Torn: A Michael Ray Series, #1

By Tim D Walker

As an assassin for hire, Michael Ray takes life. It isn't until a twist of fate crashes a passenger plane in the uncharted woods that he must help the people around him live. The task is not as easy as he thinks. Inhabited by a malicious entity and chased by a deadly killer bent on revenge, Michael Ray must defend against two very different evils to save his life…and his soul. It will be a battle of strength, but more so, a battle of wits. Will even those be enough to bring him home?

 

Book One of the Michael Ray Series

463 Pages

Suspense/Thriller

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Walker
• Release date: Nov 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201633042

Book preview

1.

You’re going to make me throw up.

Rocco Campanelli knew the accused did not hear his words, nor could it respond had he spoken them aloud. Instead, the ceiling watched Rocco with a thousand piercing, bubbly white eyes.

The Italian swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

With head tilted back, his dark eyes scanned the disappointment above him, providing him with more unwanted time for questions he did not want to answer. How did I miss this? How long did I live in these horrid conditions? How could I be so careless? What kind of man have I become? Unworthy? Vile? ...Average? 

What made this stick out? This particular linen closet was one of many in his estate. It was not unique to the best of his memory. Perhaps this was the first time he ever looked at a ceiling. He could not remember ever needing a reason.

Whatever the case, it simply would not do. A man of his stature, a man of his power, should not have such ordinary ceilings. A linen closet may be simply that: a linen closet, however, that is no excuse for living in such modest surroundings.

His eyes scanned the pale wasteland above his head. He could see tiny specks of blue-collar residue sprinkling down from the plaster into his eyes, his gel-soaked hair, and atop the shoulders of his custom-tailored Armani suit.

Rocco averted his eyes and clenched his fists until his fingers and palms ached. It’s all in your head, you crazy fuck. You know it is.

The white sediment crawled through his black hair and began tickling his scalp. He was certain if he opened his eyes, he would see the poor man’s dust on his shoulders, eating its way through the cloth, desperate to gnaw into his flesh.

He began patting his chest, reassuring himself that his medication was still close at hand should he desperately need it.

Tickling, itching, prodding, nibbling, biting, tearing...

The residue of everything lesser than he caked his entire body now. It felt like a hundred homeless people, reeking of piss and shit, were clawing at him. Their dirty fingers touched his face. Their breath smelled of rotten meat. They spit through the gaps in their teeth as they begged for whatever he could offer. The mucous hit him in the face and began burning like acid.

Control slipped from Rocco’s grasp. He couldn’t breathe. His brow moistened. His eyelids ached as he crushed them shut, finding his heartbeat thrashing behind them. His hands shook too violently to find their way into the inner pocket where relief was a popped-top away, so Rocco tore the fabric apart.

Slimy, dirty fingers. Blood stained saliva. Clothes saturated in piss and vomit.

The bottle of pills rattled wildly in his spastic hand. He tried three times to defeat the child-proof lid, cursing under his breath while screaming in his mind. At the tail end of the fourth failed attempt he opened his eyes, flung the container on the floor, and smashed it with his foot. Tiny white pills scattered in all directions with the exception of several crushed to powder beneath his heel. A madman, Rocco fell to the floor on hands and knees shoving whole pills, chunks of pills, and powder into his mouth as fast as he could. Third-world ceiling particles coating the floor became the lesser of two evils as he licked every shred of medication off the ground. He then removed his shoe and proceeded to lick the sole clean.

Rocco stared at the floor like a dog inspecting a patch of grass, waiting for the meds to kick in and save him from this hell. The tiles of the linen closet were a clearer representation of Rocco’s amassed wealth and power. He stared at the marble as his breathing slowed, allowing a smile to reach his lips. Was it the grandeur of such a classy floor? Was it the medication? He wasn’t sure. He just continued staring at it, allowing the euphoria to replace the imaginary hordes of social failure that previously swarmed him.

Beautiful, luxurious marble...and a human foot.

