The following day I awoke exceptionally late. It was almost noon, and I needed to be planning out my day, my strategy, and technique for the night. I didn’t want the job to go even a smidge off plan. I knew if Franklin was going to allow me to take some time off, everything had to be perfect. Jeff Hooker was expected to receive the item at 7:45pm that evening in a local bar, where he would order one drink- a Manhattan- then wait seventeen minutes before exiting the establishment. After which he would go straight home. At that time, I would ensure that he had no other occupants inside of his house and proceed to acquire the jump drive.
I contemplated my approach to Franklin’s requirement of excessive violence without the extremity of death. I looked in the fridge and saw my gun. I could take it as a precaution but it would likely prove unhelpful, or more likely, put me in more danger. I opted to leave it behind. I glanced around my apartment, wondering what I should take. Nothing spoke to me. Knives? No, too bloody. Bat? No, too bulky and no one walks around with a bat. Tire iron? Closer, but too cliché. Also, people don’t walk around with tire irons and no car.
Twenty minutes later I found myself peering through the glass cases at the pawn shop down the street. They knew me well for my taste in various weapons and were always thankful for my business.
“Dani! What can I help you with today?” came the voice of Eli, the manager of the shop.
“Hey, Eli. I’m looking for something specific,” I said, glancing around.
“Let me guess, some sort of weapon?” he asked. I grinned and nodded my head.
“How did you know?”
“You’re one of my best customers. I never forget you or your tastes.” Eli said, “Oh, I know!”
He shuffled away into the back of the store. Eli was a stout man, who walked around with a subtle waddle. He was so obese he could barely squeeze between the counters of the Pawn Shop and had short, thick, coarse hair that always seemed unwashed. I suspected he was older than he looked but he was always clean shaven, had a baby face, and double chin, but no wrinkles. I wasn’t sure about the content of his character, but he was useful enough for my needs at the pawn shop.
“Here we go!” he exclaimed, setting a glass case down on the counter with a gorgeous knife displayed inside.
“Holy shit! What is that?” I said, gazing down at the knife.
“That, my friend, is a Jackal, and it could cut the guts out of anything. An enemy a friend,” he said, waving his hand about in the air with casualness.
The knife almost looked ancient. It had strong curves and sharp points throughout the blade. The handle was black and curved inward at the back end.
“How much?” I asked.
“Three hundred and fifty dollars for anyone else, for you though, three-hundred- for today.” He said.
I glanced down at a small, white price tag, half peeled off of the casing that appeared to read: $250.00. “You know what, Eli, I love it, but this is not quite what I’m in the market for today.”
“No? Okay, okay, what are you looking for? A gun? Grenade? Sword? Mace?”
“Not quite. I was kind of thinking did you just say you have grenades?” I asked.
“No,” Eli replied, bewildered, and then gave a long dramatic wink.
“Ohhh, okay. Well I was looking for something to just beat someone senseless. You know, inflict maximum damage, minimal blood, easy to carry, packs a punch, yet concealable. You got anything like that?”
“I think I know exactly what you need,” Eli said, pointing his finger up in the air. He rummaged through some things around the shop and returned to the counter, “How ‘bout this?”
He placed a foot-long metal rod down on the counter.
“This?” I asked, picking it up. It sure had some weight to it, about five pounds. This would be perfect, but it was too short. I needed a little more reach.
“Girl, you need to extend it. Here,” he said, reaching for it. I placed it in his hands. He held it in his right and whipped it down to his side. As he did, a metal rod extended from it, making it just under three feet long.
“Fuck yes!” I said, wide eyed, “Let me try.”
He handed it back to me and I flung it around a few times.
“This is perfect. What do I owe ya?” I asked.
“Uhhhh, seventy-five,” he said, looking to the ceiling, as if he was calculating it in his mind.
“Eli, sometimes I feel like you just make the prices up as you go.”
“Ha ha, I do!” he said, “Good for business.”
