Death from Behind

Chapter 4

2009-03-14T18:54:00.000-07:00

Pete had an ass that wouldn't quit. Most buff body-builder types had flat, narrow asses, as if focusing on their chest exercises made them forget all about their backside. Not Pete. Flynn suspected he spent hours during the week perfecting the Buns of Steel tapes.

"What an asshole," he whispered under his breath and rolled his eyes. Flynn liked to take care of himself too, of course, but wasn't nearly as obviously self-absorbed as Pete. At least, he hoped he wasn't. He caught his own hand on his abs and quickly moved it to a cup of coffee on the table.

Jon was by the window, getting a better look at the high school. Teenagers in BMWs drove into the lavish parking lot with not only numbered, but named spaces. It seemed everyone who's daddy donated a wing to the school got their own parking spot and an attendant to wipe their ass with gold foil. This was the only high school Jon had seen where the student lot was better than the faculty lot.

"Punks."

Flynn sipped his coffee. He could see Pete out the window a few feet away. Pete was unmistakable, even if you couldn't see his face. He dressed like a Guido, but he was as white as they come. He called himself "Pietro", which he must have thought sounded more Italian. Still, as cheesy and ridiculous as his get-up was, he was not someone to mess with. Poor dead Ian had found that out the hard way.

"Let me get this one. Just looking at his smug ass irritates me," Flynn said as he took his rifle from the chair next to him. He wasn't so much into the weapon as he was into killing. He wasn't sure of the brand or caliber. All he knew was that the cash the Guido had just stuffed into his sock was the last score he'd ever make.

"It'll almost a shame to puncture his perfect patootie," Jon said, with the most serious face he could make.

"I love it when you alliterate."

"I know, pumpkin." Jon winked at Flynn, who took position at the window.

He wondered if he could angle a shot to were the bullet hit Pete in the side of one buttcheek and came out the other. "Well, you never know until you try."

Pete was always very careful with his work. Jon and Flynn knew that. They'd been tailing him for four months. He had to be careful as Rico's closest cousin and right-hand man. It was his job to do Rico's dirty work. He got paid for breaking the thumbs of teenage boys who didn't come up with Rico's money at the end of the week, among other tasks. Cameron had told Jon and Flynn that he was also the one responsible for abducting Ian, and probably had a hand in killing him.

The thing about Pete's carefulness was that it was always so short-sighted. He did business in broad daylight near expensive cars, nowhere a cop would suspect another shiny douchebag among the crowd, and no time when a rival dealer would come onto the territory. His security consisted of his eyes and ears. The fatal flaw was that he never looked up.

Jon put a stick of nicotine gum in his mouth and chewed quietly, making a face. He stood behind Flynn and stared a hole into Pete's head. He smiled, knowing that even if Pete looked up at the 4th floor hotel room window, he wouldn't get three feet before he was dead.

There were three high school boys standing around, dressed not unlike Pete. Surely they were some of his regulars. Witnesses. Perfect. Flynn finished his coffee and set up his shot. The seat of Pete's pants came into view and were centered in the cross hairs. Flynn put his finger gently on the trigger.

"I love this part," Jon said, as if he were reading Flynn's thoughts out loud.

Flynn squeezed the trigger, and waited two seconds in the silence. At first Pete didn't move. It was as if the bullet had missed him. But Flynn knew it had not. There was always a moment of shock when someone got shot. A moment where they felt nothing. Now Pete looked at a stain running down the left side of his white track pants.

"What the fuck?" Flynn read Pete's lips through the rifle sight. Famous last words.

The three high school boys with matching haircuts cleaned Pete's pockets out. One of them picked off the pair of $400 Oakleys that had flown off his face. Not one of them pulled out a phone to call 911. They walked to their first period class as the bell rung. Flynn and Jon were already a mile down the road before the principal came along and found an assless Pete laying on the concrete.

Chapter 3

2009-02-22T00:43:00.000-08:00

Five years earlier...

"Let's go, you lazy bugger! Come on, why are you being such an arse, today of all days?"

"Fuck today." Jon took a drag of his cigarette. The first puff of a cigarette from a fresh pack always seemed to be the sweetest. "Go without me."

"Yeah, right. I'm not about to leave my best chum alone, smoking like a chimney. Not today!" Ian could be a right pain in the ass when he got an idea in his head. Jon finally let himself be dragged down into the street after 20 minutes of coaxing.

"One drink, man, then I'm going back to my cigarettes and porn mags upstairs."

