Trapped in his End Game (Series)

CARMINE

The waves roll over the golden sand, the foam hissing as it pools around my feet. I curl my toes into the muddy-like sand with a boyish glee that has stayed with me for years. I walk alone, my footprints marking the sand as waves dart forward like white fingers on the shore. It’s a great day to be on the beach. There are families and kids milling about everywhere.

A boy splashes through the surf as he chases his sister, running into my legs.

“Sorry, mister!”

I ruffle his golden curls and continue on my way, beaming to everyone who passes me.

I feel light.

But when I look at the roller coasters on the boardwalk and hear the joyful screams of children, I feel that ache inside me pounding. When I was a kid, I always wanted to go to Coney Island. My neighbor’s parents would invite me all the time, but mother was a spiteful woman. She would never let me go anywhere.

My finger absentmindedly rubs the perfectly round scars on my chest. Cigarettes. Whenever I see one, I want to vomit. They’re everywhere in the city. Even here on this beach, some assholes decide to litter the sand with their cancer sticks.

“Stop crying!” she would scream. “Stop crying or I’ll give you something real to cry about!”

The glowing, red end of a cigarette. Such unimaginable pain like you would never believe.

I stop on the beach, seething.

She ruins everything. Even now, she haunts me.

Maybe because she’s still alive.

I try thinking about the girl who does make me happy, who chose me. Finally. My heart is already bursting with affection for her, but I know-I’ve learned the hard way to take it slow with girls. The last one said I was too intense. I slapped her hard when she said that. What the fuck does that mean, anyway? I’m too loving? I care too much?

It hurt my feelings. I know I shouldn’t have hit her, but she was a bitch, wasn’t she? Then she called the police, and I had to get Tony involved. Jesus Christ, it was a mess.

But I’ve had my eye on Adriana for a long fucking time. None of them know how long. Not even that piece of shit, Cesare.

I glance at my watch. Nearly noon. There’s a lot of shit to get done today, so I drop my sandals and slide my feet in them. Time to work. Heading towards the nearest pay phone, I call Officer Cramar, the cop I’ve been feeding info to.

“This is Patriot,” I say when he picks up the phone. “Meet me now under the bridge. I’ve got something for you.”

* * *

There’s not much under Brooklyn Bridge. A small strip of sand where the dirty water laps. Trash strewn all over. Broken glass. Junk.

I drive my car as close as I can to where we’re meeting, and then I wait behind the brush with my hand buried in my jacket. Officer Cramar has been useful to me, but he’s outrun his usefulness. She’s mine now. There’s no need to keep feeding him shit about Vince.

But I can’t just cut him loose, after all. The officer’s continued existence poses a threat to me. He knows what I look like. One word from his fucking mouth to someone in my crew, and I’m dead. Of course, if that cheese-eating fuck Tony had half a brain, he would suspect me already. There’s no fucking way he has anything on me. I’ve covered my tracks. It’s still dangerous to be a rat. They still won’t do anything to me without proof because of their precious omerta.

It makes me chuckle out loud. Where is Tony’s code when he’s in the strip club, cheating on his wife? Where was his code when that piece of shit Cesare killed Ritchie? I’ve tried and tried again and again to get rid of Vincent. First, by egging on Ritchie to avenge his brother. Then by ratting on Vince. Now he’s gone because his girl got sick of him. Ironic, isn’t it?

Officer Cramar walks in front of my vision. He’s not a small guy, but he was easy to manipulate all the same. My arm flies out of my jacket with the pistol and I aim for a split second. The officer slips on some sand and then he sees me, aiming a gun at him. His eyes widen and he holds his hands up.

“Put your fucking hands down.”

He obeys. “Carmine, what are you doing?”

“Just so you know, this isn’t personal.”

I pull the hair trigger and two neat bullets sink into his skull with hardly a sound, taking half of his brain out as his eyes roll up in the back of his head. His body lands with a surprisingly loud thud on the sand, dead. Then I work quickly.

Gripping his hands, I drag him up the slope and pop open my trunk. He’s a heavy bastard, but I manage to roll his body into my lined trunk. I take the latex gloves and bag from the trunk and then close it. I walk back down to the beach, whistling to myself as I gather all of the blood and bits of brain into the bag, wiping every trace of him on that beach.

There’s still the matter of his car.

I pop open the trunk and shove the bag inside, along with my gloves. Officer Cramar’s tongue sticks out as he quietly spills of all life. I’m glad I lined it well, because there’s yet another stop I have to make. Flipping open my cell, I call the tow-truck guy who never asks me any questions. I pay him extremely well to keep quiet, but I know that someday I’ll have to get rid of him, too. The more people who know, the more risk I assume. I’ve been doing this way too long and I’ve never been caught because I am very careful.