The smile dissipated from his lips.

Bright as day, there it was. A woman’s foot. His first thought—a harrowing thought—led him to believe it to be one of the last fleeting pieces of the homeless from his nightmare. No. It couldn’t be, though. They weren’t real. Besides, the toes were clean, well-manicured. The nails were painted with a ruby red polish.

The foot quivered and retracted away from him, the toes curled inward.

Rocco lunged backwards pressing his back into a shelf filled with caramel-colored towels. Eyes wider than tomatoes, Rocco scanned the appendage. The relief warmed his chilled blood as he saw the foot attached to a leg, that to a thigh, that to a full body.

The petrified woman stared back at him with the same shock he had earlier. Tears fell from her eyes sending her mascara down her cheeks in dark tendrils. Her lips were wet, saliva dripping from the bottom one.

Rocco immediately thought of the homeless horde, spitting and splattering their requests in his face. He shook his head violently back and forth, hoping to jettison the revolting images through his ears before another putrid wave of mongrels feasted on his money and flesh.

The woman stifled a scream and pushed herself further into the closed linen closet door. Her legs were pulled to her chest as she made herself a ball of protection.

God, his ass was numb. It was such a strange and random thought considering all that happened, but a justified one nonetheless.

Rocco looked at his own body to find his pants and underwear down to his ankles, his naked buttocks touching the cool, glorious marble of the closet floor. His penis hung limp.   

He looked at the saliva dripping from the lips of the girl, then at the moisture on his cock, and the reality of this odd situation reached clarity.

His chocolate eyes honed in on her tear-soaked blues. I was thinking about my ceiling, he said.

With that, he pulled the pistol from his ankle holster, aimed at her head, and pulled the trigger. Her skull slapped at the door before tilting forward. Blood fell from the open wound into her lap.

Rocco quietly sat for a moment, reexamining his surroundings. It churned his stomach, but he glanced one more time at his mundane ceiling. Red dots created crimson constellations above his head. It was no longer mundane. Nor was it elegant by Rocco’s usual standards. It was, however, an improvement.

Mule was one badass motha fucka. Ain’t nothin’ crazy ‘bout that shit. He could beat down any nigga come his way. He could make any bitch his with the slightest smile and a come-on-ova tug on his cock. Soon, his glory would be multiplied tenfold when business be done tonight. Tonight, Mule gonna get paid.

The black man smiled as warm thoughts caused goose pimples to spread the length of his arms and the back of his neck. Those that tasted especially sweet were sprinkled with images of Mule’s brother Bend, and the look on his face when Mule would tell him they were both millionaires.

Their doors to a different life were about to be opened and the key would be Rocco’s three cases of uncut heroin. All that was left to do was get the cases, get the codes, and leave a twitching Italian on the floor with a forty-five slug in his pretty face.

The shot was muffled by four inches of solid oak.

Mule gripped the holstered Kimber at his side and turned to face the door, ironically praying Rocco still breathed. Without a heart beating in his chest, the Italian would not be able to enter the codes for the indestructible cases, and even worse yet, reveal their hidden location.

The door opened and the weight on Mule’s mind lifted as Rocco stepped out.

The maid must have been propped against the door because her limp body slid backwards, coming to an awkward rest on the carpeted hallway floor. She had a bullet hole in her head and a fear frozen in her glazed eyes.

Rocco looked at Mule no longer than a second and said, It’s comforting to see that had I been in actual trouble, you would be out here with your thumb up your ass. Mule tried to refrain from snapping the Italian’s neck, the grip on his gun tightening. Rocco continued with a look of contempt, Call Mute, you worthless ape.

Before Mule could lift the walkie-talkie to his lips, Mute turned the closest corner. Mute was another bodyguard, and as his name suggested, could not speak. A grotesque scar marked the center of the man’s neck. Mule never asked what had happened partly because the man would have to write his answer down or mime it out in some stupid fashion, but more so, because Mule just didn’t give a shit.

