Page 15

Azrael

I settled into position on the worn rooftop, the crumbling brick rough against my elbows as I positioned the rifle. Below me, the café buzzed with life -- tourists laughing, locals reading newspapers, waiters balancing trays of colorful drinks. None of them were aware of the death I was about to deliver. I took a slow breath, while adjusting the scope’s focus on my target. Some men deserved to die in the middle of their coffee. This one certainly did.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of grilled seafood from the café’s kitchen. I made a slight adjustment to compensate, my fingertips tingling against the cold metal of my rifle. Three stories up gave me the perfect vantage point and a clean exit route. A fire escape on the north side of the building would take me down to the alley where my motorcycle waited.

Through my scope, I watched the target laugh at something on his phone. This piece of shit had been trafficking girls through the port for years. His connections had kept him protected until now.

The crosshairs settled on his temple. I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead, the way his fingers nervously tapped the side of his coffee cup. Did he sense something? Some men seemed to develop a sixth sense for danger after living on borrowed time. If so, his instincts were right, just not quick enough.

I slowed my breathing, finding the perfect rhythm where my body became absolutely still between heartbeats. The café was busy -- maybe twenty civilians within fifteen feet of my target. Not ideal, but unavoidable given his patterns.

“Nothing personal,” I whispered, though it was a lie. Everything about this job was personal for me, and for the women he’d hurt.

I’d been given this assignment three days ago. I’d intended to start immediately but it had taken longer to plan than I’d anticipated. Especially after one of my targets had changed their schedule. After this asshole, I had less than four days to make the other two targets and haul ass back to US soil. Which was why I’d decided to get all three done on the same day. Not to mention, there was less chance of the others getting the sense something was off and increasing their protection.

The target stood suddenly, nodding to a waiter. Shit. Was he leaving? I tracked him through the scope, finger tensing on the trigger. No -- just heading to the bathroom. I eased my grip slightly, waiting. A bathroom shot would be messy, confined. Better to let him return to his table.

Five minutes passed. I didn’t move a muscle, barely blinked. Perfect stillness was a skill I’d mastered years ago. Finally, he emerged, stopping to chat with someone at another table. A business associate, maybe. Or just another scumbag. Not my concern today.

He sat back down, signaling for the check. Time was running out. I took one final breath, held it, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The rifle kicked against my shoulder. Through the scope, I watched as the bullet traveled the distance in a fraction of a second, then entered my target’s skull. The impact jerked his head back, a spray of red misting the air behind him. His body slumped forward, face hitting the table with a finality that confirmed the job was done.

For a moment, the café continued as normal -- a strange pocket of time where death existed but hadn’t yet been acknowledged. Then, a woman screamed. Chaos erupted as people realized what had happened, scrambling from their seats, diving for cover, pointing wildly in all directions.

I didn’t linger to watch. Already, I was breaking down my rifle with practiced efficiency, each component sliding into its designated compartment in my case. Thirty seconds -- that’s all it took. Nothing left behind, no shell casings, no fingerprints, no evidence I was ever here. It was a good thing I’d come prepared for anything. Using a borrowed rifle for this would have made things more difficult.

The adrenaline came now, after the job was done. My hands tingled as I secured the case, my senses hyperaware of every sound. Sirens in the distance. Shouts from the street below. I moved to the fire escape, descending quickly but controlled. No use surviving the hit just to break my neck falling down rusty stairs.

The alley was empty when I reached the bottom, my motorcycle exactly where I’d left it. I strapped my rifle to my back and pulled my helmet on, the dark visor concealing my face. By the time police would cordon off the area, I’d be miles away, my existence here nothing but a ghost story.

I eased into traffic, riding conservatively -- nothing to draw attention. Unless people knew what to look for, the rifle on my back could pass for the case to an instrument. I felt the familiar emptiness that always came after. Not guilt. Not exactly satisfaction either. Just a hollow space where emotion should be, like I’d pulled the trigger on myself in some way too. One name crossed off the list, two more to go before nightfall. I wanted this done.

My phone vibrated in my pocket at a red light. I didn’t need to check it to know it was Stripes, confirming the hit. The light turned green, and I accelerated through the intersection, leaving death and chaos in my wake. The sea breeze followed me for a while, carrying the salt and the memory of a single perfect shot.

Three more miles and I pulled into an abandoned gas station, exactly as planned. I dismounted, removed my helmet, and ran a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. My heartbeat had returned to normal, my breathing steady. Professional. Detached. The way I needed to be to do this job right.

I pulled out the phone, typed a single word. Done .

The reply came seconds later. Second target confirmed for Club Vortex. Move now to have time to plan .

