This is a rewrite for: David Sorkin, gun for hire.
The headlights of the black SUV shot a halo of light upon the Los Angeles alleyway. Two men stepped from the car and walked into the halo, their arms crossed nonchalantly behind their backs. They stopped in the middle of the alley, slipped off their shades - which they had no reason to be wearing on such a cold, dark night - and waited.
Neither spoke, even after ten minutes of standing there, completely still. It was almost as if this was a routine. They didn't seem nervous, nor anxious, only calm, collected, and casual.
The first man reached into his coat pocket, but his eyes remained still and focused on the opposite alley entrance. He withdrew a cigar and lit it with a lighter that had previously been concealed in a small, blue box.
Turning to his friend, the first man muttered, "They're late."
The second man nodded, just before putting out his hand, open-palmed. The first man sighed. He reached into his coat and fetched another cigar, placed it in the second man's hand, and then took a long drag off his own.
There was silence for a few minutes, as each man stood still, quietly smoking their cigars.
"They're here," they said quietly in unison as a steel blue colored van drove into the alley.
The two men approached the vehicle. The first man opened the passenger door.
A man wearing a black suit and a tie stepped out into the light. He nodded to the two men, muttering, "Sorry for the delay."
The men didn't answer. Instead, they turned and began to walk back towards the SUV. They went around to the back and opened the trunk. There sat ten bags, each full to the brim with dollar bills. Millions of dollars were sitting right there in front of them, but they knew it was not for them.
Each man grabbed two bags and began to carry them over to the van, each with a serious, professional look on their face.
The man in the suit smiled wryly as he watched them dump the bags into the back of his car. "There we go," he said. "Keep 'em coming."
The first man sighed as he came back around the SUV for another load.
Suddenly, a fist caught him in the eye, sending him crashing down onto the concrete. Before he knew it, the black of unconsciousness enveloped him.
The second man heard a thumping sound, but thought nothing of it.
Joe probably just dropped a bag, he thought.
He turned the corner, and was stopped dead in his tracks by a kick to the groin. He dropped to his knees, but before he was able to give out a scream of pain and fear, a crowbar collided with his left temple, sending him into a dizzy collision with the pavement.
He, too, was out cold.
On the opposite end of the alley, the man in the suit was getting impatient. He glanced at his watch. They were taking much too long. He had places to go, people to see. He didn't have time for this. "Speed it up!" he ordered in an annoyed tone.
Still, no one came, nor did anyone respond.
The man frowned. He stepped forward and yelled again, "Speed it up!" adding, "I don't have all day!"
When, still, no one responded, anger started to boil.
"Who are you talking to?" a voice suddenly said. The voice came from the SUV.
The man in the suit figured that this was one of the hired hands, and said, "Bring me my money, now!"
"I'm sorry, sir," the voice said. "But I'm going to be taking these bags myself. Now be a good boy and fetch me those four bags that are in your van."
The man in the suit scowled. He spun around and motioned to the vehicle.
Suddenly, five men, all in suits, stepped out. Each was bulky and muscular, and had cleanly shaved heads. Their faces were rugged and torn, and it was easy to see that they were this man's personal army.
"Who are you?" the man asked, a smile starting to come to his face.
A shadowy figure came out from behind the SUV, holding what looked like a metal crowbar in his left hand. "Just a man on a mission. My name isn't important. Now, I'm going to ask you again: Go fetch those four bags from your van, please. Or I'll be forced to take them myself."
The man laughed. "You and what army?"
"I, unlike you, sir, do not need to cower behind a bunch of tough guys to complete my mission."
The man frowned. He turned to his men and said, "I want this guy on his knees in front of me in thirty seconds. Alive."
The men nodded and began to walk towards the shadowy figure, all of them drawing handguns from their suits.
The man smiled to himself as he watched the men approach the silhouette figure. Suddenly, five blasts erupted from the alleyway, and along with them, five bodies hit the ground. The sound reverberated off the alley walls before finally falling limp to the concrete.
The man's eyes widened. He spun around and made a dash for the vehicle. A hand caught him by the collar and whipped him back, throwing his legs out from under him. He landed on the pavement with a thud and a shriek of pain as his attacker stood over him, crowbar in hand.
"Please, don't hurt me!" the man pleaded, his hands clasped together tightly.
The man shielded his face and forced his eyes shut. "Please, I'll give you anything you want!! Money, wealth, riches . . . anything!"
Suddenly, the sound of a roaring engine shocked the man's eyes open. He looked up to see the black SUV drive out of the alley, taking the light with it.
He was alone, except for two unconscious bodies, and five dead ones.
Who was that man? he thought as he pushed himself slowly to his feet.
The answer was simple. That man was David Sorkin, gun for hire. And he had just completed his mission.