Skar: Twenty Six
It was the accumulation of a few slipups and big mistakes on my part that brought this situation upon me. I always had the problem of counting my eggs before they hatched; of celebrating before the final whistle had been blown, and this flaw had been the cause of quite a good number of incidents after the murder of Sandra Séance. Anytime that name popped in my head, I cursed, because she was responsible for almost everything that I had gone through since.
And that made me remember where I made a mistake. My chosen method to use in killing Nathan Prescott was to use a bomb that would explode right in his ear, killing him. While I was pretty desperate, I had to admit that my actions were careless. I forgot about the scar curse ad the implications when I dropped a bomb at his house.
But I was without that scar now. I was here, and forgetting about the curse, I did not realize that my face was not marred by a grotesque scar that might have extended to my internals, causing brain damage probably. If the scar was not there, then it could only mean one thing.
Nathan Prescott was not dead, and worse still, the deal with Skeletor still stood. And now death was at my doorstep.
“Can I f**king help you, bozo?” I spat, still crouched in the position he found me.
“Damn, now I know what irritates me the most about most of you youths in this scene. No respect, just flying straight into the banter on the first encounter. If I were you, I’d shut my trap for a while. Maybe I might decide to forgive you and let you go if you would just keep q-“
“Let’s not be daft here and try to play any mind games, Skeletor. At least respect me that much, man. You and I know that all that stuff you said now was bullsh*t so please cut the nonsense.”
He smiled. “Engaging in discussion to buy time, are we, Skar? A waste of time in my opinion but then you’re about to die. Whatever helps you rest in peace, I guess.” he said, aiming the gun at my head as I turned back to face him slowly. How mechanical of him, he didn’t even want to waste any time.
But he had wasted too much time already. During our little dialogue, I had been reaching for the silenced 9mm Beretta pistol strapped at my waist. Ever so subtly, I took it out and, in that bending position, brought it to my crotch area slowly.
“See you when I-“ he stated smugly.
“Waste off, man!” I said, quickly bending further and aiming from in between my legs. He saw this and reacted quickly, pulling the trigger, but he didn’t aim better, so his shot grazed my shoulder. I squeezed twice, however, and the first hit him right in the knuckles, forcing him to drop his gun. The second one buried itself in his left shoulder, and he fell backward.
“Maybe it’s the fact that I’m so much better than what I used to be, but right now, you don’t look like someone that’s off the CIA’s most-wanted list, Skeletor. Rookie mistake, slow reflexes – you only fired twice – is this the sh*t that comes with aging, veteran assassin? Is this what happens when you’re in the game longer than your prime?” I said, keeping my distance while scorning him.
I took out another of those cellphones, this one working in another way. It exploded when I called it. I then fired into his axilla region on both arms as he screamed, terminating any chances of moving those hands. I finished off by shooting into his kneecaps.
“I made the mistake of not making sure that Prescott was dead, eh? Well, that; all to my benefit now,” I said, thinking that if I went and shot him in the chest or took him off life support, then the whole scar on my face would be averted. “So I think I’ll go clean up my messes now, then. I had some respect for you in this game, but right now, I’m a man on a mission as well, so you are nothing but another target.”
I dropped the phone on his chest and went into the stairwell. “Say hello to that guy with the horns and tail. I don’t believe in any of that nonsense, but I guess you do, so enjoy,”
By now we were far off from each other, so I pressed the button and I heard the bomb go off.
Whether or not Skeletor died, his life as an assassin – and a potential threat – were over.
The news had carried the story of the assassination attempt on Nathan Prescott’s life, and they did mention that he was admitted at the Emergency Room in St. John’s Specialist Hospital. I smiled, thinking about how there were several ways to kill this guy in this tricky situation.
But as I reached there, I got the shock of my life. A helicopter flying off, and according to the chatter I could hear from the news vans, Nathan Prescott was in it, being flown to Germany for treatment. I bit my lip and swore under my breath.
Now I had to hope he survived, knowing that if he did, he would stalk me for the rest of my life.
TO BE CONTINUED
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