Rocco was wiping something off his shoulders with a silk handkerchief as Mute approached. When finished, he tossed the used article to Mute, saying, Clean that shit up. Mute looked at the handkerchief in his hand, seemingly wondering why the task of doing the laundry was now his responsibility. Rocco noticed the confusion. "Not that shit, he said,  pointing to the silk cloth and speaking loudly, as if forgetting that Mute was mute, not deaf. That shit." He then pointed at the body curled up at their feet.

The sight of the pain in Mute’s eyes was delicious to Mule as he realized the demotion his counterpart had just received. Now that Mute had to deal with the trash, Mule had all the time in the world to dispose of Rocco.

Come with me, Rocco commanded Mule. Mule obeyed with masked joy.

The two men made their way to the bedroom, where the Italian proceeded to enter a series of numbers into a panel on the wall. Five slats in the floor just to the side of the bed slid open, revealing another glowing panel on the face of a safe. Rocco entered the next code and the safe popped open. It was large enough to hold the three briefcases plus four more, should the need arise. Rocco pulled the three cases out of the floor and set them on the bed. He shut the door to the safe, it clicked, and the floor slats moved silently back into place.

Mule wanted so desperately to aerate Rocco’s skull with a couple of pulls from his trigger finger, but he still needed the fucking codes.  Only then would Mule have his sweet retirement. Patience, Mule. You’ve made it this far. Don’t go fuckin’ shit up now.

Take those two, Rocco said after picking up the third case.

Mule picked up the two cases and followed Rocco out of the room. They walked through a series of halls, past many bedrooms, a dining hall, and a game room, until they reached the den. Rocco made his way to the massive mahogany desk at the far wall in the room, opened the top left drawer, pulled out a piece of paper, and put it in his left breast pocket. Mule’s feet became restless as he stood at the doorway. That piece of paper was what he needed. It had to be the codes to the cases.

Mule slowly set one of the cases on the floor. As he began to reach for his pistol, Rocco, too, reached for his. Mule froze. Rocco pulled the revolver from his ankle holster, but instead of aiming it at the bewildered bodyguard, he flicked the cylinder open, pulled the spent cartridge, and replaced it with a fresh bullet from a box in his desk. Tucking it back into his ankle holster, Rocco reached into the drawer again, put his wallet in the pocket opposite the one holding the codes, and said, Let’s go.

Mule checked the hall, pretending to give a crap about the safety of his employer while he secretively pulled his gun.

As he pulled the silencer from his left pocket, the sound of a collapsing body caught his attention. He spun around quickly to find Rocco on the floor, convulsing wildly. Awed and confused, Mule ran to him. White foam was leaking from Rocco’s quivering lips and he began to cough. As he did, the foam went from white, to pink, to pure red. In seconds, there was no foam, only red slime. Rocco coughed blood into the air, which landed back on his face. He reached a shaky hand towards Mule. Mule, now screwing the silencer into place, simply watched as the man slowly withered. Mule had never seen a stroke before, but assumed this was exactly how they looked. He’d seen this type of shit in movies all the time.

Mule couldn’t help but weigh the odds for something like this to happen. In the end, he decided that the devil just saw this as the right time to call his bitch back. I ain’t gonna argue with him, Mule said out loud.

Rocco continued to reach for him, a wasted effort.

It was at that moment that Mule saw the rash.

Mule snorted and raced for the hall. Panicked employees backed out of the way, seeing a man trying to do his job. He turned corners recklessly, smashing into people, throwing them aside as if they were clothes for the hamper. At last he stood breathless in front of the open closet door. The body of the maid remained, untouched, unattended.