"You're a real charmer, Jon." Ian winked. There was something in his eyes... something Jon didn't like. If they were headed where he thought they were headed, Jon would have gladly taken a bullet to the face instead.

It was only a three-block stroll to The Dirty Glass, the local bar the guys frequented regularly. Ian chattered merrily on the way. Jon nodded and smoked, dreading what lay ahead. At last, reaching the door of the pub, he threw down his cigarette butt and crushed it under a corduroy slip-on. "Douchebag shoes" is what Flynn called them, but Jon didn't care. They were damn comfortable and he owned four pairs.

"Right this way, sir," Ian gestured as he opened the door. Jon stepped in, and was instantly horrified as his fears became a reality.

"SURPRISE!!!" The crowd inside the bar screamed. Jon nearly fell backward with the pure force of the sound. It seemed everyone Jon had ever met was present. His eyes darted to Flynn who was sitting at the abandoned bar, his back toward the door. Jon felt a hint of hurt that Flynn hadn't joined the partiers, but also knew he'd have kicked Flynn's ass if he had partaken in this monstrosity.

Friends and family members seemed to come at him from all directions. Hugs and handshakes from most of the men, and kisses from the women and the more forward guys. Someone pinched his ass. Jon turned instantly. "You asshole!"

"Just returning the favor, Jonnybaby!" Gaby was sick. "Happy birthday, beautiful!"

Jon hugged the crazy bitch. She was a nut, but he loved her with all his heart. He also never remembered having pinched her bum.

"Leave some for the rest of us, treacle," Richard said as he bumped Gaby aside to give Jon a hug.

"Rich, you old bastard! It's been forever!" Jon was genuinely happy to see his old friend. They had a hearty hug that Richard ended with the slightest brush of his lips on Jon's cheek.

Immediately, as was the custom with Jon's core group of friends, the eating and drinking started. Beer of all varieties flowed freely. Jon hoped someone else had the tab for this.

"Relax, you tightwad!" Ian nudged him and lead him to a table near the bar. "Tonight's on me!" No one knew where Ian got his money from, but he sure seemed to foot the bill a lot. That's why nobody ever asked where he got his money.

"Gimme a hug, you bastard!" Jon jokingly yelled at Flynn.

"Ah, fuck off!" Flynn said, setting his huge beer stein on the bar. He slid off his bar stool and dutifully gave Jon a good squeeze. "Happy birthday, ya'idjit."

A round of horrible bar food was followed by a perfectly round and perfectly frosted chocolate cake with no candles. It was brought in by the domestic diva himself, Cameron. "I don't do candles," he always said. "They'd be like blemishes on my creations." No one ever complained. Cam's cakes were always delicious, as were his salads, pastas, roasts, pastries, and frozen drinks.

Jon always hated the days leading up to his birthday, when he'd try to figure out if his friends had planned a surprise party or not. Yet he always found himself glad when they did. It meant someone gave a shit. Or they just liked free booze. Either way, Jon always had fun, and too much food and drink, the way a birthday boy should.

Six beers and a shot of godknowswhat later, Jon got up to use the can. He hated breaking the seal in public, but he wasn't about to piss himself on his birthday. Maybe he'd save that for New Year's.

When he was at the sink washing his hands and trying to regain some sobriety, another reflection joined his in the warbly mirror.

"Hey, I was hoping I could talk to you tonight." It was Ian, in a much more somber mood than he'd been in earlier. "I'm in trouble, Jon. I don't know who can help me."

"What?" Jon was a little dizzy. Fluorescent lights over white bathroom tile made his eyes swim. He wasn't sure what Ian meant.

"This guy, Jon. This guy--I don't know how to say it. His name is Rico..." is all Jon heard. He puked into the sink and collapsed onto the tiles. When he awoke, he was alone, still on the bathroom floor. The clock on the wall read 11:48. He'd been unconscious under five minutes.

What the fuck did they give me to drink?, he thought as he stood up. He rinsed his mouth and then splashed water on his face. He felt better. He checked himself in the mirror, and satisfied that there was no puke on his shirt, he re-joined the party. It wasn't until the next morning that he realized Ian had disappeared out of nowhere.

Chapter 2

2009-02-18T21:17:00.000-08:00

Flynn reached behind the toilet, cursing whoever had come up with this set-up. He pulled out a white plastic grocery bag wrapped around two smaller brown paper bags.

"Payday," he whispered under his breath.

