M
m3m1
Guest
Tim felt for the knife hanging from his belt loop. His rifle was hung on a strap over his shoulder. He eyed the dirt track carefully, looking for the slightest sign of movement. He was primed to kill.
Tim was in his late twenties, with short black hair. He was slim but well-built; he needed to be. He was a hardman, a professional killer. He considered his body as a weapon and he took care of it.
Tim liked killing. It got him off. He'd found that while the commando training he'd received in the armed forces was of great help to him, the discipline needed to follow orders wasn't there. So he and a few like-minded friends set themselves up as mercs for hire, doing anything from sentry duty to full- blown hits.
Tonight was sentry duty. He was guarding the main pathway into a compound. He didn't know who was in the compound or why. He didn't need to. All he got--and all he needed--was the instruction to kill anyone who came too close.
He knew Dan was on the north side of the compound. Joey was to the east and Dave to the west. Between the four of them, it would be nearly impossible for anyone to enter unobserved.
The only problem with a job like this, Tim reflected, was that it was boring. His senses were highly tuned with a killer's instinct, but the cold wind made a lot of noise in the trees. Hard to tell if there was anything there or not. But one slip could mean his death; he needed to be on his toes.
He turned up the collar on his leather jacket, put his back to the wind and fished his cigarettes out the pocket of his tight blue jeans. He scuffed his hiking boots on the gravel, idly kicking stones as he focused on lighting his smoke in the wind.
Tim kept his back to the wind as he took a drag off his smoke. He didn't hear the faint crunching sound of boots on gravel behind him.
Tim's first clue that something was wrong was searing pain in his back. At the same time, a hand clamped over his mouth. The smell of the hot leather glove reached his nose as fingers and thumb dug viciously into his face.
Oh fuck I'm dead, he thought. He was right; he'd let down his guard for a split second, but that was all that was needed. He felt a blade slashing through him; he had no way of knowing that his kidney had been mangled. There was only the blast of pain. Tim felt impaled, like his whole muscular body hung helplessly on that single point of agony in his back.
It all happened in the blink of an eye. Tim rose on the tip of his boots as the knife twisted in his back. The pain was unbearable but his scream was muffled to a moan by the hand over his mouth. There was another agonizing slash and the knife was gone.
Tim trembled in shock. He felt himself pressed back against his assailant, felt the broad chest muscles of the man who was killing him—who was better at his job than he was.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tim watched in horror as the huge knife was brought up for the death blow. The blade whipped around and plunged into the left side of his chest.
In the last seconds of his life, Tim experienced pain he hadn't known existed. He'd killed men before in this same way but never expected it to happen to himself.
He sank to his knees as his killer moved away. Terrified, he watched the smoke from his last drag of the cigarette expelled through the gaping hole in his chest as his lung collapsed. He tried to breathe but his ruptured heart was no longer pumping blood.
As his awareness faded to a pinpoint of light in a vast world of pain, Tim fell forward and died with his face in the dirt. Blood smeared the front of his black leather jacket as his boots jerked in the gravel. His killer was long gone, already locking the next guard in for the kill.
Joey was ex-marine and looked it. His strawberry-blond hair was buzz-cut. He liked fatigues and wore an olive green jacket over his khaki t-shirt. His camo pants were tucked into black combat boots.
Joey was about twenty-eight, but his face was cold and hard. He liked torture and was known for the speed with which he could extract info from an unwilling subject. But Joey liked situations where he could keep going after he'd gotten the info. Regardless, no one left his hands alive, and it showed in his face.
Like Tim, Joey had a cigarette. He zipped his jacket three-quarters of the way up his chest and turned into the wind, thinking he'd heard something. As he took a drag, his flinty eyes scanned the tree line.
When the attack came, it was devastating. Joey was good, but not good enough. It happened so quickly that shock set in before he was able to process the sensations. He'd just taken the cigarette from his lips when he was crushed in an iron grip. He was only held for a few seconds, but it was long enough for a seven-inch steel blade to punch through his throat from right to left.
"Gack! Haaahhhh..." moaned the ex-marine, his vocal cords severed by the knife. The blade twisted brutally in the wound, slicing the punk's larynx and cutting his esophagus to hamburger. Then the knife was yanked out and Joey was free--and alone. His killer had moved on.
He staggered forward, hands frantically clutching his throat, screaming continually. The only sound he could make was a long gurgling exhale. Joey knew exactly what had happened; he knew that his neck had been gutted to ensure his quick and silent death.
The hardman sank to his knees and his blood pressure dropped. He coughed and gagged on the coppery blood in his mouth. Terror flooded his mind. Oh dude, I'm fucked, oh god no...
Like Tim before him, Joey face-planted. He spent his last seconds on earth hacking up the blood he was inhaling, straining his last moment of consciousness to breathe as his body went cold and the world faded into a gray haze. For fuck's sake breathe please god one more breath one more--
Joey lost the fight and slid into death. His combat boots twitched, digging furrows in the dirt as blood continued to seep from his mouth.