Where is it? Mule asked. He looked at the carpet and found nothing. He stepped inside the door and examined her hands. Nothing. He searched shelves carefully, pushing jugs of disinfectant aside slowly with the tip of the silencer. He checked under towels, behind packages of light bulbs, the vent in the ceiling. Nothing, nothing, nothing! Then he turned and saw the inner door handle. He held his breath, kneeling in close. A slight coat of moisture remained on untouched parts of the knob. He stepped back. You clever little fucka, he said. You playin’ me, boy? Mule continued thinking in silence. Mute somehow knew this bitch was gonna fuck Campanelli in this very room. Mule remembered Campanelli telling her to meet here, but didn’t see his fellow bodyguard anywhere. Could’ve been within earshot, Mule calculated. Must’ve been.

A red light flashed aggressively in his mind.

He spun around, his pistol swinging left, then right, as he checked for Mute up and down the halls. Fucker probably ditched already. Halfway to Budapest by now. Either way, here or long gone, the thought that Mute had had the same idea as his unnerved him. He grew careless; he began by checking corners with caution, but that quickly evolved into running full force back to the den, panting like a frenzied, panicked buffalo.

Upon entering the den, he nearly tripped over the body at his feet. His eyes darted across the room. Mute was not there...but, he had been.

Mule screamed with rage as he discovered all three cases missing. He kicked Rocco’s corpse, which was now definitely dead due to the effects of the contact poison. He felt the presence of a gathering crowd in the doorway at his back. He turned to find the staff staring quietly, unsure what to do.

Remembering that the codes were needed, Mule dug into the dead man’s pocket. The paper was gone. He searched for Rocco’s wallet, found it, and flipped it open. I’m gonna kill you, you fuckin’ mute faggot! Mule threw the wallet across the room. It hit the wall and landed on the Oriental rug at the base of a large fireplace. There was no fire, but the gold from Officer Campanelli’s badge glowed nonetheless.

As if sensing a downed comrade, the sirens of several police cruisers whined from the front gate of the estate. As they drew closer, they seemed to sound more agitated, like ravenous hounds plagued by rabies, ready to kill at the first provided chance.

Mule had done time. He wasn’t going to again. Those fuckin’ drugs had been his ticket out of this hellhole existence and to the start of a new life in a non-extradition country. And Mute, fuckin’ faggot, had ruined everything. Well, this nigga wasn’t goin’ down without a fight.

Mule heard the officers commanding the employees to get on the ground as they made their way through the halls and rooms. With tremendous strength, Mule tilted the massive desk over and prepared to make the den his Alamo. The only difference was that he was going to survive. When he did, he would find Mute and fuck him up good. Real good.

He pulled his gun and aimed at the door.

The first officer through the door was a S.W.A.T. member with a helmet, goggles, and a bulletproof vest. As the man raised his G-36, Mule aimed in on his head. Fish in a barrel.

Click

The man flinched as the trigger pulled, but quickly recovered when the gun did not fire. Put the gun down and get down on the floor with your hands behind your head! he commanded. Do it now!

Stunned, Mule did not hear the command. As three more S.W.A.T. members poured through the door, he aimed at the officer again, pulled the trigger, but still with the same result.

Click

Mule looked at the Kimber in his hand to see the firing pin missing. Fuck me.

The butt of the first man’s machine gun found Mule’s forehead. The blast knocked white sparkles into his head and he fell to the floor clumsily. Two men pinned and cuffed him while three others kept him at gunpoint. He felt dizzy as the officers pulled him to his feet.

Still keeping the muzzle pointed at his head, one of the three officers spoke to Mule. Terrance Doherty, you are under arrest for the murder of Officer Rocco Campanelli and Jennifer Miles.

The fuck you know my name? Terrance asked, though he felt he already knew. An officer patted him down in a search for other weapons. He would find none. One gun was all Mule ever usually needed. Two would have been nice tonight.

Is that really important?, the officer replied. What is important is that you will be going away for a very long time. Seems you have a parole violation to boot. And killing two people is just the icing on the cake.

I didn’t kill that bitch. Or Campanelli.

Uh-huh.

Check Campanelli. His pistol is...

