So I had this idea of writing 15-20 short crime stories about various freelancers who all work for the same mysterious group. They're all different characters (because I suck at writing full-length stories with all the new characters that keep popping into my head), but they all have the same employer.
The first one is Mike, a 25-year old man from New York who takes a kidnapping job. It's a solo story, and that's because I want to keep Mike (and my future characters) to myself, but if any of
Mike was driving home from the store. He was nearly back, and pulled up at a red light a couple of blocks from his apartment. He could see the lights twinkle through the condensation on the inside of his car. He felt somebody’s shadow moving closer to his car, and heard a tap on the passenger window. Mike rolled it down and he was thrown a letter. He heard a man’s voice say ‘It’s a Christmas card, Mike. Happy Holidays.’
Mike returned to his apartment and dragged his shopping into the elevator. Once he got through the door to his place, he dropped the bags on the floor and opened up the letter. It was a short, typed-up note, and it said the following: ‘Jimmy Francesco in Queens. Delivered alive to 134 Robinson Climb, Staten Island. 12:00. $50000.’
He brought the shopping into the kitchen and left it there. He had a shower, went into the bedroom and got changed. He walked into his lounge and turned on his laptop. A 15-minute Internet search brought up Jimmy Francesco, a food-processing magnate with some factories around the city. Must be a pretty big fish, Mike thought. He found Jimmy’s Facebook profile. He was a big guy, small eyes, brown hair. From the pictures, Mike could see he was a family man. He could also see that he liked drinking with his employees. He was obviously respected by them, but Mike thought he seemed a bully. Then he looked at the profiles of members of Jimmy’s family. He smiled a lop-sided smile.
Mike closed his laptop and walked to the window. He loved the city in winter. It wasn’t snowing yet, but he hoped it would. Christmas always looked better in white. Thinking of Christmas made Mike think of his mom. He thought he should call her soon. Being alone in New York wasn’t pleasant for him, and he did love going home, but his job made it difficult to see his family. He made very great effort not to leave any evidence of his identity for people to find, and if anybody saw him with a relative, it would invalidate all the work he had put in to stay out-of-sight.
Still, it would be nice to go home at Christmas, and he could certainly afford it. He had found solutions for tougher problems, so maybe he would do it. He’d call his mom tomorrow night to tell her. He knew she’d be pleased.
It was getting late, so Mike put on his ‘work jacket’ and grabbed a filled-up sports bag out of his bedroom. Then he called a cab and left his apartment, with the forgotten shopping bags all over the floor.