Page 10 of Never Distract a Biker

In the distance, a door slams shut. Footsteps approach—a rhythm I recognize. Marcus. Time seems to crawl, each second elongating into an eternity as I melt into the shadows beside Marcus's sleek sedan.

He stumbles slightly, his laughter cutting through the night like a knife. It's obnoxious, grating against my nerves, but I remain still, invisible—a predator awaiting the perfect moment to strike.He doesn't see me. He sees nothing beyond the haze of alcohol and the allure of his plush leather seats.

Come on.

I wish my target to hasten his steps as I feel the pressure of what's about to happen press against my chest. It's not excitement; it's a necessity. The world's balance requires these moments, these decisions.

And as a hitman tonight, I must maintain stability in my world.

Marcus arrives, his gait reeking of overconfidence. He always had more bravado than brains. I crouch low beside his car, my eyes narrowing to slits. My hand rests on the cold metal of the .9mm tucked in my waistband—a viper coiled and ready to strike.

I've studied his patterns for weeks—memorized them like the prayers of my youth. Marcus never checks his six and never walks around his car before opening it. That's how I know this will be easy. It's all about timing now, waiting for when the car's beeping sound signifies I can slip in.

Finally, I hear the beep and slightly open the back passenger door I’ve been crouching behind. I slide into Marcus's sleek sedan with the silence of a ghost. The scent of leather and cologne fills my nostrils as I slide into the back seat unnoticed.

He slumps into the driver's seat, half-dazed, and I feel even more justified to take him out. He is a disaster waiting to happen to other road users.

Taking a deep breath and summoning my strength, I shove three pills of pink cocaine into his mouth. In one fluid motion, my hand clamps over his nose and mouth. His eyes widen, a silent scream trapped behind my fingers, but it's too late. The drug, which does not mix well with alcohol, seeps into his system, rendering him unconscious.

"Off you go," I whisper, not out of compassion but out of professional courtesy. He crumples, his tall proud frame that was once arrogant now limp and slumped in his seat. His head lolls back, surrendering to the darkness that’s sweeping him away.

Marcus's head flops to one side, his heartbeat slowing under the grip of the drug. With gloved hands, I adjust his posture, tilting him back against the plush seat with a practiced hand. His chest rises and falls, shallow breaths that will soon cease. My movements are methodical, absent of haste or hesitation.

"Sorry, Marcus," I murmur, though he can no longer hear me. It's not an apology but a recognition of the game—we both knew the rules when we played. He never should have ratted his uncle out to the FBI.

I retrieve the syringe from my coat pocket, the needle glinting subtly in the dim light of the car. The measured plunger pulls back, drawing in just enough meth to stop a heart—no more,no less. Precision is a form of art, and I am Michelangelo with toxins.

"Good riddance," I say, a soft send-off into permanent slumber.

My hand steadies as I arrange the scene, every detail curated like a director framing his last shot. The syringe rests in his left hand, and a crumbled piece of paper containing residues of crack is beside him. A half-empty bottle tossed carelessly on the passenger seat—a narrative of loneliness and addiction crafted to perfection. I’m confident his death will be declared as self-overdose.

My work here is done.

I glide out of the car, ghost-like and unruffled, leaving behind the stillness that now envelops Marcus. The night air brushes against my skin as I walk away. I never look back; there's no need. My mind is already on my next job.

The parking lot is dark, save for the sporadic glow of streetlamps casting long shadows on the asphalt. My strides are measured, and purposeful, a silent drumbeat to the rhythm of my success. I slide behind the wheel of my car, the leather cool and familiar beneath my fingertips. The engine purrs to life, a soft growl that syncs with the steady beat of my heart. No rush, no hesitation—just the fluid motion of a plan executed with precision.

Driving through the quiet streets, the city's pulse feels like a distant echo. There’s a satisfaction that comes with knowing you've altered the course of things, unseen, unheard.

The neon sign of a 24-hour café cuts through the darkness, and the need for strong caffeine wins. The bell above the door announces my entrance, a jarring note in the otherwise muted atmosphere. I choose a booth near the window, a vantage point with a clear view of DanceCheck's pulsing lights in the distance.

"Coffee, strong and black," I tell the waiter, my voice low but firm. He nods, his movements automatic, and retreats to fulfill the simple request. I settle into the vinyl seat, the material sticking slightly to my skin. The cup arrives, steam rising in lazy swirls, the scent rich and earthy.

I wrap my hands around the warmth, a small comfort against the chill of the night. Outside, the world continues unabated, oblivious to the loss of one more person. But I know. And as I sit here, sipping slowly, there's an undercurrent of anticipation for what comes next. With Marcus out of the way, Thiago’s truckload of guns can come in without anyone tipping off the government.

The steady rhythm of sirens cuts through the hum of the early morning, and I watch red and blue lights splash against the club's façade. Police cars slide into view with a precision that speaks of urgency but lacks grace—a dance of function over form. They cordon off the scene with brisk efficiency, their movements a stark contrast to the chaos they've stepped into.

"Marcus won't be needing that VIP spot anymore," I muse under my breath, an invisible smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth.

I lean back, the vinyl squeaking softly beneath me. My heart beats steady, untroubled by the scene unfolding not too far from here. The coffee's bitterness lingers on my tongue, a fitting backdrop to the taste of victory—subtle, almost sweet in its complexity.

"Another?" The waiter's voice breaks through my reverie, his pen poised over the notepad.

"Check, please," I respond without looking up, my gaze still fixed on the scene.

He nods, dropping the bill onto the table and disappearing into the cafe's dim interior. I place a few crisp bills on the tray, enough to cover the coffee and then some. A generous tip for a night well spent.

Rising, I slide out of the booth, my movements honed by years of necessity—smooth, sure, a ghost passing through the world of men. The bell chimes once more as I depart, a soft farewell that barely registers above the murmur of conversations and clinking cutlery.

---