, Enzo turned around and strides towards the back, the distances between footsteps are completely the same.
40 seconds left, by strength I found at fuck knows where. I walk towards the front while checking if my 1911 was properly clocked and loaded even though I already know it is.
32 seconds left, I walk into the empty break room next to the stalls with my hands clenched.
27 seconds, I push open the door to the dining area. Peeking at the back of the bar counter I see sets of eyes hiding in the shadows. Doubts, anxiety, and the look you give unconsciously when you're watching a train derailed on the news.
22 seconds, I unlocked the bolt on the front door of restaurant. The sound of brass sliding triggered a hazy memory of me playing with the lock on my parent's door. Sliding it up and down because I like the sound before my father's voice interrupted me.... The memory disappeared as abruptly as it happened. I shake my head and felt an itch in my throat.
19 seconds, I put my hand on the handle. The coldness still clouds my nape and the back of my head, all my strength got pulled into the floor beneath me by gravity, leaving me emptied and fragile.
12 seconds, my mind went blank. I turned the door nub.
***
Searing wind accompanied by summer damp. Dimming warm light from lamp poles along the desolate street gives off enough illumination for late-night passersby to see where the road leads, but not what lies in the alleyways and shades. I take a deep breath of the humid air.
A rain's coming.
A click came from my left. Subtle, almost missable if it weren't for how quiet the street is.
A sound of machinery like the barrel bolt lock of the front door.
They heard me.....
I soften my steps as much as I could while approaching the alley. In the corner of my eyes notices a significant increase of cigarette ends on the ground earlier. Two steps away from the corner, I stop with my back against the wall.
7 seconds passed 11:50, but there were no gunshots from the back and the reapers haven't started yet. Enzo’s doing his part.
I take a look at the second-floor window above me and see at least three muzzles pointing at me. A part of me wants to laugh at how fucking awkward of a position I put myself in.
I rest my head on the wall, staring at the lamp pole while adjusting my breathing. With my hand pressing on my chest, I was shocked to find my heart is now beating at a normal rate, shit Maybe slower than normal as I'm completely numb the second I walk out of the front door but the urge to laugh kept growing.
25 seconds passed 11:50, I take another step further by the wall. The distance to the corner was reduced to under 1 meter, I can hear the rhythmic breathing of cleaners in my arms-reach and the heavy odor of cheap tobacco.
Never thought my life would end in some dramatic fashion....but if I get shot the next second I'm going to be so pissed in hell...
I take off my bomber jacket and throw it to the concrete ground in front of the alley, then my .45 pistol, the daggers in my sleeve, and on my ankle. Feeling as naked as a newborn, a wave of warm breeze sends a chill down my spine. I shouted with a voice more collected than I anticipate.
"If any of y'all heard there will be an Asian mafioso in the kill box. Then put a bullet in me right now. I'm unarmed! But if not, then how about y'all put a pin on that and wait a few more minutes to hear what I got to say?"
My heartbeat slowly fasten for the only response was the sound of a moth banging the lighting of lamp pole in front of me.
"And don't worry about duty calls. Your employers won't be giving the green light any time soon!" That sure got some attention as I heard the sound of leather rubbing and a long exhale. I lowered my voice.
"I'm going to take two steps forward with my hands up. If any of you have a single doubt about why you're still pissing in an alley after the go time, just know that I can give you the answers...."
Oh, what the hell.
"One more thing, there's at least three snipers staring at the back of my head. Waiting for me to draw you guys out..... those wops in the building? They ain't my pals, and I don't intend to do what they told me to. What I'm trying to do here. Is helping you."
I turn around and see the fellows upstairs still pointing their guns at me. Good.
My mind races through all the possible outcomes of this and found myself not giving a fuck. There's only one choice left for me anyway, why bother worrying?
"I'm going forward now." I raise my hands in the air and take a deep breath. The sound of moth hitting the lamp pole disappeared as my foot slid across the pavement. Time slowed down when my head turn toward the alleyway, a glint pokes out of the corner and disappears the next second.