I paid him the money and exited the store with my new toy.
As day turned to night, I prepared to leave. Fully dressed, I looked like a typical criminal, ready to rob someone. I review my plan over and over, making sure there was no detail I had missed. At seven, I headed toward the bar. The bar was on 9th and Main, just a few blocks down from Roots. I walked into Zaptap, noticing it was the most hole in the wall bar you could possibly find downtown. As the door closed behind me, the four people seated at the bar all turned in my direction to see who had come in, then quickly returned to the drinks. The whole bar was about twenty feet wide, A bar on one side and dark booths with dividers to the ceiling on the other side. I made my way to a booth quickly and sat down. Not even five seconds later, someone arrived to take my order.
“Club soda, please,” I said.
I sank deep in the booth, as to have a decent view but remain unnoticed. I glanced at the bar and looked for Mr. Hooker. I heard the door behind me slam and realized someone must have just walked in the door. I waited for them to pass me to survey them, rather than turning around. Sure enough, it was Mr. Hooker.
He looked tired as he trudged to the counter. He was a tall man in his forties, forty-one to be exact. His hair was graying and he had a salt and pepper look about him. He wore a long tan jacket with a gray suit underneath. Other than his graying hair, he seemed to be aging well, though he had bags under his eyes that added years to his appearance. The bartender approached him and he ordered a Manhattan. 7:27.
I sipped my soda, as I watched him discreetly. He kept to himself. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a small metal case. It housed two small razor blades. I lifted one and ran my thumb across it gently and waited. One drop of blood emerged, then it quickly closed up. I sighed in relief. My Mortal Night had not yet come. Perhaps I could complete the job without actually getting my hands dirty.
Several minutes later, at 7:45, a man appeared from the back and sat next to Mr. Hooker. I tried to get an angle to see if I could recognize him but was unable. The man placed an order, slipped something into Mr. Hooker’s pocket, and then immediately left out the back. I leaned toward the aisle to see if I could get a look at him as he left. As I attempted to get a look, a waitress walked up and placed a beer in front of me.
“Oh, I didn’t order that,” I said, putting my hand up, still trying to catch a last glimpse.
“The man who just left bought it for you. He said to tell you, you should take the night off,” she said, and walked away.
I became immediately nervous that I had been noticed. Did someone know what I was up to? I glanced down at the beer. Well, best not let it go to waste. I sipped it slowly, as not to affect my state of mind.
8:02 p.m.
Jeff Hooker rose from his seat to leave. Right on time. I pulled out my phone and texted Franklin: Received Delivery. Heading home.
I waited fifteen minutes before exiting myself. Franklin had a car waiting to take me to my destination: Jeff Hooker’s house. I rode in the back seat in silence and the driver dropped me off a block from his condo. He was on the top floor. I walked up to the condo entrance and buzzed another resident that knew Franklin, who immediately buzzed me in. I proceeded to the elevator and made my way to the top floor. When I arrived to the top, I rounded a corner from Jeff Hooker’s front door, to temporarily conceal myself. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the blade once more. I drug it with just enough pr
essure across my thumb. Blood dripped from it. It continued dripping. I sighed in disappointment. To have my shadow take on this endeavor would have been a relief. It was easy, clear, and guilt-free. I tried my trigger word, hoping it would work, but nothing happened.
“Looks like it’s going to be the old-fashioned way,” I said to myself. I pulled my gloves from my pocket and slid them on, pulled a bandana to my face and walked down the hall.
I put my ear to the door to ensure there were no other occupants. Silence. I precisely slid the key into the lock and turned it. The lock gave no resistance, it had already been unlocked.
I gripped the doorknob and turned it slowly. Once it was fully rotated, I pushed the door open. The entryway had no occupants. I closed the door behind me. I tiptoed down the hallway, baton in hand. I glanced into the kitchen, it was empty and dark. I continued down the hall passing a bathroom and a bedroom. I made my way to the portion of the condo where everything opened up. The living room sprawled out over a thousand square feet, a wall of windows on one side, displaying a breathtaking view of the skyline, and in the middle, a fireplace with a fire burning. It was the only light in the room, apart from a small lamp next to a chair by the fire.
