Well.... I put some bits and pieces together and decided to write something more proper. Slightly longer too. Please, criticise. I know this is not in its best shape, but I can't save anything on the machine I'm on (damn virtual HDs :furious3: ) so I post it here and polish it later when I get the chance.
I appreciate critics, so please if you have anything to contribute speak up!
Intro: the Highway
The highway was smooth, black, and endless, getting lost in the night, with the occasional car going the opposite way, long lights turned off as soon as the driver realised there was another car on the road. It was 1:24 am.
I was staring into the darkness with the SMG prepared - safety on – sitting in my lap. The highway was almost empty, the ride smooth and fast. You wouldn’t really notice anyway, because the darkness outside was total. From time to time, a farm in the distance would get my attention – a bright dot in the middle of a black canvas.
There were two other men in the car, both as silent as myself, staring into the night.
To have gone through Kosovo, Gaza, Somalia and Beirut to end up here, I thought. Life is unpredictable. This was one of the most lucrative contracts I signed, and the plan was almost foolproof. In the past I would have been wary of almost-foolproof plans, but I would be paid regardless of the end result this time. If the plan was successful, of course, there was a bonus. A third of the price.
The black Volvo smoothly raced down the road, swiftly approaching our target.
The driver had finished his cigarette. He turned around to stare at the back seat. “So what’ll you do with your share, Wayne?” he asked in a strong Edinburgh accent.
Wayne barely moved. He was from London, and the brain of the operation. “Buy a house.” He said. “Get married, have kids, settle down”. If you didn’t know him you’d think he is serious. I guess I would have to describe him first. Wayne is tall, around 6’1’’, bald – he shaves his head – and wears glasses. He also has blue eyes, a square jaw, flexible morals, Philippine tattoos on his upper arms and a belly he has been trying to lose since a doctor told him his cholesterol was dangerously high. He’s been married about a dozen times. Depending on the source you could get a number between nine and fourteen, and all of his wives were Philippine. The man has a weakness for Asian women.
Rumour has it that he has finished college, and that he lived in Hong-Kong apart from Manila, and that he was thrown out from Manila for some job too dirty even for that part of the world. Only God knows how he appeared in England again.
James, the driver, on the other hand, is shorter, not even 6 foot, and has short black hair, a scar across his upper lip, heavy shoulders and an amount of aggression that seems disproportionate in a man with that accent. He had been in the Army, and had been discharged following an incident in which he beat a prisoner to death. He has denied it always, but after getting to know him a little, the story seems to me likely enough.
James stared at Wayne for a second before concluding that he was joking, and smiled, cynical, with that scar of his making the smile a sort of disturbing grin. “Yeah, right” he said.
“Watch the road.” Wayne added, and I resumed my contemplation of the darkness outside. James turned to the road.
I looked at my watch again. About 180 miles to target now. I had learned to wait years ago. Patience is a virtue many people don’t appreciate. Or possess.
My reflection in the glass was anything but flattering. Steely gray hair, the skin around the black eyes wrinkled from the sun, the weather and the experience, a two day stubble, heavy jaw, and a straight roman nose.
The mere improbability of the situation kept turning around in my mind. Here we were, three tough guys, all of us with dead people on our consciences, driving down this highway like hitmen from the Mob. I remembered Wayne’s words the day we met, in Gibraltar, on a sunny Mediterranean morning to discuss the hit he contacted me for.
“We are going to kill a horse.” He said.