Killing a cop is not something I’ve ever done before. In broad daylight, no less. They’ll look for his car. Doing this could get me killed. Tony could easily use this as an excuse to bump me off.

The tow-truck comes rolls down and the bit of anxiety eases out of my chest. He rolls down the window to talk to me. Reaching inside my jacket pocket, I pull out an envelope full of cash.

“It needs to be unrecognizable, do you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Thanks a lot, Charlie.”

He’ll bring the cop’s car to the dump and their machines will crush his car into a soda can. Gone without a trace.

I climb into my car, giving myself a once over before I drive out of there. Next is a bit of business for Tony. A hit. Most captains let their soldiers do their dirty work, but I don’t. Killing doesn’t bother me, and neither does the messy disposal of their bodies. I take pride in how well I do my job. They don’t suffer if I don’t want them to. Really, I’m not that much different than a butcher.

But this guy won’t need to be cut up. I can just leave him there. I don’t have the trunk space, anyway.

Benito de la Serva.

I’m not sure what he did, but whatever it was, Tony wants him dead. So here I am. I park a couple blocks from his apartment, giving my trunk a small pat.

I’ll take care of you soon, buddy.

Then I march up the concrete stairs to his apartment. He’s really the perfect hit. Lives alone. No job. No one who will come looking for him.

It’s pretty boring, actually.

I laugh when I grasp the doorknob and it turns easily, allowing me inside. He might as well have an invitation.

It’s dark inside and I grip my pistol. My heart thrums with anticipation for the fight, the moment he’ll see me and scream. There’s a slightly bad smell and I see boxes and boxes of pizza stacked almost to the ceiling. A depressing couch sits in front of a TV playing cartoon reruns, and he sits there, nodding off. He looks like a middle-aged man. Thin as a rail, despite all the pizza boxes. I could just shoot him now in the chest, and he wouldn’t be the wiser.

But that’s so boring.

So I walk up until I can see his brown hair fluttering slightly with his breath, and I kick his legs hard.

He wakes up with a shuddering gasp and sees me with a gun pointed to his chest. I expect screaming. I expect a fight.

Instead, his eyes slowly fill with tears. “Please, God, no.”

“God doesn’t exist.”This is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

Sometimes it’s fun to play with them a little, but I’ll admit that I don’t like crying. It’s so noisy.

He backs away on the couch. “Tell Tony I have the money! I have it!”

“You do?” I grin. “Where is it?”

Ben points towards the mantelpiece, where there’s a small envelope. I look inside and thumb through the cash. Laughter bursts from my throat. “A few grand does not equal fifty thousand. You’ve kept Tony waiting for way too long. Sorry, man.”

“No, please! Don’t! I have kids, man!”

“They’ll survive without a father. I did.”

His face purples as he kneels in front of me, clasping his hands together in prayer. Deep, shuddering moans leave his mouth as he shakes on the floor, begging me for a reprieve. “Please Jesus, God. Save me. Help me, God!”

Something twists inside me when I see him praying. Suddenly, I want to cause him pain. Fuck this asshole.

A cruel grin spreads across my face. “I’ll tell you what, Ben. I’ll give you half an hour for your God to save you. If he doesn’t, you’ll die. Understand? Pray as much as you like, but don’t make a fuckin’ sound or I’ll kill you before your time is up.”

I sink into a rocking chair, smiling as he collapses on the floor, sobbing. I glance at my watch. “You better pray hard, Ben. Twenty-nine minutes left,” I say with a lilt in my voice.

Watching him blubber and cry on the floor, quietly whispering prayers into the carpet amuses me for a while, but then it becomes boring. I glance at my watch.

“Fifteen minutes left.”

He lets out a small shriek and a fresh wave of tears cascades down his cheeks. “Please, God! Hail Mary full of grace-”

I’m about ready to shoot the fucker. Hearing him recite the prayers over and over makes me feel sick to my stomach. My mother used to make me kneel in salt and recite them over and over again, because she said I was a wicked child. Hours into it, my knees would be bleeding. If I cried? I’d get the cane on my back. Or the belt. She’d flog me until I passed out. Then I’d wake up in her arms and she’d stroke my face and cry.

Five minutes left.

His voice gets a little more hysterical after I announce it.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll kill you.”

The fool would be smarter to charge me and scream, but he clings to hope too strongly. I stand up from the chair and he’s still begging his God. One minute left.

“Please, I’ll do anything! Jesus save my life, please!”

I shrug. “I guess your God doesn’t care about you.”

I raise my gun to his forehead.

“No, wait!”

The silencer narrows down the crack of the gunshots, but it’s still loud. Two in the forehead and I empty the rest in his chest. His mouth gapes open, and his eyes roll back. His face is a mask of blood as he falls backwards.

Dead. Gone.

I back out the way I came, eager to get out of that place. Officer Cramar is waiting for me in the trunk, after all. There’s much to be done.