Found something, sir. Could be poison. The officer that had searched Mule had pulled a vial from Mule’s inner jacket pocket and now handed it to the lead officer. How Mule hadn’t detected it there was a mystery he might never solve. He knew it must be the poison that Mute had left on the door handle, the poison that would incriminate him in the murder of at least one of the victims. At least they couldn’t pin that ho on him, no matter what anybody said.

Three men entered the room. One of them spoke. Here you are, Sgt. Mattison. Bomb squad’s already checked ‘em.

Mattison turned his attention from Mule and looked at the three cases. These were what we passed just inside the front entrance, right? Any idea what’s inside?

Heroin, sir.

They look like they need codes. How’d you open them?

Mule leaned forward, equally interested in the answer.

This was on top of them, sir. The officer held out the piece of paper that Mule had seen Rocco put in his pocket. It was the codes. This whole thing was a setup from the start.

Yo! All you motha fuckas need to listen up, Mule announced. Only the officer that seemed to be in charge met his gaze, still staring through the tinted goggles. This was a setup. I’ve been framed. I do whatever you want with the parole violation, but I ain’t goin’ down for two murders I didn’t commit.

How do you explain the poison in your jacket pocket, Mr. Doherty? the Sergeant asked as he stepped closer to Mule. How do you explain being in this room with the body? And let’s not forget you attempted to open fire on me and my men. Those don’t seem like the actions of a man wrongfully accused, do they?

That shit was planted, Terrance said. I’m his bodyguard. Man pays my bills. No reason to kill him.

This much heroin? Mattison asked. I bet this much good stuff pays the bills ten times better than Officer Campanelli. What do you think?

I think you should go fuck yourself. I didn’t kill either dem people.

What’s your excuse with the girl then?

Rocco’s gettin’ head from the bitch in the utility closet. When she was done, dude popped her. The officer continued to stare, unmoved. His fuckin’ gun is in his ankle holster. Match up the bullets like you assholes do. Go all CSI on my ass, I don’t give a fuck. You’ll see I’m straight.

One of the officers bent down over  Rocco’s bloody corpse and rolled up the pant leg to reveal an empty holster. Mule’s throat tightened. His breathing no longer quickened due to eager anticipation. Now it quickened due to feeling like a raccoon in a cage. He felt trapped.

An officer entered the den and approached Sgt. Mattison, whispering into his ear. After looking down at the floor for a couple of seconds, Mattison turned back to Mule. "Seems we found Officer Campanelli’s .38 under the girl’s body. Don’t you worry, Mr. Doherty. We will test fire the weapon to make sure the bullets match seeing’s how you gave us permission to ‘go all CSI on your ass’. Up front, I’m willing to bet that that’s the type of gun that would fit perfectly into that very holster, though. Not only that, but we also found a pair of black leather gloves under her body as well. We know that those gloves belong to you. See, the tips of those gloves, you know the part that was touchin’ her ass, left a similar rash at the point of contact. And I’m betting that that rash looks a lot like the rash on the officer here. I’m also betting that the poison on those gloves will match the poison in your little vial there. What do you think?"

I think it’s fucked up you ain’t focusing on the fact that you all have a crooked cop in your department. Why I get all the attention?

Crooked or not, Officer Campanelli’s dead now isn’t he? Mattison said. I think we’ll focus on the man who can still face punishment for double homicide.

Mule was suddenly tired. The ironic truth of the matter was that he actually had not killed either of the two victims. But cops don’t care about what a man says as much as the evidence. The evidence was not helping. Mule had to direct the attention back to Mute and the truth of all of this being a setup. I’m tellin’ you, man. This was all a setup. Let me axe you a question.

By all means.

How did you get here so quick? Hmmm? Rocco ain’t been dead more than two minutes before you all came bustin’ in here. That chick in the closet, no more than five. So I axe you again? How did you get here so goddamn quick? The officer said nothing. Because the dude set me up, called you motha fuckas after planting this shit on me. He called it in as soon as he was out of my sight. That’s what happened.