There sat Jeff Hooker. He sat there, glass of whiskey next to him, reading a book.
“Right on time,” he said, without looking up.
I sidestepped four times to face him, yet keep my distance. If he knew I was coming, he could have been prepared for my arrival. I looked for a gun or weapon.
“Law said you would come.”
“How does Law know what I’m up to?” I asked.
Jeff lowered his book and glanced at me, “Law knows what everyone is always doing, Danielle.”
“I see.”
“You should have taken the night off.”
“I have a job to do.”
“So I hear,” he said, pulling the jump drive from his pocket, holding it out to me. “You’re here for this, right?”
“I am.” I replied, thinking this was too easy and unusual. He tossed it across the room towards me. I bent down, picked it up, and shoved it into my pocket.
“I’m guessing that’s not all you were sent here to do?” he said.
“No.”
“Franklin order you to kill me?”
“Not quite,” I replied, feeling a rush of guilt setting in.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my drink,” he requested.
“Okay.”
He gazed at the fire as he sipped his drink. It was unnerving to see someone so comfortable with their fate.
“Why aren’t you afraid?” I asked, out of the silence.
He glanced over at me and said, “I am afraid.”
“You don’t seem worried.”
“Yes, I have years of experience enduring the weight of a life or lives hanging in the palm of my hand. You make a mistake or say one wrong thing or use the wrong emphasis on the wrong word, and a murderer or rapist could run free, because you created that doubt in the eyes of the jury, because you expressed the doubt that is within yourself. I have simply learned to hide that fear.”
“But you don’t always get it right.”
“No, not always. Sometimes we lose and the bad guys run free.”
“Or someone who isn’t responsible for a crime takes the fall and you let it happen.”
He squinted his eyes at me, “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“What do you mean?”
“That case gave us all a boost in our rise to power, but power was never why I became a lawyer. I believed in the justice system, I still do. However, I can’t lie and say that I didn’t know what Franklin had done and what we all helped him do. Now, I’m ready to make it right, and I know it will be to my demise. I cannot say I deserve anything less.”
“Well, that’s between you and Franklin. I’m just a messenger,” I replied. I snapped my wrist, extending the baton, then strode over to Jeff. He straightened his posture. I swung hard at his left hand, the one holding the remains of his drink. The baton cracked hard against the glass and his hand, shattering both. The blow sent the glass cascading across the room. Jeff yelped in pain as he clutched his hand and drew it to his chest. He hunched over, and I swung again and struck his shoulder blade, causing him to fall from his chair and onto the white rug on the floor. He curled up in a fetal position, covering his head. I had no intention of making any cranial blows; it was too dangerous to risk causing a fatal injury. At least I wouldn’t use the baton for such things. I swung down and hit his legs multiple times. The action invoked thuds and cracks, as well as painful screams from Jeff. It reminded me of William, except William had more than deserved what he got. I struck him on his back four times, breaking various bones. I knew I was taking the beating too far, but I wanted to cover all of my bases.
He cried and moaned as quietly as he could. There is something so disgusting yet satisfying about making a man feel so much pain that he cries like a child. It’s not common, but after seeing it once, it is like realizing that they are, in fact, not superior. I kicked Jeff several times in his stomach and groin. What can I say, I lost a little self-control and smacked him once, not too hard, in the face with the baton. This busted his nose open, and he began to bleed on his beautiful rug. What a shame.
Jeff took a beating quite well. Not once did he ask me to stop. Not once did he plea for mercy. I could tell he really did feel like he deserved what was happening to him. I felt my phone buzz. I walked over to Jeff’s end table with his bottle of whiskey and took a drink straight from it. As I did, I pulled out my phone and read the text. It was from Franklin: That’s enough.