Then a hand shoot out of the corner at a speed I couldn't register until it had gripped the collar of my shirt and dragged me into the alley. Away from the illumination of street lights and the gangster's vision.
Before I could pronounce a word or see the guy's face. The person yanks me towards the other side. My back hits the brick wall squeezing a grunt out of my throat. Not giving me time to catch a break, he immediately pins my throat with his upper arm while his left hand quickly searches my sleeves, back, both thighs, legs, and ankles.
The man raises his head and gives me a glance when he reaches the flip phone in my pocket. Dull brown eyes with little emotions and scars rearranged the sharpness of his face making his jawline seem sharper. His weather-bitten cheeks look more like dorsal of a viper, leathery and coarse. Dragging his eye bags downward.
The man I saw from the window.
The cleaner threw the phone to a slightly younger man next to him while he kept his dull brown eyes locked on mine.
I take a peek to my right and see 5 other men armed to the teeth with Galil rifles and submachine guns while each one of them is wearing hard body armor over black tracksuits. Two are smoking by the wall, a big guy is standing straight up next to the dull-eyed man with a pistol firmly pointing at my face. The other two take point at the position by the corner, fingers flat on the safety next to the triggers.
A man with blue eyes takes out a small mirror attached to a stick. Turing it vertically, he sticks the mirror out for a single second before retrieving it.
"Panoptes?" The guy behind him raises his brow and asks in a deep clear voice. 'Panoptes' shake his head.
"Street lights ground pounded the visibility. Can't see shit except for heaven's grace." The scout blurts in a silvery voice.
A grayed beard cleaner smoking in the back put his cig back in his mouth and press on the radio stick to his vast's velcro.
"Second-floor window. You got eyes up there, birdy?" Two screeching white noises later a husky voice came out.
"Aye aye, rifles and shotguns between curtains. Mate, my fingers are twitching may I please do my job?" The grayed beard man massage his eyes when he heard the confirmation.
"Stick it in your twat and keep on the lookout." Cold sweats spurt out my back as the idea of a crosshair on my head this whole time sets in.
The dull eyed man put some more pressure on my throat, his brows twitched. The turns to look at the cleaner standing farthest.
He's wearing a dark green beanie. A hard, full beard occupied half of his face, entangling with itself. Hooked nose with a darker shade of skin ranging from its bridge to the sides of his cheekbones. He raises the cigarette between his gloved fingers to his mouth, taking a long drag before puffing out an impressive amount of smoke at the night sky.
Hands clinging to his body armor, Galil ACE dangling by the right side of his hip. The cleaner walked towards me in steady and silent footsteps. The big guy with a pistol at me and the dulled eye man both step aside.
Standing right in front of me, I found him a bit younger than gray beard. Fewer wrinkles around his eye sockets and fairer skin too. I would say he's in his late 40s but his dark hazel eyes remind me of the annual rings of olden pine trees. Emotions are carved as ring after ring but each seems to be completely independent of the other. Conflicting emotions coexist inside this man's mind. Irritate, interested, amuse, contempt, impress..... But all of them, are carved on a piece of lifeless stiff wood. An object.
Before this point, I felt like I was watching a dream I'm too numb to control. But staring at this man, a sense of fear resonated. Reality hit me like a bucket of cold water and hollowed my body, leaving me a shell. But it also made me more conscious than ever tonight. So I return his stare, not to show him I'm not afraid but I got nothing to hide.
Vulnerability and fear are good things, it keeps you vigilant and sane...... goddamn it old man, wish I paid more attention to your rumblings.
After I lost track of time, the cleaner squints his eyes to a slit. A mouth click later he takes a step back to speak with a surprisingly smooth voice.
"I hope you have a good hand, kiddo." Taking another drag of his smoke, the cleaner extinguished the burned cigarette on the ground and pulls out his pistol. Standing half feet taller than me, he place his left palm on the back of his right hand. "Cause you're facing four of a kind here.”
Finger off the trigger, barrel off the target, safety off as well. I ignore the ache slowly coming back from the wound on my forehead and start my first job as a mediator.