Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Vendetta Theory ❯ Chapter 1

The boy ran away from the howling sirens and from his life as it was. He would have never been in this position if not for that one night and those two men. One lay dead, one lay dying. He nursed his arm that was flooded with crimson blood. The boy wondered where to go. He certainly couldn't stay in the town. Not with the police searching door to door looking for him, and for what? Hacking a couple thousand dollars, a drop in the bucket really, out of the national treasury. It wasn't like he did this for fun, he thought. He had to support his rundown excuse of a family somehow.  

 

The rent was always expected on the 5th of the month, the utilities on the 7th. It was the more modern answer to the question. “Is it wrong to steal bread to feed a starving family?” just on a larger scale. In this case, “Is it wrong to steal money to pay for the electricity?” In the boy's mind no. In the government's mind however, a decisive yes.  

 

He recalled what had happened that night when the two agents broke into his house, though he was still confused as to how he had been caught committing the crime he was charged for.   It was a pitch-dark night and he had been lying awake for hours thinking about how he was going to explain to his bank how 2000 dollars suddenly showed up in a bank account that happened to be owned by yours truly.  

 

Riding a deep train of deliberation, he thought he heard the slightest clink as of a pin dropping onto the floor. To most the sound was simply one of the noises of the night, but he knew better. He had picked to many locks over the years to not be able to recognize the noise of the click-click-click that resounded as the tumblers of their door were disabled. He listened and caught the doorknob being turned ever so carefully. The boy now waited to hear the loud creak which he was sure would resonate through the apartment complex alerting at least one sleepless resident. It never came. They had oiled the hinges! These guys, whoever they were, had done this before. They knew what to do and when to do it.  

 

He cautiously rose from his cot and peeked out his bedroom door. He saw two men whose presence caught him off guard. They had long coats and were carrying .45 caliber semi-automatic pistols. Two sharp beams of light came from portable flashlights carried by the two men. They flooded the walls searching for someone. Searching for him!   A beam of light swept over the back of one of the men for only a second but it was all that was needed to identify their employer.

 

The jackets were made of a smooth black material. Imprinted into the back were the large block letters C.G.A, Central Government Agency. These were standard uniform for the C.G.A. As strange as it was for a midnight raid, the intention of their arrival was not necessarily assassination, perhaps they merely were tax collectors.  

 

That was before he saw the Red Hand. There was one mark that set the elite from the rest of the agents. These were the best of the best, the Agency's bodyguards and right hand men. They were sent through a six-year training spanning from Siberia to the Sahara. Endlessly adaptable, at the finish of training no silly diplomas or certificates were handed out. Each and every man had the ominous Red Hand tattooed on the nape of his neck. Throughout the world it was said that to see them was to see death.   Then one of them spoke.

 

“There`s a lady sleeping on the couch. I was told this place was empty `cept for the kid.”

 

“Just tranq her, and don't forget to stick the parcel to her body. Supervisor Christofferson was very clear about how he wanted the parcel attached.” Both men gulped as they remembered the verbal and physical abuse others got for disobeying Supervisor Christofferson. A short hiss was heard as a tranquilizer dart was shot into his mother, followed by a quiet thump as her limp hand fell to the ground.  

 

Not knowing the two men's names he nicknamed the two Scarface and Longarm. The first a tribute to the grotesque scar that ran from the man's temple to the base of his neck, and the second was a moniker due to the man's short stubby limbs.   The boy ducked back behind his doorway, grabbed his old set of throwing knives off of a hook on the his dresser and prepared to defend himself, his household and his mother.   He took a deep breath and reflected about his situation. There were two armed men in his house; and his only defense was a rusted set of knives that he played darts with. Never for anything as high stakes as his life.   The knives were old, very old. He had bought them at a flea market in downtown Kobe. He'd gotten the set for what he thought was a bargain but later calculated to be about 600 dollars. But that was a long time ago before, well; the boy shook his head violently to clear the thought from his head and went to work examining the knives.  

 

They were an oxidized green, far from the shining bronze they once were and you could still see the faint Japanese writing etched in mysterious black ink. Two men, four knives. That's two throws at each person he calculated.  

 

“Hey I don't see him.” One Grumbled.  