Sgt. Mattison smiled. That’s what you’re sticking to? This ‘dude’ killed Rocco after Rocco killed the girl in the closet, planted the vial on you without your knowledge, planted the gun and gloves under the girl without anyone seeing, left the cases of heroin on the front steps for us to find, and vanished without a trace, but not before calling nine-one-one?

That’s exactly what happened, Mule declared.

Hmm. The officer stepped closer to Mule. One problem in your theory.

No way, man. My theory is exact.

You see the caller, Mattison stated, was a woman.

Mule stared at the floor, defeated. He knew Mute, or whoever the hell he was, was responsible for his current situation, but again, all the evidence suggested the opposite. Mule chuckled to himself. Fuckin’ mute faggot.

2.

Mute reveled in the fact that everything was going according to plan. A few more steps needed executing and he would be home free, with another contract completed. He crouched in the shadows of the hedges that lined the long driveway of Campanelli’s inheritance as he heard the sirens approaching.

Not two minutes earlier, he had been inside the kitchen pointing a silenced Walther PPK at Cindy, one of the chefs. Mute had made sure that everyone else was busy with other tasks before he directed Cindy to a secluded area of the kitchen, dialed the police, put the phone on speaker, held up an index card, and mimed instructions for her to read its contents. When the nine-one-one operator answered, she began:

This is Cindy Zimmerman. I’m a chef at the Campanelli estate. We’ve heard gunshots.

Is the shooter still in the building, ma’am?

Cindy looked at Mute, since the operator was not going strictly by the script on the index card. Mute nodded his head.

Yes. Mute tapped the card with the tip of his silencer. She continued reading. It’s the man I recognize from the papers a couple months back. The black guy that got released from prison a couple months ago. I think his last name is Doherty.

Is anybody injured?

Cindy looked further down on the index card and continued. Yes. One of the maids was killed. I saw Doherty leaving after I went to inspect the source of the gunshot. I saw her on the floor of the utility closet. She wasn’t moving. Her name is Jennifer. Jennifer Miles.

The operator informed Cindy that help was on the way and told her to find a safe hiding spot. She told Cindy to stay on the line, but Mute silently instructed the petrified chef to disconnect. After she did, she began to hand the phone to Mute, but he gestured for her to keep it. She looked down at it, realizing that it was her own cell phone. He had swiped it earlier that evening in preparation for this very moment. He then flipped the card over, allowing her to read the message on the back. It read: Say nothing about me and you live. She nodded.

After that, Mute made his way to the bushes, where he waited for the barrage of law enforcement officials. One more thing remained on the list.

He dug through the soft loam at the base of the bush. In seconds, he found the wrapped package he had hidden several weeks before. He cut the tie strings and removed the contents as the headlights from several police vehicles neared. After utilizing the contents, Mute reburied the package and edged his way back towards the front entrance, nearly forgetting to remove the latex scar from his throat. He tucked it in his pocket and waited.

The vehicles screamed past, kicking up plumes of dirt from the dusty driveway. Three police cars stopped just in front of the entrance. The riders jumped out, pulled their pistols, and aimed at the front entrance while taking cover behind the cruisers.

Following the cruisers were two S.W.A.T. vehicles with the bomb squad bringing up the caboose. They all came to a screeching halt behind the cruisers as Mute crept toward the house in the shadows.

The men jumped out, dressed in navy blue pants and shirts with bulletproof vests that said S.W.A.T. on the backs. Each had helmets, yellow-tinted goggles, and submachine guns. As they made their way to the front entrance, Mute fell in behind the last man.

The lead member signaled to the rest, then kicked in the front door.  They swept and cleared in pairs. Mute had no partner, but continued to sweep and clear regardless as he peered down the sights of his own G-36 assault rifle.

After clearing several rooms, the teams made their way to the den. By means of alternating cover, Mute ended up third in line instead of at the tail end. The lead officer remained in front and charged the room, rifle ready for anything. His partner accompanied him, and Mute followed directly after. Mute heard the click that he expected to hear just before the officer in front of him began to yell.

