Jonas Saul - The Kill

He had to take a stand.

He hustled up the stairwell to the half-level landing where the stairs turned. Eight more steps up was the door to the floor where they supposedly held his wife. He leaned into the corner so only his eyes could look down and see the top of the door to the dark floor.

He waited, breathing in and out in a controlled manner. He needed to focus, stay lucid.

The gun was heavy in his hand. He had no idea how many bullets it contained or how to fire it exactly. But its weight and knowing to just point and shoot provided Darwin some comfort.

This was it. Do or die. He had an accident and killed a man with his Ford Mustang. That’s something he would have to live with for the rest of his life. But now people were trying to kill him and his bride. And that he could not live with.

It was time to lower himself to their level. It was time to kill or be killed.

He raised his gun when feet scuffled on the other side of the door. Someone spoke muffled words into a radio.

He leaned forward until he could see the door handle. It slowly turned. Then the door moved an inch inwards.

He fell back against the wall to the point where he couldn’t see the door at all, and if they looked up, they’d not see him.

He waited. He breathed, softly, slowly. He waited.

At least two men stepped into the stairwell. He waited.

Then he pushed off the wall, stuck the gun through the metal bars of the railing and squeezed the trigger as hard and as fast as he could. The stairwell lit up with flashes and the sounds of cannon fire. He had never heard such ear-splitting sounds so close before. He tried to keep his weapon trained in the general direction of the three men standing at the open door, but the recoil thwarted him.

Something punched him in the left shoulder. Darwin twisted away from the railing and fell on the landing on his back. He shut his eyes, breathing in rapidly. The guns ceased firing. He heard moans from below. He knew he must have hit some of them. He tried to smile, but pain in his shoulder made him clench his face. He almost moaned himself, but then one of the men below spoke.

“We’re in the south stairwell. I think we hit him. Two men down. I’m not hit. And where the fuck did he get a gun?”

He listened for a reply. After a few seconds, one came, muffled a little through static.

“Approach with caution. He is extremely dangerous. But I warn you, do not come back into my presence if you don’t kill him. Go now and finish the job.”

“On my way.”

Shit.

Darwin kept his eyes closed. He focused on being as still as possible. The man was still at the level below him, so he took one large breath and held it. Then he waited.

Waiting with bated breath, he thought and had to suppress a giggle. Really, in this moment I’m about to laugh. Have I lost my mind?

He knew it had more to do with a coping mechanism. This was like a big game. The smarter one would win. The one who stayed calm, thought things through and looked for a hole, a way in. He was that guy. Being irrational and crazy could work too, but this moment didn’t call for it.

He stayed completely immobile, his weapon in his right hand, his left shoulder screaming in pain now, and focused on the sounds the man’s shoes made as he neared.

As far as he could tell, the man was at or near the top stair. He waited for one more sound. It came, but it almost made him jump and scream.

It was the clicking of metal. The guy had readied his gun.

One, two, three.

Darwin opened his eyes, lifted his gun, screamed and squeezed the trigger, aimed directly at the man’s face.

But his gun didn’t fire. It was empty.

He looked at it, eyes wild. The man smiled and lowered his weapon until he aimed at Darwin’s chest.

As fast as he could move, Darwin lifted up off his back, supported by his elbows and kicked at the gun hand. It made direct contact as the weapon fired. He felt, as much as heard, the bullet race by his right ear. A solid thunk told him the bullet made a home in the wall behind his head.

The guy didn’t lose his grip on the gun.

When Darwin lifted his leg to kick again, it wasn’t aimed at the gun. He twisted his waist and kicked at the man’s chest. He made solid contact as the guy’s gun was coming around for him again.

The guy fell backwards, rolling down the stairs, at a weird, inverted angle.

Darwin used the railing to get to his feet, wailing at the pain in his shoulder. He had no time to inspect the injury. However bad it was, it was exactly that-bad. But it was something to deal with after he stayed alive.

He ran down the stairs, two at a time and jumped in the air, knees extended, toward the man struggling to get to his feet.

Darwin’s knees connected high in the man’s chest, part of his left knee jamming into the man’s throat. Darwin continued forward and bumped the wall with his good shoulder like he’d body checked another hockey player. He stayed upright, all his weight on the man below him.

The guy’s eyes widened. His hands came up and tried to push Darwin off. He couldn’t breathe. His hands flailed, his eyes wide, like a fish flapping on a dock after being pulled from water, mouth agape.

His face turned red and then a darker red, blood vessels in his eyes bursting.

Two weeks ago, Darwin would have been appalled at the violence. But today, something inside him felt good as the man under him succumbed.

“One less piece of shit,” Darwin whispered. He leaned closer and said, “I just made the world a better place and I’m going to keep doing it, one of you at a time.”

He turned and ripped the radio off the guy’s belt and grabbed his gun. He slipped it into the back of his pants and grabbed another gun off the floor.

He looked up the stairs to make sure there were no other surprises and then took a close look at his shoulder. The wound was exterior only. As far as he could tell, the bullet hadn’t entered his body.

He moved his jacket up off the wound and saw a gouge in his skin about the thickness of his finger. It was already clotting, but blood still seeped from the center of the wound. It was big enough to hurt like a bitch, but not big enough to stop him or kill him. Not by a long shot.

“Missed,” he said.

He slipped his jacket gently over his shoulder again and started up the stairs, the gun in his right hand aimed in front of him. At the top of the stairs, he put his ear to the door.

Nothing.

He clicked the radio and couple of times to see if he’d get a response.

Nothing.

Shit, open the door and have a group of men offering me a welcome under a hail of bullets, or do I find another way in?

There was no other way in. He was out of time. They knew he was here. He had no element of surprise. All he had were two guns, one of their radios and a love for Rosina that gave him more willpower than any man loyal to Fuccini.

Sure, they’d use deadly force, but so would he. The nice Canadian image was over. No more mister nice Canadian.

He twisted the knob, ripped open the door and dropped back down two steps to avoid being hit by anything coming through at him.

The door opened to its farthest point, and then slowly came back to shut.

No bullets hailed down on him. No men standing, waiting. Just dead silence, and Darwin in a stairwell opening doors.

He opened it a crack and peeked in at the corridor. Lights filled the hall. Darwin smiled at life’s little pleasures.

He opened the door even more. The hall was empty all the way to the end.

His gun was ready, the safety off. As carefully as he could, he edged around and looked down the hallway the other way.

No one.

Weren’t they expecting me?

He stepped into the hall, having no idea which way to go.