 

“Don't worry he's here somewhere. Fan out.” was the reply.  

 

The boy tensed up as the bathroom door next to him was kicked open. He wiped his sweating palms on the front of his shirt and wiped his eyes clear of perspiration. The knives jingled as his hands trembled. He was irritated by this development and willed his hands to stay still. They half-obliged still shaking slightly from nervousness   He heard a heavy breath close to him and prepared his assault. The boy spun out from his hiding space, tore a knife of the chain and threw it in one fluid motion.  

 

Whap! He had missed! His nerves caused the knife to slip and hit the wall several feet away from a surprised Longarm who had expected an easy snatch and go job. Yellow flame erupted from the gun barrel as the agent recovered from his shock and fired a shot point-blank into the boy's right arm. He hardly noticed the pain and threw another knife. Thud! The knife hit its mark this time, and connected into Longarm's left lower ribcage with the same sound of someone slapping a piece of meat. Longarm screamed in agony as he fell to the floor clutching his chest.  

 

Of course all this commotion caused Scarface to run into the room with gun drawn. The boy was ready and had one ancient rusted knife drawn.  

 

“Fly true.” he whispered to himself and hurled the knife at his adversary. The man didn't even get a shot off as the knife pierced him right through the neck. He stood there for a few moments opening his mouth in protest, but it was not words which escaped his lips but frothy blood. Stiffly he fell, collapsing to the ground and the boy knew immediately he was dead.   He heard shouts coming from all around the complex, lights clicked on like a fireworks display.  

 

Before leaving he took the last knife of the chain, slammed it into the wall and attached a piece of paper to the ring at the bottom of it.   The note was a simple creation. The boy's script was a shield for his pain and he hid his true words behind the block print.  

 

Dear Mom,  

I'm sorry. You might not see me again, so I leave you with a parting gift. At Grumman's Banking Industries is an account it has all the money you'll every need. Account number 340-098-79-25. Please don't tell authorities lest it be confiscated. Burn this note once you have read it. I beg you to accept my apology and forgive me for anything I might have done or said anything to hurt you.

I love you Mom.  

 

He paused. He couldn't bear signing his name. It would be as if he was endorsing his abandonment. After all she wasn't the greatest parent, often doing nothing for hours at a time but sitting staring at his father's pictures. She had taken far too much of a like to drink and smoke. Every once in a while she would apply for some job but no one hired her. But after his dad had died she had been a wreck; him making a big deal about their poor quality of living might have been the straw that broke the camel's back. He was already afraid what he was doing would drive her to the edge, so he finished it simply.   Your Son, who will never forget you.  

 

As he left through the old cast iron gates of the apartment complex he heard a loud shriek followed by a yell "Oh my God! Someone call the police! Stop that boy!”  

 

He took off, racing away from the apartments , his feet pounded on the pavement like a drum.

 

***

 

After a long time, he stopped in a place he had never seen before. He had no idea how long he'd been running, he was far from city limits, that he did know. He came to a small development of a few houses and a long abandoned warehouse connected by an alley to a rundown gas station. He heaved in deep breaths of air and he hunkered over listening but he heard nothing but the cool whistle of the breeze. 

 

He checked his watch. He rubbed his eyes to make sure what he was reading was true. It read 4:17. He had been running for almost 3 hours straight with no food or water. His joints ached, his legs burned, his throat screamed for water. In a seemingly Godsend of a moment he found a half full water bottle lying by the gas station. Perhaps it was filled with a chemical, Marcus didn't care. Beggars can't be choosers, he thought as the lukewarm substance, whatever it was, hit his raw throat. His thirst at least mildly quenched he finally inspected his surroundings closer.

 

The alley had looked long abandoned and he was almost 30 miles outside city limits. Its dank walls reeked of paint, slime, and alcohol. They were made from solid brick that might have once been a deep red but now were more of a green gray, and simple cement. There were cracks and pieces missing as can be expected on any rock but the construction were sound. Massive graffiti draped the walls like a curtain bringing a certain eerie feeling over the entire place, but the painted gang symbols and obscenities weren't nearly as chilling as his next sight.  

 

The boy froze as the all to familiar sound of a rifle cocking entered his ears followed by the command, “Turn around nice and slow. Hands on your head.”