Page 2 of Dirty Hit
There’s a brief pause. I imagine him nodding on the other end, though I can’t see it. “Be there in ten, mate.”
The line clicks dead. I remove the battery from the phone immediately, snap the SIM card in half, and drop both pieces into separate pockets. Those will go into different trash bins, miles apart, before the night is over.
I kneel again and begin cleaning the surrounding area. Hydrogen peroxide from a spray bottle. A cloth. Careful attention to detail. I work in widening circles, eliminating evidence of struggle. I double-check corners and check beneath my shoes. Blood has a way of hiding in places you don’t expect. I’ve learned that the hard way.
I stand and strip off the outer layer I wore over my clothes, stuffing it into another bag. Now, I’m clean—dark jeans, black boots, a plain shirt, and a leather jacket. If someone passed me on the street, they’d see nothing unusual.
I slide the backpack onto my shoulders, making sure the weight is balanced. I take one last look around the room.
There’s no sign of what happened except for the wrapped body waiting in the corner.
I step outside into the cool night air. The sky is dark, the city lights faint in the distance. I walk toward my Ducati without rushing.
Why am I still doing this?
The question surfaces uninvited. I don’t like questions I can’t answer. I prefer certainty— structure, cause, and effect. This feels like a malfunction… But the question keeps repeating in my head, regardless.
I unzip a small compartment in my leather jacket and pull out another pair of gloves before I swing my leg over the bike and settle into the seat. The familiar weight of it beneath me grounds me more than anything that just happened inside that building.
For a moment, I don’t move. I stare straight ahead at the empty road stretching into darkness. My hands rest lightly on the handlebars. They’re clean now, no trace of what I held minutes ago.
Green eyes.
That’s what lingers. Not his name, not his voice. Just the color and the way they dulled in my grip.
I close my eyes briefly and inhale. “Wake up,” I murmur to myself. “You’re not dead.”
But it feels close enough to it.
I don’t know if I’m chasing the wrong thing or if I’ve already burned through everything that made this worth it. All I know is that tonight, holding another life in my hands, I felt closer to a corpse than he did.
And that scares me more than any sirens ever could.
Dominic
25 Years Old
Icomeoffthefieldsoaked in sweat. Cleats scrape against concrete, guys laughing and shoving each other, hyped up on the fact that we ran the drills clean today and the coaches didn’t scream as much as usual.
I love this part. I love the ache in my shoulders and the way my legs feel heavy from drills, the way the field smells torn up and raw under my cleats. This is the only place where everything in my head lines up straight.
Out here, it’s simple. You hit, or you get hit. You read the defense, or you get sacked. You win, or you bleed trying. There’s no gray. I prefer it that way.
“Volkov!” Coach Keller’s voice cuts across the field just as I’m pulling my helmet off. “Office. Now.”
A couple of the guys glance at me, eyebrows raised, but I don’t react. I hook my helmet under my arm and start walking toward the tunnel without rushing, because I already know what this is about. I’ve been dodging emails for two weeks. Academic advisor. Compliance Office. Some bullshit about midtermreports. I haven’t checked my grades because I don’t need to. I already know they’re bad.
My cleats echo against the concrete as I make my way to Coach’s office. His door is open, light spilling into the corridor. He’s standing behind his desk when I step inside, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight.
“Close the door,” he says.
I shut it behind me and lean back against it, folding my arms. “What’s up?”
He doesn’t sit. That’s how I know he’s pissed.
“What’s up?” he repeats, shaking his head. “What’s up is you’re about to flunk two classes, Volkov.”
I don’t answer right away. I just hold his gaze and let him say it.
