What the heck. First time I've had a shot at writing, so be nice!

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New York dockland, 1934
Some people are born lucky; others believe they are until their luck runs out. It’s a simple truth, and until this evening I was tempted to place myself in the first category. Right now the shotgun pointed at my face is doing it’s best to dissuade me from that particular thought.

Where did it all go wrong?

It’s a pretty run down city and has been for some time. Unemployment is at an all-time high; you can’t blame a guy for looking for a less orthodox career, not if he’s got a wife and kids to feed. An old friend from my passage to the States got me into contact with Doherty. Yeah, you’ve probably heard about him. My skills proved valuable in his line of work, and as he grew more powerful so did my reputation.

Yesterday I’d been working for the guy for a little over eight years, and as such I tended to get the juicy jobs; you know, the kind with a high payoff but which can just as easily blow up in your face. See where the luck comes in? Mine had held for a long time, from the humble beginnings right through the war with the Sicilians, during which Doherty established his dominance over this part of town.

Sitting in Doherty’s comfortable office, situated above the noisy bar where he had started out, he explained my next job. Word was a group of punks were planning to raid one of our liquor warehouses, and he wanted to show them just how dumb that idea was. Doherty also figured it was about time his son got a piece of the action. Mickey was a good kid with plenty of guts, but the job ahead wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. He’d need someone to protect him, someone his father could trust to keep an eye out for him. That’s where I came in. We were to meet up with two guys at the warehouse; they’d be setting up the place for an ambush. Could be fun.

Later in the evening Mickey and I set off. It looked to be a rainy night, with ominous clouds moving over the opposite bank of the river. By the time we got to the docks a cold wind was picking up. We parked a short distance away from the warehouse. As we got out of the car we checked our guns and buttoned our coats. “You dealt with these bastards before?” Mickey asked. “Yeah.” What else was there to say? Doherty had been involved in a long running feud with these goons a couple of years back, and I’d put a number on their backs. Just a small-time gang with big plans.

Silently we walked towards the warehouse, a light rain forming pools along the barely illuminated street. Mickey’s round face was settling into a frown, his bushy eyebrows lowering over his thoughtful eyes. It wasn’t an easy thing, knowing you were going to kill people. At least, not the first time. I figured he’d get used to it.

Two blocks away we turned into an alley and headed towards the docks. By now the rain was pelting down making visibility tough. We hurried along the darkening river, seeking shelter from the blinding rain. Mickey got to the warehouse and looked for through a window. “Lights are out” he muttered. Good. At least those two guys weren’t idiots.

Moving through the crates scattered around the docks we found an emergency exit. Mickey loitered near the only working light along the wall. “Wait here.” I said as I turned the handle. The comparative warmth inside was comforting after the chilling weather outside. Just as I was getting ready to let Mickey in I stopped in my tracks. Ahead, behind a pile of crates two feet were visible. Blood was slowly forming a pool around the corpse of one of the men we were supposed to meet. Instantly the old instincts kicked in, and I jumped through a window to my left. At that moment the ambush was sprung, and a hail of bullets passed through the air my body had occupied moments ago.

Bleeding from numerous cuts I rolled out from the debris and ran through the alley towards the river. Diving behind some crates I glanced at the place where I’d left Mickey. The wall near the light was smeared with blood, beneath which Mickey lay slumped against the brickwork with a gaping hole in his head, his chest a mass of bloody bullet wounds. “Shit” I muttered. Doherty would need to be told. Suddenly shouts rang out; I’d been spotted. A silhouette of a man holding a gun appeared on the roof of the warehouse. As a flash of lightning illuminated the figure I aimed and shot twice. The first bullet entered his shoulder, putting off his aim; the second bullet went through his forehead, killing him.

The attackers fired on my position, driving wooden splinters from the crate into my forearm. Time to go. As I ran back through the alley a figure appeared at the end. Knowing the futility of my action I raised my pistol, but there was never a chance. It all seemed to happen so slowly: the firing of his pistol briefly illuminated the alley while the bullet entered to the right of my stomach; all feeling left my legs, causing me to stumble and fall; the ground slowly rising towards me, the sickening impact with harsh asphalt. As I rolled over I was greeted with the distinctly unpleasant sight of a shotgun pointed straight at my face.

So here I am. Not the way I was hoping to go, but these things happen. With rain still pelting down on my face I look up at the gunman. He stares back down at me with unmoving grey eyes. He’s seen it before, just as I have. A quick nod, one professional to another, and he raises the weapon. Then it all ends.



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