Put the gun down and get down on the floor with your hands behind your head, the man said. Do it now!

Mute saw Doherty try one more time to make his gun fire, but it clicked again.

The officer to Mule’s right brought the butt end of his rifle into Doherty’s face and the man collapsed instantly. S.W.A.T. members swarmed him as they bound his wrists and removed his Kimber. At that moment, Mute approached the bewildered black man and commenced searching his person.

Terrance Doherty, you are under arrest for the murder of Officer Rocco Campanelli and Jennifer Miles, the man Mute assumed to be the lead officer said.

The fuck you know my name? Mule asked.

Is that really important?, the officer replied. What is important is that you will be going away for a very long time. Seems you have a parole violation to boot. And killing two people is just the icing on the cake.

I didn’t kill that bitch. Or Campanelli.

Uh-huh.

Mute snuck a vial of poison out of a pocket underneath his bulletproof vest, concealing it in his gloved fingers.

Check Campanelli. His pistol is...

Found something, sir. Could be poison, Mute said. He pretended to pull the vial from Mule’s inner jacket pocket and handed it to the officer. The officer glanced quickly at it, but not before three men came in holding the cases that Mute had left by the front entrance.

Mute’s work was finished. As the officer questioned Doherty, Mute slowly made his way out of the room and into the halls. Several officers stood outside the various rooms in order to keep possible crime scenes less contaminated than they already were. Mute paused outside the utility closet on his way to the front entrance. Jennifer’s eyes remained open, dry. They seemed to be asking something. Why? Why did I deserve this? I’m sorry, Mute whispered. He took another second or two to mourn the death he could not have prevented, then casually made his way to the front of the Campanelli manor. Standing outside along the bushes again, when he knew no one was looking his way, he disappeared into the shadows.

Twenty minutes later, Mute stood in front of the bathroom counter of his hotel room with his shirt off. He stared at himself in the mirror, wondering how he had become what he was. The details were foggy. Once, he had wanted a career in politics, bound to do the right thing for the people, to provide honesty to a dishonest system, to restore integrity to a government that many citizens doubted. Suddenly, his ambition changed as if it were a train approaching a Y, politics being to the right, contract killer to the left. Just before the train hit the break in the line, an unknown force pulled the lever, sending him veering madly to the left towards a lifestyle completely contrary to his original intent. It was as simple as that: a quick flick of a switch. He did not necessarily want to be a killer. He just suddenly felt like he must. Explanations were pointless. He had none.

Mute sighed, pressing his eyelids hard. White specks entered his vision and the light in the bathroom seemed instantly too bright. An orange bottle of Relpax sat next to the sink. He popped off the top, spilled two capsules in his hand, and tossed them into his mouth. Swallowing without water, he sat down on the counter and picked up the needle and thread. He squinted in the harsh glare. Looking over his shoulder, he inspected the deep gash in his back.

Earlier that day, he had sparred with Mule in order to keep both their pain tolerance and abilities in top shape. The reasoning behind Mule’s name was no mystery. The man could kick through a cinder wall if he chose to do so. Over time, Mute had managed to absorb most of the kicks that Mule had thrown at him, but that did not mean that they lacked power. One particular kick had sent Mute into the wall with enough force to shatter the thick wood at his back. Several splinters and one large slat had embedded themselves in his back and shoulder.

Pain was a sign of weakness, and Mute dared not show it to a man like Terrance Doherty. Mute already sensed that the black man had wanted him out of the way for the sake of easier access to Rocco and the heroin. Had he shown any frailty during the sparring, Mule would have attempted dominance over him and killed him. Terrance wouldn’t even have needed to explain the death, as Rocco never cared about the lifespan of his staff, just that there were suitable persons to rotate into the gaps.

It was shortly after their match that, while Mule showered, Mute had pulled the firing pin out of the man’s Kimber .45. Jennifer Miles was an unavoidable tragedy and Mute wanted to limit the number of deaths in this whole scenario. Knowing the black man would go down in a barrage of bullets, Mute took action.