"Yeah, the poopin's good today, buddy!"

Flynn rolled his eyes. Why don't fuckers ever just mind their fucking business in a goddamn public toilet? He slipped out of the bathroom after convincing himself shooting the man in the next stall would be too much of a hassle.

He slid into the booth across from Jon in their eatery of choice, the dingy Greasy Spoon with the perpetual "HELP WANTED" sign in the window.

"Was it there?" Jon asked, knowing the answer already.

"It always is."

The bags fit comfortably under Flynn's dark gray sport coat. He always took out one of his side holsters on payday. He patted his heart.

He looked down at his New York steak with a smile. Mia Wallace had it right. It was a wonderful thing to come out of the john and have your food waiting for you. But it was kind of annoying to come out of the john to find your partner dangling an empty spoon from his bottom lip. Flynn motioned to Jon's bowl of tomato soup.

"You gonna eat that, or gently caress it all night?"

"It's hot, bitch. Why do you always have to break my fucking balls?"

They had been partners way too long. It really was like a marriage. Except instead of dates they went out to kill and instead of children they had guns, knives, bombs, garrotes, and any number of assorted weapons they could get their hands on. They even lived together.

"We've got another job tonight. That butterball's death probably reached Rico by now. He's scared, but not scared enough." Rico was the local drug dealer who dealt near the schools, selling weed to the rich kids and heroin to the vice principal. He was also the piece of shit who'd killed Ian.

"He'll never be scared enough for my liking. Next best thing for him to be is dead." Jon's aviator glasses hid the hate in his eyes. Ian was Jon's friend. One day five years ago, he disappeared out of the blue. That day had happened to be Jon's birthday.

That afternoon's target had been Rico's brother in law. His cousin was next on the list. Jon and Flynn were moving closer and closer to Rico, killing everyone he cared about, just like they'd promised. They usually worked for hire, but Jon knew if they'd caught Rico's scent earlier, they'd have taken him out for free. But this was better. Cameron had made a handsome deal with them. He had a bigger vendetta against Rico. And he had money coming out his ass. When they were finished, Flynn and Jon would never have to work again.

"What's the guy's name?" Jon was bad with names. He was admittedly not the brains of the operation. Flynn took care of money and recon, Jon took care of the dirty work.

"Pete, but who cares?"

"No one but the gravestone maker." Jon put a now-dry cigarette in his mouth. "Let's go."

Chapter 1

2009-02-18T17:56:00.000-08:00

"Look at the ass on that one," Jon said, taking his last "last" cigarette out of his breast pocket.

"Put that away, you look like a jackass," scolded Flynn. "Only jackasses kill while smoking."

Jon took aim at the rippling round ass in front of them and hesitated only momentarily, the unlit cancer stick hanging from his lips. He shot off one perfect round and the fatass was dead.

Without a word Flynn pulled the car away from the curb. They were deep into the afternoon Florida traffic before anyone had realized that greaseball had been shot. The police would no doubt be along shortly, first two ricidulous bike-patrol cops in helmets and shorts, and finally a few cruisers with flashing lights. It would be for naught, as the bumbling Miami cops never knew what to do when the quiet of the rich neighborhood was broken, and in this case even a top detective would be at a loss. The only clue was the bullet in the fat man's right cheek, just an inch away from his asscrack. It was almost as if a sharpshooter had been aiming right for his hole. It was the damnedest thing--a series of inexplicable murders with only one thing in common: the victim had been wounded in the ass every time.

Jon slumped back in the car seat, uncomfortable in the Miami heat.

"Goddamn it, turn the fucking air on!"

"Fuck you." Flynn let out a bit of a grin as he turned the A/C on full blast. He hated the air conditioner on with the windows down, and everyone knows you can't shoot someone from inside a car with the windows up.

They were the most notorious killers in recent rag mag history. Jon could imagine the next day's headline. MIAMI ASS-ASSASSINS STRIKE AGAIN! He groaned at himself. He finally put his soggy cigarette back in his pocket with the other three. He'd had each of these in his mouth at least once this week, but never smoked. He hated getting wife-nagged by Flynn every time he thought about it. Goddamn surgeon general, he thought.

"Relax. You know you don't even want one after a job. Let's get some chow." Flynn had heard a Marine say that in a movie recently and had been dying to use the line.

Jon looked at the menacing Polish bolt-action rifle at his feet. His new baby. He loved that thing more than cigarettes. He loved it more than sex.