3. Messiah

A police siren blares beneath my window and I groan as I roll over on the couch. Another night of not making it to my bed before passing out. I don't know why I even own the thing. I don't fuck women in it. I don't bring people to my apartment. A door slams in the hallway, and I grit my teeth as I pull my hood further down over my eyes. It is too fucking early.

I was up most of the night trying to piece together what little information I had. The only real lead I found was that Diego and Mikel were two of six men that ran together on the North side of the city. They were low grade drug peddlers. Now I had to find out if they were targeted victims – and the crime scenes seemed to point that way – or the killer was just someone in their neighborhood. It isn't too hard to grab a guy when he spends his days standing alone on a street corner.

A dog barks on one of the balconies just outside my window and I roll over and moan my displeasure with the day. Deciding the city and its uncourteous fucking noise isn't going to let me sleep much longer, I sit up and yawn. My shoulders pop as I stretch and my back aches as I stand up. I dig around my body for my phone and find it jammed beneath the cushions under me. No calls. At least Charles wasn't going to pester me for a moment.

Mark texted that everything was clear on his end. The police weren't suspicious of anything going on and the body had been cleared. It is easy to distract cops in such a big place as Chicago. The murders committed by the mob usually get tossed under the radar among the myriad of other crimes happening on an hourly basis. I dig my charger cord out from beside the couch and plug in the phone. After taking a much needed piss, I brew some coffee and pop the cricks out of my back as I sit down at my computer.

As I sip my first cup, I dig into Diego's and Mikel's wrap sheets. They each served a bit of time in the pen, but they only had petty drug charges. Mikel had an assault charge that was thrown out about a year ago. The victim, someone named River Morch, appeared to have pinged him for many crimes. The assault was the only thing that stuck and even it concluded in a simple house arrest.

I didn't like the idea of another killer on my streets. If blood was going to pour out, it needed to be by my hands and for my reasons. Having someone out there doing as they pleased could only cause trouble in the long run. I was a part of a well oiled machine that made sure the crime continued in the shadows so that the higher ups could keep laundering their money as they saw fit. I was an underdog; but as an assassin, I had more worth than a normal Disciple. I was a well trained pet for lack of a better word. And for the most part I didn't care. It paid good money and ensured I was left alone for the most part.

I spend most of the morning trying to find anything that might lead me to a potential killer. I check the recent reports from the police but nothing nefarious shows up.

I get a text from Charles shortly after eight and yawn as I open it. There is a job to do. I check the details then finish the last bit of my coffee. Heading into my bedroom, I open my closet and push aside the few shirts and pants hanging there. There is a shelf tucked behind my clothes with all my tools. This case is just a drug peddler skimming too much off the top. I grab my gloves and glock before picking up a second cartridge, though I doubt I'll need it. Usually these guys can be easily caught at this time of day. They work at night, and if you break in during the daylight hours, they are usually knocked out and incoherent when you startle them awake.

Lastly, I grab my silencer from the bedside table and slide on my boots. I grab my phone and walk out of the apartment, my gun tucked neatly beneath my jacket. The elevator stops one floor down and the doors slide open. I glance at the chick that walks in next to me but then pretend to be busy on my phone. I don't know anyone that lives in this building. For the most part, we are all from the side of life that makes us not ask questions or make friends. We just want to live in our own bubble of peace and not be bothered.

A couple gets on to the elevator before we make it to the bottom floor. While everyone turns toward the front doors, I head to the right and toward the parking garage. I pick up breakfast on the way to the location and make sure to call Mark and warn him to hold off any police heading in the same direction as me. If they take longer to get there, it gives me more time to leave. Like I said– well oiled machine.

The house is a basic shotgun in a run down neighborhood on the north side of the city. It is the kind of place people who aren't familiar with the area don't go at night. The streets are mostly empty at this time of day except for a few hustlers and bus riders waiting on the corners. I park my car a few doors down and smoke a cigarette as I walk casually toward the house. There is a dog in the backyard, but it only watches me quietly as I make my way up the front steps.

I can see a television playing through the front window. I don't know who is inside or if the target even knows there is a price on his head. I knock on the door, tucking my hands into my hoodie pocket as I glance around the street, pretending to be nervous.

"Yeah?" A deep voice calls from inside.

"Yo, I'm looking for BeefStick," I call out.

Who the fuck picks a name like BeefStick? And if it wasn't personally chosen, why the fuck would you roll with it? I had been graced with a mother that wanted to be unique. She named me Messiah thinking it would be something classy I could grow into. Then again, no one plans for their kid to become a hitman. Now, I am the Messiah that delivers death to those who cross the wrong people.

Someone peeks around the corner inside the house and we stare at one another for a moment. I look around the street again before turning back to him.

"I was told to look for BeefStick," I tell him.

I don't know if this person is my target. If not, he is going to be a complication.

The stranger walks closer to the door and I hear the tap of feet as a large dog looks through a gate locking him in the kitchen. I take a step back as the man comes to the door, his dark eyes looking me up and down.

"Who told you?" he asks, arching a brow at me.

I nudge my shoulder to the street. "Kid on the block. He said he was out, and I had to come to you."

His eyes stay on me as he continues to size me up. I hunch my shoulders a bit, pressing down on my hood as I look around the street. If I look like a usual client, he is more likely to open the door. It is too early in the morning to have to fight my way in.

"Look man, you got it or not?" I ask.

"What you looking for?"

"Ice," I tell him. "Or anything with some umph."

"Money," he nudges his chin toward my pocket.

I reach in and pull out the rumbled wad of cash I keep just for these occasions. It is dirty, not that big a stack. It doesn't look too clean and official. People like him don't trust when strangers come up with pretty money.

"Alright," he says.

He opens the screen door and I step back as it swings toward me. He nudges his head back and I glance around again before taking a slow step inside. I don't move any further. I don't want to seem pushy. I also don't know if anyone else is home.

"How much you got?" he asks.

I fumble in my pocket, making sure I don't flash my glock. I pull the dirty bills from their crude holder, dropping a few on the ground and reaching quickly to pick them up. I have played this game before. I learned it from watching my father, then my sister, and even me at one point, play this same game. Only then it wasn't acting. Not every drug dealer is a killer. But without knowing them personally, you always have to assume they are. I shuffle the money in my hand and hold it out to him, tucking my other hand back into my hoodie pocket.

"For-forty," I stutter.

He glances at me, eyes narrowed as he looks me over. I step back toward the door, as if ready to flee. If I make him think he is the big dog here, he will relax.

"Forty can get you two oxy."

"Okay."

He nods toward the table at my side. I place the money down before pressing my hood down on my head.

"Don't fucking move," he orders.

I nod and watch as he turns down the hallway. I take the few moments he is gone to step away from the door, grab my glock, and spin the silencer in place. By the time he walks back around the corner, I am in the middle of the living room. His eyes go wide as he sees me, but I shoot before he can say anything. The dog jumps, then begins to bark as blood splatters the yellowed walls and the guy's body collapses to the floor.

Two head shots. Clean. I don't have to wait for him to die. Since he has a bag of drugs right next to him and more stashed around him, I don't even have to worry about the scene. It will look like business went bad on his end. And it did. I tuck my gun into my pocket and make sure to check for any cameras sitting around. Criminals are getting real techy nowadays.

I walk out the door as the dog continues to bark inside. The dog in the back is barking now, but its noise is drowned out by the usual street ambience. I light a cigarette and smoke it casually as I walk back to my car. I turn the key in the ignition and drive away with ease, texting Charles the job is done.

A few minutes later, a large deposit hits my account. I know exactly where to spend it.