Page 2 of Azrael

I shoved him forward and drew my own weapon from inside my cut.My first shot got the farthest man in the throat.He dropped his gun and clutched at the sudden fountain of blood, eyes bulging in shock.He’d be dead shortly after he hit the ground.

The third man emptied his clip at me, but panic made him sloppy.I felt one bullet tug at my jeans, but it didn’t bite into my flesh.When his gun clicked empty, his face went slack.

“Wait --” he started, fumbling for another magazine.

I crossed the distance in three strides and drove my fist into his face.Cartilage crunched under my knuckles.Blood sprayed from his shattered nose.He stumbled back against the wall, ammo forgotten.I hit him again, this time in the gut.As he doubled over, I brought my knee up into his face.More crunching.More blood.

My target was trying to crawl away, leaving a dark trail behind him.The one I’d shot in the throat had stopped moving, eyes fixed on nothing.The third man slid down the wall, consciousness fading as blood poured from his ruined face.

I turned back to my target.“Where’s the Minions’ President?Or your boss.Who the fuck do you answer to?”

“Please,” he gasped.“I got kids.”

“So do a lot of people.Answer my fucking question.”

“Strip club… Velvet something.My boss is there most nights, same for their President.”

I nodded.Information secured.Now for the message.

I pulled my knife from its sheath.The blade caught what little light penetrated the alley, gleaming darkly.My target’s eyes fixed on it.

“No, man.Please.I told you what you wanted.”

“You did,” I agreed.“And I appreciate that.But a message needs sending.”

I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back, then dragged my blade in one smooth motion across his throat.Hot blood spilled over my hand and down my wrist.He made a horrible gurgling sound as he tried to breathe through the new opening in his neck.

The third man had regained enough awareness to see what was happening.He tried to scramble away, but his legs weren’t working right.I walked to him calmly, knife still dripping.

“I’ll tell the Pres,” he pleaded, hands up.

“You won’t be telling anyone anything,” I said, and drove the knife up under his ribs.Once.Twice.A third time.His body jerked, then went still.

I wiped my blade on his shirt before returning it to its sheath.The alley had gone quiet except for the distant sounds of traffic and my own breathing.I checked the duffel bag, confirming what I’d seen.High-quality weapons, not the cheap shit usually found in street deals.The Devil’s Minions were serious about arming up.

I zipped the bag closed and slung it over my shoulder.Evidence secured.Message delivered.And hell, we got some new toys free of charge out of the deal.Not bad.

Blood was already drying tacky on my hands as I walked away from the carnage.I felt nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done.This city had enough problems without a one percent club trying to muscle in.Sometimes cleaning required getting your hands dirty.

I left the alley the same way I’d entered, invisible to anyone who might be watching.Just another shadow moving through a city full of them.But unlike most shadows, I left something behind.Something that would make the Minions understand exactly what happened when you tried to set up shop in Devil’s Boneyard territory.

A warning written in blood.

I secured the weapons to the back of my bike and then hauled ass back toward home.But I needed to clean up before I hit the more respectable side of town.I pulled into the Gas-N-Go at the edge of what could only be considered the ghetto.It was the kind of place where the security cameras had been broken for years and nobody cared enough to fix them.Perfect.

The neon sign flickered pathetically, casting sickly blue light across my bloodstained knuckles.I parked around back, away from the single streetlight.The bathroom key hung on a piece of splintered wood labeled “RESTROOM” in faded black marker.The attendant barely looked up from his phone as I dropped a twenty on the counter.He pocketed it without a word.No questions.That’s why I came here.

The bathroom door protested with a screech as I pushed it open.The stench hit me immediately -- bleach barely covering the reek of piss and something worse.One bulb dangled from the ceiling, threatening to plunge the room into darkness at any moment.The tile floor might have been white once, decades ago.Now it was a patchwork of stained gray squares, cracked and broken in spots.

I locked the door behind me.The mirror, spotted with age and what looked like old toothpaste flecks, fractured my reflection into disconnected pieces.Blood had dried in the creases of my knuckles and under my fingernails.More had splattered across my forearms.A few drops darkened the front of my shirt.

I turned the hot water tap.It groaned and sputtered before a weak stream emerged, lukewarm at best.I squirted some pink soap from the dispenser into my palm and began the methodical process of washing away the evidence.

Pink foam turned red as I scrubbed, the water swirling crimson down the drain.Three men dead in an alley.Three lives ended by my hand.I should have felt something -- regret, guilt, horror at what I’d done.Instead, I felt the same calm I always did after a job.The blood washing away felt like cleansing, not just my hands but the town itself.

The Devil’s Minions were cancer, spreading through neighboring towns and now trying to infect ours.They’d started with drugs, then guns.Girls would be next.Always was.I’d seen enough clubs go down that road to know the pattern.First you supply the town with its vices, then you own the town.

Not here.Not while the Devil’s Boneyard stood watch.

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