A man on a mission, to get away. The supposedly lone wolf hit-man Ryder has done a deed that can't be forgiven. Now he has to run, but how will he make it alone?

Blood dripped over the barrel of the silver gun. It weaved along the pattern that had been carved into the metal. Each of those letters filled with the crimson liquid, defining those words:Hawks Eye.

It was held by his side as he limped, each drop of blood creating a trail behind him on those marble floors. Seemingly, it was a long time since those injuries had been inflicted. In reality it had happened only less than half an hour ago.

“You’re doing well, as usual. Just like your father, you’re going to be great. No mishaps and no misses. At least I can count on you to get the job done.” He laughed heartily. This greying old man sat in his chair, slouched with the cigar between his fingers. It was all he could do but slouch as his stomach had enlarged 3 or 4 times since the day that had met. The room was filled with smoke, as all the other men sat around laughing and drinking with their own cigarettes or cigars in hand. Ryder was perhaps the youngest in that room, or rather he was the youngest man. There were several young women and girls on the arms of those dirty old men. Ryder, as the man had stated, was just like his father. Born to take life since the day he had picked up his first gun. He had joined the syndicate officially only 6 months ago and had quickly worked his way up the ranks to being one of the bosses right hand men. The syndicate was forever growing and his family had been mixed up with it for as long as he could remember. It was no wonder he was good. It was in his blood. However, it wasn’t what he wanted. Again, that man had brought his father into conversation. Ryder’s father being the very reason for him being in the syndicate at all. It wasn’t because he was good, but because he wanted revenge. The very man who sat just feet from him had been the cause of all the hell in his family, whether it was direct or indirect. One way or another, it was his fault. The death of his mother and his sister were all thanks to this man.

“Thank you.” Ryder replied begrudgingly. His heart was racing and his fingers had already curled around the handle of his weapon by that point. Where better to commit a murder than in front of many other murderers? When the back of the bodyguard was turned, Ryder raised his hand, the gun pointing right at the side of the old mans head. When those eyes turned, the click of the gun heard, Ryder pulled the trigger. As the sound rang loudly in the ears of everyone closer than 6 feet, many men stood and pulled their own guns from their pockets. Releasing more than one bullet into the crowded room, Ryder heard a piercing scream and took it as his cue to leave.

It had been confusion that caused more than one death in that room and with he had escaped. Bullets moved in every direction as he ran to the door. Pulling it open, unexpectedly, one sly bullet managed to pierce his right shoulder before he had the time to slip through that door. Immediately he felt sick, that pain searing as he staggered across the hall.

Stumbling out of that house, angered men and frightened women now ran past him with shouts and shrieks. Everyone was confused and he needed to get out of there. Tucking that gun into the back of his pants, he hid it beneath the jacket of his inconspicuous black suit and groaned at the pain in his shoulder. Just another injury for the scrapbook. He threw himself into his car that he had specifically parked nearest to the door. It was the middle of town more or less, a big house with a large drive. Attention was quickly drawn to it and he was first to swing his car out onto the road. With his heavy foot, he set the pedal to the floor and just drove. It was too risky to go home, they would be looking for him. Already, he had packed his whole life (which wasn’t much) into a few bags and shoved them into his car. Of course, he hadn’t been prepared to get shot.

The city was quiet by this time. As he drove further from the house into the outskirts of the city, there was barely anybody on the streets. The sky had turned orange as the sun began to set. His vision soon became blurry, blood staining his shirt and the inside of his suit jacket. Despite the bullet hole, the injury was invisible to anybody who caught sight of him driving along. However, he gave up on driving the minute he accidentally swerved onto the wrong side of the road. Cutting the engine after pulling to the side and parking, he took a few minutes to breath before he opened the door and climbed out slowly.

Laid in the back of that shiny black Mercedes, he closed his eyes. Those seats were leather and smelled clean. The car was almost brand new. Sweat had soaked his forehead and the strands of his spiky navy blue hair too, that had stuck there. Stress, nerves and now that wound had brought this upon him. His legs were too long, he stood normally at 6ft and so he hadn’t closed the door to his car properly. His feet pushed against it slightly, leaving it ajar. Suddenly too tired to do anything about it, he closed his eyes. Those lids hiding away those glazed over hazel eyes of his. Settling his arm at an odd angle, he refused to move it again, the pain stabbing him hard whenever he did. If he were to die there. That would be fine by him. After all, he had gotten his revenge. His family could now rest in peace, because that man was in hell and since Ryder would soon be joining him there, he had no quarrels with hunting the man down there too and killing him all over again.

The End

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