Seeing Your Shadow (part 2)
Serial Fiction
Travis Joseph Rodgers
Read Part 1 Here.
Was that a dream? Was there too much inconsequential nonsense in it for it to be a dream? Why were the Italian’s arms so memorable? Easy explanations, he told himself. He’d done extensive surveillance. He saw Estelle regularly. Alaina loved that song. He was always late with Lucy. It made sense. He’d meditate tonight. When everything was done, the kids were tucked in bed, and Lucy had been properly loved, he’d meditate. Clear his mind. For now, he’d focus on the shot.
He strode across the room, stretched his arms up over his head, and then picked up the smaller scope, the one unattached. He eyed the building across the street. Too late for lunch hours, so there was no line at the bank. Workers were back to punching the clock.
Why did he do this? He wondered. Not why did he do the job. He knew that. The pay was fantastic, but they had him. They’d had him for years. On a good day, he’d call himself at least a knight. A nobleman who kills for honor. Not just a pawn who does what the masters say, just to stay alive. No, why did he nap like he did? How could he nap, in fact, with death so near at hand, with so much riding on one shot? If he missed, his family was dead.
He just felt incredibly calm before the deed. That was what made him so good at the job. Nerves of steel, they’d said. Thirty minutes later, he was working on another set of air squats, just to keep the blood flowing. Only five reps. It wasn’t a workout. Then he squatted again and saw the car pull up. He cracked his neck and kept watching.
A man exited the front passenger’s side. A man exited the rear driver’s side. Both stepped around to the passenger’s side of the car. The one in front opened the door. A third man stepped out through the open door. White suit. Thinning dark hair. The money man. The white suit man took the first two steps, no problem, and then his right foot slipped on the third. He stumbled. An arm from the man at left shot out to steady him.
Phil stumbled back from the window. Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ, he whispered. No dream could be this accurate, this detailed. Could it? Déjà vu. He shook his head. He did a box breath, six counts in, hold for six, out for six, hold for six. Eyes closed. When the lids crept up, he was ready. He’d make shot, whether it was the first time or the second time. Didn’t matter.
Three minutes later, the door to the bank opened. One of the men in black came out first. Then the man in white. Then the other man in black. They moved toward the car quickly, and at the top of the stairs, the man in front finally stepped to the side. Phil squeezed the trigger. The man sneezed and hit the deck. Blood rolled down the stairs.
Phil collapsed his rifle, slipped the pieces into his black leather bag, and donned the remainder of his outfit. His movements were fast, fluid. He had done this before. Out on the stairs, he fell into a jog. He was downstairs, outside, and slipping inside the pizza shop.
He scanned the room. Two college kids on their phones sat a table near the counter. Five or so tables worked their way toward the rear of the building. A scattering of larger tables occupied the main seating area. No man. No mustache. Phil breathed in deep, felt suddenly centered again.
As he strode toward the back of the restaurant where the restroom was, he heard the slap slap slap of the dough. His footing faltered, and he stumbled sideways. His thigh hit the edge of a table, which went skidding into the wall with a thud. He steadied himself, took a step back, and saw him. The man with the wiry arms and the mustache.
“Hey, buddy,” the wiry man said. Phil gawked. “What’s going on out there?” he gestured toward the front door.
“I don’t know. Sorry.” He lowered his head and double timed it toward the rear of the store.
Once there, he slipped into the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, padded it dry with a paper towel. “Pull it together,” he said, staring into his own eyes.