I glanced around, thinking Franklin must be watching from afar. I swallowed the whiskey in my mouth, shoved my phone back into my pocket, then knelt down next to Jeff.
“That is very good whiskey you have,” I poked him in the chest with the baton to ensure he was alive. He grunted and groaned in compliance.
“That’s a five thousand dollar bottle of Scotch,” he replied in one breath, expelling small droplets of blood from his nose.
“Oh, it’s not whiskey?” I replied, confused.
Jeff half laughed as he tried to glance up at me with one eye from the floor, “Scotch is a type of whiskey.”
“Ah,” I said, rising to my feet again, “Learn something new every day. I’m sorry for dragging this out, but I’m almost done.”
I kicked Jeff twice in the stomach, causing him to curl up again. I struck him twice more on his back, four more times on his legs, and just once more, a kick to his face. I could not imagine the amount of pain Jeff was in, but at the time I also didn’t care. I was enjoying the process of beating someone with time allotted to be meticulous. No cops, no interruptions. However, if I stayed any longer, I would likely accidently leave Jeff there dead, which was something Franklin specifically told me not to do.
I glanced down at Jeff, as he seemed to know his beating was over. I placed his cell phone next to him.
“Wait ten minutes before calling for assistance,” I told him. He nodded his head.
I quietly exited his apartment, took the elevator down, and walked out the front door of the building. I took in the cold night air, thoroughly satisfied with myself. A smirk rose on my face. I had an epiphany in that moment.
It took a Mortal Night for me to realize. My shadow wasn’t a demon or affliction to me. It didn’t have a mind of its own. It was part of me. That darkness came from within. I could not blame anything on it without blaming myself. I enjoyed the terrible things it did, the terrible things I did. There was no denying that after tonight.
As I tried to process this theory in my mind, a familiar sound crept up in the distance. Sirens. Already? It had been a mere two minutes. Stupid Jeff. I darted down an alleyway to the checkpoint for the drop off with Caro. I was instructed to meet her behind Roots and give her the drive. I raced through alley after alley. Stopping to catch my
breath, I heard my phone buzz. It was Caro: Hurry.
As if I wasn’t already in a hurry, I continued two more blocks to our meeting location. She was already there. I rushed up to her.
“Do you have it?” she asked, with her hand out.
“Yeah, here,” I shoved the drive into her hand as I hunched over catching my breath.
“You took longer than you were supposed to.”
“Yeah? Well, now I have the damn cops after me.”
“They’ll find you soon enough,” Caro said, pulling out her gun.
“Yeah, I picked a good time for a vacation.”
“Yeah, you did,” Caro said.
Caro whipped around and pointed the gun at my chest.
“Don’t play, Caro, it’s a Mortal Night.” I said, rolling my eyes.
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said. As the words escaped her lips, I knew her intentions. I reached over with my right hand, and smashed down on the front of the gun, just as she pulled the trigger.
I felt warmth in my abdomen, where the bullet entered. I looked up with betrayal at Caro. She quickly pulled the barrel up to my head to fire another shot.
I closed my eyes. I heard a hollow whoosh, then a crack that sounded like metal against metal. I heard a hard thud as the gun hit the ground. I opened my eyes to see Caro attempting to pick up the gun. As she reached for it, she received a hard smack across the face from a metal rod of some sort that knocked her onto the pavement.
I looked over to see a hooded figure with a wooden stick in hand, about five-feet long. The figure ran over and picked up Caro’s gun and pointed it at her.
“It’s time for you to leave,” came a male voice from underneath the hood.
With fear and gratitude in her eyes, she stumbled to her feet. She glanced over at me quickly, “I’m sorry, Danielle,” then she took off in a sprint down the alleyway.
I fell back onto the pavement as blood came gushing out of my abdomen. It was painful to put pressure on it, but I tried. There was just so much blood, I could barely locate where it was coming from.
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