Plan B

 

Plan B

“I will never forget the sacrifice they made, nor let it be in vain.”

I switch the TV off and kick the man tied to the chair.

“So that lame bullshit was the best you could come up with?”

He mumbles behind the gag that I had forced into his mouth when I pulled him out of his bed.

“Shut up! You only know their names because someone wrote them down for you. Tell me, what is Pete’s boy’s name? What was Al’s nickname?”

I move to the window and ease the curtain aside. Following the neighbours’ gunshot report, the first guys on scene had established an inner cordon and taken cover positions. The marksmen wouldn’t be far behind, I thought, keeping myself flat against the wall.

The flashing lights are dazzling when they point directly at you.

The mumbling gets louder. 

“Yeah, I know... could get messy. But we don’t have to face this alone. I brought a friend... well, a friend of yours anyway.”

I drag the body into the front room and leave it in his eye line.

‘INSIDE THE BUILDING. COME OUT THE FRONT DOOR WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR.’

He starts rocking in the chair, eyes bulging like half plugged golf balls in a sand trap, straining at his bonds.

“Yeah, we both know the drill now. After the loudhailer, the phone call; then the rush assault - flashbangs, smoke, bullets. Can’t let criminals get away with it. Go in hard. That’s your policy after all, Boss... Some bloody Boss you are.”

‘YOU CAN STILL RESOLVE THIS WITHOUT ANYONE GETTING HURT. COME OUT NOW.’

“Time to force the pace.”

I kneel beside the body, pull a small revolver from inside his jacket and hold the index finger on the trigger. One squeeze and glass scatters across the patio.

“Residue on his hands. Never tell which bullet was fired in which order.”

The phone rings, making us both jump.

“Of course, you’ll die a hero, a tragic victim of a criminal vendetta... unless they find the drug money your friend here paid you. Is it well hidden?”

Mumble.

“No Evidence? What about your secret phone? There’s evidence on that.”

I produce it from my pocket.

“Calls, messages. A message to meet you tonight. And last week - one warning him about our ‘tragic and ill-planned raid’.”

I throw the phone into the corner.

“It should survive the fire over there. Did I mention there was going to be a fire? That’s the smell – petrol. Terrible for forensics.”

I turn the gun towards him and squeeze the finger again.

I strike a match, drop it; flame engulfs the room.

I scramble over to him, cut his bindings, toss them into the fire and roll him away from the chair.

Heavy boots pound towards the front door.

Ill-planned! When I plan something, it works. Pete and Al knew that.

I grab up the gun hand again and look straight down the barrel.

___ 

This was written for Wakefield Mahon's Motivation Mondays prompt