Back on the bike, I plotted the fastest route to the nightclub. The day was still young, and I had more work to do. I needed to scope the place out, get an idea of when the target would be there, and figure out the best entry and exit for the job. Seeing things on paper wasn’t the same as viewing them in person. The club wouldn’t be in full swing for hours.

As I rode, I thought about the fact this was personal for me. If I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t get Mazida back. There was no way I could go home without her. Not and face Zara.

Family. That’s what Mazida was to me now. The word still felt strange to me, even after all these years with the club. But I understood loyalty. I understood debt. And I understood sometimes justice came from the barrel of a gun or the edge of a knife rather than a courtroom.

The second target would be trickier -- close quarters, witnesses, security. But I needed this done today, all three targets eliminated before midnight.

I merged onto the highway, pushing the bike faster. The emptiness inside me began to fill with purpose again. By nightfall, three men would be dead by my hand, and maybe -- just maybe -- we’d be one step closer to bringing Mazida home.

* * *

Seven hours later

I stepped from the cool night air into a wall of sound, heat, and sweat. Club Vortex lived up to its name -- a whirlwind of bodies, lights, and pounding bass that hit my chest like physical blows. My ears adjusted slowly as I scanned the crowd, the knife tucked into my boot suddenly feeling inadequate compared to the rifle I’d left behind. This would be messy. Personal. I’d feel my target’s last breath against my skin, watch the light fade from his eyes. Some might call it more honest that way. I just called it necessary.

The place was packed wall-to-wall with bodies, writhing and gyrating to music that seemed designed to scramble the brain. Lights pulsed in violent blues and reds, casting strange shadows across faces, making everyone look slightly demonic. I pushed through the crowd, keeping my movements casual but deliberate, another face in the sea of night crawlers looking for a good time. Except I was hunting.

Stripes had given me the intel on this one. “Real sadistic fuck. Likes to cut people up while they’re still breathing, make examples out of them.”

He’d said this was the place the man would be, and I’d watched and waited. He’d finally shown up an hour ago. I’d hoped it had given him enough time to get drunk and relax.

I scanned the VIP section, the raised platform where the self-important sat on velvet couches and drank overpriced bottles. There he was -- Boris, though everyone called him “The Surgeon.” Not for any medical skills, but for his precision with a blade. Dark hair slicked back, designer clothes, surrounded by women who didn’t know they were pressing their bodies against a monster. Or maybe they did but just didn’t care.

Two bodyguards flanked him, thick-necked men with telltale bulges under their jackets. Guns, despite the club’s metal detectors. Then again, I’d slipped in with my knife unnoticed. I’d need to deal with them first.

I made my way to the bar, ordered a whiskey I had no intention of drinking, and studied the layout. Three exits -- main entrance, side door by the bathrooms, service entrance behind the DJ booth. The bodyguards rotated positions every fifteen minutes, a standard security protocol. Boris himself seemed relaxed, hands wandering over a blonde in a silver dress, laughing at something she said.

I checked my watch. Almost eleven o’clock. The club would reach peak capacity soon, which meant more chaos to disappear into, but also more potential witnesses and collateral damage. Not ideal, but I’d make it work.

I abandoned my untouched drink and moved toward the bathrooms, timing my approach to intersect with the path of one of the bodyguards. As expected, the man made his rounds, heading for the hallway that led to the restrooms. I stumbled slightly, bumping into him.

“Watch it, asshole,” he growled, hand instinctively moving toward his weapon.

I mumbled an apology, swaying as if drunk, and continued past him. In the dimly lit hallway, I pressed myself against the wall and waited. Three seconds later, he rounded the corner. His eyes widened in recognition -- not of me, but of the sudden danger -- a split second before I struck.

My palm slammed into his windpipe, crushing it instantly. As he gasped for air that wouldn’t come, I dragged him into the men’s room, kicked open a stall door, and finished him with a quick thrust of my knife just under his ribcage, angled upward into his heart. He twitched once, then went still. I lowered him onto the toilet, closed the stall door, and washed his blood from my hands.

One down.

Back in the club, the music had shifted to something with a harder edge, the bass so deep it seemed to rattle my teeth. The second bodyguard had noticed his partner’s absence, his eyes scanning the crowd with increasing concern. He leaned down to say something to Boris, who frowned and checked his phone.

I wouldn’t get a better chance. I moved through the dance floor, letting the surging crowd push me closer to the VIP section. A waitress with a tray of shots created the perfect opening -- I slipped past her just as she arrived at Boris’s table, momentarily blocking the bodyguard’s view.