Dan was next up.
Tim was in his late twenties, with short black hair. He was slim but well-built; he needed to be. He was a hardman, a professional killer. He considered his body as a weapon and he took care of it.
Tim liked killing. It got him off. He'd found that while the commando training he'd received in the armed forces was of great help to him, the discipline needed to follow orders wasn't there. So he and a few like-minded friends set themselves up as mercs for hire, doing anything from sentry duty to full- blown hits.
Tonight was sentry duty. He was guarding the main pathway into a compound. He didn't know who was in the compound or why. He didn't need to. All he got--and all he needed--was the instruction to kill anyone who came too close.
He knew Dan was on the north side of the compound. Joey was to the east and Dave to the west. Between the four of them, it would be nearly impossible for anyone to enter unobserved.
The only problem with a job like this, Tim reflected, was that it was boring. His senses were highly tuned with a killer's instinct, but the cold wind made a lot of noise in the trees. Hard to tell if there was anything there or not. But one slip could mean his death; he needed to be on his toes.
He turned up the collar on his leather jacket, put his back to the wind and fished his cigarettes out the pocket of his tight blue jeans. He scuffed his hiking boots on the gravel, idly kicking stones as he focused on lighting his smoke in the wind.
Tim kept his back to the wind as he took a drag off his smoke. He didn't hear the faint crunching sound of boots on gravel behind him.
Tim's first clue that something was wrong was searing pain in his back. At the same time, a hand clamped over his mouth. The smell of the hot leather glove reached his nose as fingers and thumb dug viciously into his face.
Oh fuck I'm dead, he thought. He was right; he'd let down his guard for a split second, but that was all that was needed. He felt a blade slashing through him; he had no way of knowing that his kidney had been mangled. There was only the blast of pain. Tim felt impaled, like his whole muscular body hung helplessly on that single point of agony in his back.
It all happened in the blink of an eye. Tim rose on the tip of his boots as the knife twisted in his back. The pain was unbearable but his scream was muffled to a moan by the hand over his mouth. There was another agonizing slash and the knife was gone.
Tim trembled in shock. He felt himself pressed back against his assailant, felt the broad chest muscles of the man who was killing him—who was better at his job than he was.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tim watched in horror as the huge knife was brought up for the death blow. The blade whipped around and plunged into the left side of his chest.
In the last seconds of his life, Tim experienced pain he hadn't known existed. He'd killed men before in this same way but never expected it to happen to himself.
He sank to his knees as his killer moved away. Terrified, he watched the smoke from his last drag of the cigarette expelled through the gaping hole in his chest as his lung collapsed. He tried to breathe but his ruptured heart was no longer pumping blood.
As his awareness faded to a pinpoint of light in a vast world of pain, Tim fell forward and died with his face in the dirt. Blood smeared the front of his black leather jacket as his boots jerked in the gravel. His killer was long gone, already locking the next guard in for the kill.
Joey was ex-marine and looked it. His strawberry-blond hair was buzz-cut. He liked fatigues and wore an olive green jacket over his khaki t-shirt. His camo pants were tucked into black combat boots.
Joey was about twenty-eight, but his face was cold and hard. He liked torture and was known for the speed with which he could extract info from an unwilling subject. But Joey liked situations where he could keep going after he'd gotten the info. Regardless, no one left his hands alive, and it showed in his face.
Like Tim, Joey had a cigarette. He zipped his jacket three-quarters of the way up his chest and turned into the wind, thinking he'd heard something. As he took a drag, his flinty eyes scanned the tree line.
When the attack came, it was devastating. Joey was good, but not good enough. It happened so quickly that shock set in before he was able to process the sensations. He'd just taken the cigarette from his lips when he was crushed in an iron grip. He was only held for a few seconds, but it was long enough for a seven-inch steel blade to punch through his throat from right to left.
"Gack! Haaahhhh..." moaned the ex-marine, his vocal cords severed by the knife. The blade twisted brutally in the wound, slicing the punk's larynx and cutting his esophagus to hamburger. Then the knife was yanked out and Joey was free--and alone. His killer had moved on.
He staggered forward, hands frantically clutching his throat, screaming continually. The only sound he could make was a long gurgling exhale. Joey knew exactly what had happened; he knew that his neck had been gutted to ensure his quick and silent death.
The hardman sank to his knees and his blood pressure dropped. He coughed and gagged on the coppery blood in his mouth. Terror flooded his mind. Oh dude, I'm fucked, oh god no...
Like Tim before him, Joey face-planted. He spent his last seconds on earth hacking up the blood he was inhaling, straining his last moment of consciousness to breathe as his body went cold and the world faded into a gray haze. For fuck's sake breathe please god one more breath one more--
Joey lost the fight and slid into death. His combat boots twitched, digging furrows in the dirt as blood continued to seep from his mouth.
Dan was next up.
Thanks, guys!
Good! That's why I write!