Mute spent the better part of an hour pulling remnants of Campanelli’s manor from his torso. Once clean and sewn up, he ate the Chinese food he had picked up and turned on the television to follow the news at the estate. He left the volume off to hear if anyone was approaching the front door on the slim chance he had been followed. Everything seemed to play without flaw as they led Terrance Doherty out in cuffs. The lead officer from the room took time to answer questions with the news affiliate. Mute didn’t care what the man had to say. Mute had done his job well. There was no cause for concern.

He clicked the television off and the man on the screen evaporated to black. Mute took two Tylenols with half a glass of water, brushed his teeth, and checked the lock at the front door. Searching through the duffle bag containing the G-36 and other S.W.A.T. gear, he pulled the silenced Walther PPK and slipped it under the pillow. He then crawled slowly into bed so as to not disturb the bandages on his back.

For the longest time he stared at the ceiling, still trying to discern why his life had come to this, though he did not know why he bothered. The answers would never come. Some believed violence to be genetic. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps he was genetically prone to violence and this path was unavoidable. His father had been drunk often, beating his mother brutally. Many occasions had called for Mute to answer to the leather belt punishment for no reason other than he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But still, his father had never murdered anyone. Further still, the beatings Mute and his poor mother received seemed conducted out of necessity for wrongdoings and not joyous desire. There had been no fire in his father’s eyes. Not ever.

Mute’s unusual career choice had to have been for some good reason though. He had to believe that. Violent people killed for the sake of killing. Mute was different. He was ridding the world of evil; he was making it a better place. Yes, he had to believe that.

Mute turned to his side and stared at the closed curtains. He heard the wind pick up and the soft patter of rain on the window. The rainfall eased his mind and replaced his questions with thoughts of Kay, the woman he loved, his only peace. Upon his return, he would scoop her up into his arms, kissing her softly on the lips. He would tell her how much he loved her and how much she meant to him.

Mute smiled. His lids grew heavier as the rain fell across the land.

3.

The night air was frigid . A light snow salted the forest landscape. The moon brightly flaunted her full, round face as she floated in her palace among the stars. The wispy clouds in the sky tried to turn the light to dark, but the moon’s radiance was too formidable, showering the tops of the trees in a brilliant glow. However, beneath the treetops, much of the snowy forest still fell to shadows.

It was in the shadows of the pines that Mute found himself hunkered against the base of a large boulder, gripping his sanity by a weathered thread. The cold stung his flesh through his clothes, sending goose pimples along his arms and legs and the back of his neck. Mute yearned to be still, aware that a killer lurked in the belly of the wood, however, his body shivered uncontrollably as hypothermia threatened to take him over. He clutched his knees to his chest, noticing that his fingers had gone a terrible blue and feeling had left his face altogether.

He had no recollection of the events that had brought him to this mysterious forest, yet he knew that being here had been unavoidable no matter the prior paths he chose to take. All paths would lead to this very spot. He knew nothing of this forest or its layout. He had never been here before, of that he was certain, yet a glimmer of déjà vu lingered. The other certainties were that he was hunted...and that he was about to die.

The wolf sniffed quietly at the air, his snout lifting to the sky in tiny bounces. Traces of wildlife hung among the thicker spiciness of pine needles and the musty, wet snow—a rabbit, some squirrels, many birds, two foxes, a herd of deer. None of these interested the hunter. None of them would sate the hunger in the belly of the beast, for it was not food that the hunter craved.

The wolf hung its head low, snout digging deep in the snow, trying to smell the ground. The snow chilled its nose, the smell of rich soil entered its nostrils, but there was no trace of the human.

With ears fanned forward, the animal listened intently. Despite the abundant traces of wildlife on the wind, none made even a whisper. It was as if they knew he was on the prowl, but did not understand that they had nothing to fear.

And then he caught the scent he needed...

Mute held the front of his jacket over his mouth, using his breath to warm his body. It did little good. He could barely feel his fingers, and