Alice’s footsteps echoed about the deserted corridor, the uneven tap-tap-tap of her heels creating a staccato rhythm that only added to the fuzziness and confusion she felt. Stumbling, she reached out a hand to steady herself against the wall, cursing as pain shot through her battered wrist. Christ, she was a mess – bleeding from multiple contusions and disorientated from a likely concussion, the six metres to her apartment felt more like 600. After what felt like an hour she finally reached the door and fumbling with the keys she half fell through the entrance. This was not her, it was telling of how bad that last assignment had gone. She nearly hadn’t made it out alive this time.
Reaching for the hallway light switch she reflexively made to fall to one side as a brief, bright flash of light and a muted crack startled her to action. Realising that it was just a blown bulb and feeling like a idiot, she kicked out with her left foot, slamming the front door shut behind her. She just needed to make it to the bedroom – or even the couch – so she could crash. No, actually, kitchen first. She needed a drink, something hard. Catching her reflection in the full-length mirror in the hall she grimaced. Yes, she was indeed a mess. How the hell was she going to explain this to Adam? Thank God he was out of town for a few days. Things had been getting serious between them lately and it was getting harder to keep her double life – her true life – from him. Most of the damage was superficial and the rest she could probably get away with putting down to a tumble down the apartment block stairs.
After pouring herself a generous measure of Scotch (two, actually) and mostly downing it in one swallow she pivoted and limped towards the master bedroom, flicking on the light. The crash of the Whisky tumbler shattering on the hard tile floor startled her from her frozen state. There, laying far from innocently on the blood-red sheets of her super-king size bed was a single, white rose. To anyone else, this would be a mysterious, likely romantic gesture. To someone such as Alice, it was something else. This was the calling card of Vincent Valentino. Mob-boss, crime-lord of the City of Sin. This was a sign, a warning, a promise. You are marked, it said, we know who you are, we know it was YOU. We are coming for YOU. Mind foggy from the earlier blow to her head and the whisky that had just warmed her now stone-cold guts, Alice began to panic.
“Shit. Shitshitshit,” she gasped out loud, “Not good, this is NOT good-”
Suddenly realising that whoever placed the rose could still be there she span around, eyes darting about the spacious apartment, ears alert for the faintest sound, anything that seemed out of place. She reached to the pistol strapped to the small of her back with one hand and the bowie knife that was still stained with the drying blood of Valentino’s top Lieutenant in it’s sheath under her shoulder with the other. Feeling a little more steady on her feet now, thanks to the adrenaline rush brought about by the threat of impending death she made a careful circuit of the apartment, checking each room and potential hiding place for an intruder. When she was done, she did it again. No-one was there, nothing was out of place, everything as she had left it – other than that damn rose. Satisfied that she was alone, she sheathed her knife but kept hold of the pistol, clutched loosely but securely in her right hand.
Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. Valentino would not leave time enough between his warning and enacting his revenge to allow her to make an escape. No, she had to be prepared to deal with the situation now, which was not something she wanted to do, especially given her current mental and physical state.
A sudden, subtle noise grabbed her attention, the faint metallic scraping of a key in a lock. Someone was carefully attempting to open the front door. Padding closer to the hallway on bare feet (she had kicked off her shoes earlier before searching the apartment) she took to one knee, body partially shielded by the protrusion of the breakfast counter that separated the open-plan kitchen-come-diner. Levelling her pistol at the door out of the apartment she started to breath shallow, controlled breathes. Slowly the door cracked open, easing wider inch by inch, the faint creaking of the heavy hinges barely audible over the deathly silence that hung in the air. Eventually, after what felt like an age it opened wide, revealing the silhouette of a tall person, long tubular-like object held in one hand.
Alice didn’t have time to think, the blood was rushing to her head, heart hammering loud in her ears, adrenaline pumping. She felt faint, stars seemed to play across her vision and a distant ringing whined in her ears. A familiar sound. The figure jerked backwards and fell to the floor, a scattering of objects tumbling from his grasp. She had fired – when? She didn’t remember, body working on auto-pilot, brass casings falling, slowly, to the floor. A double-tap, her training so ingrained in her that it had just taken over. Recognition. Realisation. She leapt to her feet and sprinted the few strides to the fallen figure, bare feet scattering white roses that littered the floor. Eleven of them, in the back of her mind, she knew there were eleven, the purity of their beauty stained with the red of blood. Adam’s blood. He lay on the tiled floor, gasping his last breath, confused eyes staring up at her. He was the only person she had ever let get close to her. And she had killed him.
Shout From The Void 