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But black, well, it’s easier. It’s also better for blending in. And then, as the years went on, our wardrobe just consisted of black for convenience.
Killing isn’t just a sport. It’s a way of life for some, and no matter how dark and fucked-up it is, some of us are born to do it.
“Yellow,” Kenzo confirms as he and I step into the bar. Ronaldo the hit we have been chasing, spots us as his head turns in our direction. His eyes go wide, and in a flash, he is up and running to the back door. Kyson is already there waiting for him. When we step out into the alley, we find Kyson already has him on the ground, his boot on his bright yellow shirt holding him immobile.
Ronaldo is a runner.
He always has been.
“Come on, boys. Please.” It’s a plea, but it doesn’t faze us. “We’re friends. You can’t do this.”
That is false.
We are anythingbut friends.
Kyson pushes his foot down even harder, and Ronaldo lets off a little scream like the bitch he is. The door to the alley opens, and Kenzo immediately has his gun pointed at some random schmuck who is in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The guy lifts his hands in surrender as he says, “I didn’t see anything.” He steps back slowly, hands still in the air, as the door shuts in his face.
I bend down and grab a handful of Ronaldo’s hair, pulling his face up from the filthy ground. I lick my lips and taste water, and then I lift my face to the sky.
It’s about to storm.
Smiling, I glance back to Ronaldo in his bright yellow shirt.
“No more running for you,” I tell him.
He groans but says nothing more. I let his head drop, and I move to his legs. Removing my knife, I slice his jeans open as he stays deadly still.
“Don’t. Please, don’t.” He starts to cry like a little baby.
“You ran, Ronaldo. You know better,” I tell him.
Kyson is still holding him down with his foot, so he doesn’t move. Kenzo shifts to the door and holds it shut so no one else can accidentally come outside.
There are few lights at the back of the bar—it was a stupid mistake on his part to run out here—but it made it easier for us.
“I’ll do anything, please.”
Ronaldo owes someone a lot of money. Who, I don’t know, nor do I care. But that person has the ability to pay for our services and our services he will get.
There is a lengthy process to even get to us. And even then, it’s not usually us the client deals with directly. It’s Pops; he is basically our finder. Though we do some deals on the side when it pleases us. We don’t need Pops, but we keep him around all the same.
“You’ve run long enough, Ronaldo,” I tell him as my knife glints in the moonlight while I reach for his leg and grip his calf. I place the blade on the back of his Achilles tendon and hold him as tight as possible as it slides across his flesh. It’s slow, and one of the worst pains you can imagine. The healing process itself is a bitch, but it’s best done because Ronaldo, as I said, is a runner.
And now he won’t be able to run.
Or possibly breathe.
I haven’t decided which one serves our purposes.
We were paid to put the fear of God into Ronaldo, and once he has paid, we will kill him. He just doesn’t know that bit of information yet.
But sometimes, just sometimes, we slip and kill them sooner. Well, I wouldn’t say slip, considering we don’t fuck up. It’s not in our nature to do that. It really depends on what mood I am in. And right now, as I lift the knife and look at the crimson blood that stains it, I wonder if it’s Ronaldo’s time as well.
Should he die tonight, like the scum he is on the dirty cement ground?
Or maybe another day?