By the time the bodyguard spotted me, I was already inside his reaction radius. His hand went for his gun, but I was faster. The knife I’d palmed slid between his ribs, the blow cushioned by our bodies pressed close together, looking to anyone watching like an embrace between friends. His eyes widened in shock as I twisted the blade.

“Nothing personal,” I whispered in his ear as he slumped against me.

I eased him down onto one of the couches, arranging him to look passed out drunk. The music swallowed his dying gurgle, the lights concealed the spreading dark stain on his shirt. Boris, focused on the woman in his lap, hadn’t even noticed.

When he finally looked up and saw me standing there, his face cycled through confusion, recognition, then fear. He shoved the woman aside roughly, reaching inside his jacket.

“You --” he started, but I was already moving.

I flipped the table between us, sending bottles and glasses crashing to the floor. The woman screamed, drawing attention our way. Boris pulled a small pistol from his jacket, but I was already too close. My hand clamped around his wrist, forcing the gun upward as it discharged into the ceiling. The shot was barely audible over the music, but people nearby began to notice something was wrong.

Boris was strong, his face contorted with rage as he wrestled against my grip. He head-butted me, stars exploding behind my eyes as pain lanced through my skull. I maintained my hold on his gun hand, but he slashed at me with a knife I hadn’t seen, opening a cut across my cheek.

We crashed over the back of the couch, landing hard on the floor behind the VIP section. The gun skittered away across the floor. Now it was just man against man, blade against blade.

“You’re dead,” he snarled, slashing at me with practiced precision. “Fucking Angel of Death. Even here, we’ve heard of you.”

I didn’t waste breath on words, focusing instead on the dance of death between us. His knife caught the pulsing lights, leaving glowing trails in the air as he attempted to open my throat. I parried with my own blade, metal striking metal with sharp clangs drowned by the music.

Blood ran down my face from the cut on my cheek, warm and sticky. Around us, people began to realize this wasn’t a standard club fight. Some screamed, others backed away, creating a clearing around us while bouncers pushed through the crowd.

Boris lunged, his technique revealing his reputation was well-earned. I barely twisted away, feeling his blade slice through my jacket and graze my ribs. The pain was distant, adrenaline keeping it at bay. I countered, my knife finding flesh at his shoulder.

He hissed but didn’t slow, coming at me again with renewed fury. We crashed into a table, sending glasses shattering across the floor. I lost my footing on the wet surface, going down on one knee. Boris saw his opening and moved in for the kill, knife arcing toward my neck.

I threw a handful of broken glass into his face. He cursed, momentarily blinded, slashing wildly. I drove my knife upward, under his sternum, feeling the resistance of muscle and tissue before the blade found his heart.

Boris’s eyes widened in shock, his own knife clattering to the floor. “How --” he gasped, blood bubbling at his lips.

“See you in hell.” I thought of all the people this asshole had tormented and killed over the years. Now they would get justice.

I twisted the knife once, ensuring the job was done, then let him collapse to the floor. Around us, chaos had fully erupted. People screamed and pushed toward exits, the music still pounding relentlessly. A bouncer broke through the crowd, saw the blood and bodies, and reached for his radio.

Time to go.

I snatched up Boris’s fallen pistol, fired two shots into the ceiling, and used the resulting panic to make my escape. Bodies pressed against me from all sides as people scrambled toward exits. I moved with the flow toward the service entrance, discarding the gun into a trash can as I passed.

The hallway behind the DJ booth was empty, staff having fled at the sound of gunshots. I pushed through the service door into the cool night air of an alleyway. Once the door shut behind me, the music became muted except for the thump of the bass. The quieter atmosphere was almost as disorienting as the club’s noise had been.

Blood dripped down my face and side, but the wounds were superficial. I took a moment to catch my breath, wiping my knife clean on my pants before resheathing it. My motorcycle waited where I’d left it, hidden behind a dumpster halfway down the alley.

As I mounted the bike, police sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. I kicked the engine to life and pulled into traffic just as the first patrol cars screeched to a halt in front of the club.

Two down. One to go.

I found a 24-hour convenience store, parked behind it, and used their bathroom to clean up. The cut on my face needed stitches, but it would have to wait. I pressed a wad of paper towels against it until the bleeding slowed, then applied some butterfly bandages I’d brought just in case. The gash along my ribs was shallow, more painful than dangerous.

Back outside, I checked my phone. A message from Stripes: Target 3 confirmed at old Paz gas station. Alone .

Perfect. I still had time. Not a lot, but I could get this done. My blood was up, adrenaline flooding me. I didn’t feel the emptiness this time, just a cold rage thinking about Mazida and what she must have been through all this time. Soon, I’d take her home to her daughter.

I revved the motorcycle’s engine and headed east, toward my final target of the night.