And the last is Teddy. He’s six months younger than me and he is… well unhinged for the lack of a better word. He’s been through the ringer like the rest of us. Instead of hiding his insanity, he seems to bathe in it. Embraces his darkness, and it consumes whatever andwhoeverhe needs it to. He means well in the way that he will do anything to protect us, his family. Teddy has a list of crimes that would make fictional characters like Leatherface cringe in fear.
Then me, their leader. The protector and the brain of the operation. I never intended to be the leader, but it came naturally as I’m the most organized, the problem solver.
I make my way off the roof and across the street to the apartment complex. I spot Teddy making his way up the fireescape that stops just outside of Peter’s open window, and rests under the opening waiting for my signal. I simply walk into the front of the building and waltz to the apartment numbered B22, whistling a tune that has been stuck in my head for days.
“Can you stop that? You’ve already got it stuck in my head on a loop.” Dean grumbles as he walks behind me. He’s followed by Brandon, whose eyes are cautiously watching every direction with his head on a natural swivel.
“Aren’t sparrows songbirds? Might draw them out.” Brandon snickers as he swings his bat around nonchalantly, now quietly whistling the same tune I was.
I ignore their bickering as I grab the doorknob; it’s unlocked.
Silly bird. This would leave a quick escape, but it also leaves room for getting caught in the act. The Sparrow does not strike me as careless or as one that makes insipid mistakes. So why?
I motion for Dean to take the front, and I follow as Brandon takes the rear. We slowly file in under complete silence. Dean has his gun drawn as he clears around corners to shield us from any surprises. The apartment is dark and filthy. Plenty of leftover take out and beer cans litter everywhere except for the trash can, which seems to already be overflowing. The stench of stale beer and dust invades my nostrils and reminds me to hold my breath. The only source of light is coming from a dim streetlamp, breaking in through cracked blinds in the living room. I continue to watch my step to avoid any pizza boxes or crushed cans.
Dean puts out a hand and points to his ear with two fingers, signaling for us to pause and take a listen. There isa muffled groan coming from behind a door at the end of a dark narrow hallway. We all spare a glance at each other before another groan seeps through the closed door, this time it sounds to be more panicked.
Dean waits at the closed door as Brandon, and I continue to search around the labyrinth of trash. Once we have cleared the entire apartment except for the mystery door, we join Dean. With a single nod, he slowly turns the doorknob and lets the door slowly swing open. Luckily there is no creak to the door, so our presence is still unknown.
There is a hooded figure hunched over Peter who is sitting bound in some sort of chair. The figure stands back straight and grabs something out of their back pocket- a thin blade that glints in the dull lighting. When they move slightly to their left, I finally see it.
The chair is no ordinary chair, it’s a garrote vil. Once again, I’m in awe.
The mother fucker built their own garrote Vil and brought it with them.
Peter is gagged with what looks like a dirty sock with duct tape wrapped around his head to keep it in place. He has been stripped naked with each wrist bound to his thighs by rope, right above the bend of his knee and his palms up as if waiting for a gift. The collar of the garrote is already tight, so tight I can practically hear him wheezing for breath. The coward has pathetic tears running down his face and his eyelids are squeezed shut.
The figure leans back over Peter and begins to carve into the palm of his right hand. Peter's eyes shoot open, and they immediately meet mine. On cue Peter begins to panic evenmore, now thrashing in his chair. Of course, he knows who we are, anyone involved in organized crime knows of us. And even the law enforcement is aware of our presence, but with quarterlydonationsthey seem to sweep any…operationsunder the rug.
The sudden increase in panic causes the figure to stop what they are doing, and they stand straight at attention. Agonizingly slow, the figure turns around to face us.
At last,The Sparrow.
The Sparrow is wearing a plain white mask that carries no features. Just two eye holes that are covered in a dark mesh, hiding the shape and color of their eyes. They stare at me for a moment before walking to the back side of the garrote Vil and begin twisting the levers on the back.
Creek, creek.
Peter can no longer wheeze or groan, but the look in his eyes is coated in fear and alarm. The Sparrow pulls off their hood and thick, fire red hair tumbles out across their shoulders and back. With no rush in the world, they remove their mask and then…
“Holy shit, The Sparrow is a chick.” Brandon scoffs.
She gives him a sharp glare before returning my stare. A smirk slowly teases at the corner of her mouth before she says, “Been wondering when I’d run into you, Max Karma.”
Creek. Creek.
Crunch.
And just like that, every ounce of life in Peter’s eyes vanishes.
2
Force and Acceleration
Zoe
The three men that have been hunting after me have finally caught up. I expected them to catch me in the act a lot sooner, especially since I’ve given up my discreetness. I realized after a while that the cops were no longer looking for me, and I assume Max had something to do with that.
“Who are you?” Max scoffs.
