Bloodied shirt with torn upper buttons. Lying down on the cemented floor with white walls supporting my back. Patches of blood were clearly visible on the white, damp walls.
It was a parking lot. A three-story parking area of my very own house. Cars with bullet marks all over, shattered windows. They were vintage, so did not trigger any alarms.
Eight bodies lying on the floor. Four close combatants, each possessing a charming military knife. Four gun wielders, all wearing casual clothes that could help them blend into the public like they were some 9 to 5 corporate slaves.
Of course, I'm no superhero. Fighting off eight armed and highly trained men. Call it luck, or my own strength. But they did not leave me unscathed either. Two gunshots in the lower abdomen. I just hope the bullets passed through without damaging my internal organs.
"Ugh..." One of the men lying beside me grunted. A knife stuck in the middle of his chest, with eight gunshots all over his body.
I picked up the gun lying to my side, a P320 Legion with a suppressor. A serious weapon, though cheap. Still fascinating that it holds 21 rounds.
I put the tip at the man's neck, point blank.
"Guess you had a few more minutes of life written by the gods' will," I muttered and pulled the trigger. Even with a suppressor, the sound was unpleasant but not more than the mess it made.
Struggling with my body, I tilted slightly, taking out the vibrating phone from my pocket and accepted the call.
"While I understand that today was one hell of a victory, I'm sorry to say that there are pending requests that require your attention. I mailed the files to you and there's been no response." On the other side of the phone was my assistant, Ethan Harris, who had been a clerk with me for two years.
"I think what I need right now is an ambulance, Ethan," I responded. My voice was getting dull by the minute, with my body starting to cool down. The effects of adrenaline don't last long after all.
"What? Ambulance? …Where are you, Ivor?" he asked in a serious tone.
"At my place… It would be better if you come to pick me up instead of an ambulance." Maybe it's just me being paranoid, but I'm starting to lose trust.
"Just… Hang in there, Ivor. I'll be there in less than five minutes. You hear me? Stay on the call with me," he said with visible urgency in his voice, panting as he ran, picking up and getting into his car with a loud thud of doors being closed.
"How hurt are you, Ivor?" he asked, revving his engine.
"Two gunshot wounds in the abdomen, minor internal wounds, possibly hurt on the back of my head too, and visible cuts on my arms and collarbone," I mentioned, feeling the deep cut just below my neck with my other hand.
"The fuck even happened there? Why did you not call me beforehand?"
"If I knew eight armed men would barge into my house, I would surely not deny any kind of help from my associates," I replied.
"Eight? Fucking… Where are those people now?" he asked, and I heard him taking out a gun from his car's dashboard, probably, and loading it with a metallic click.
"Their bodies are here… with me," I said. The pain was becoming unbearable by the minute. It felt like someone put a hole in my stomach. Literally did, twice at that. A pain so intense that it was making me forget about the other major injuries I had sustained.
"For fuck… Do these guys look like Russians?" I looked at the faces of the dead bodies at Ethan's question.
"Now that you mention it…" I muttered and added, "Sort of."
"Fuck. This… This is the reason I hoped to get into real estate law. Not much money, but at least lives are not something that are put at risk in it," he shouted.
"What are you even getting at?" My tone got even lower; I was not in a position to think straight.
"You freed your client of all the criminal charges at the cost of putting the real murderer behind bars for life. And that guy, the murderer, as you mentioned earlier, received an enormous amount of funds every month from Russia. Not because they hired him or something, but it was his cut in the operations," he paused.
"Hm…" I indicated for him to continue. I knew all of this. Probably. What was he just saying? I had no idea. The tinnitus was getting rough in my ears; I wasn't able to hear his voice clearly now.
"You thought the murderer was a commissioned assassin. A professional killer, maybe? But that wasn't the case, Ivor. That guy is a major stakeholder. And if he can't get free, he'll bring hell to the person who stole his freedom," Ethan continued.
"Yeah… whatever-"
"Alright, I'm here." Along with his voice, I heard tires screeching on the road and a car stop.
"Where are you?" he asked, getting out of the car and running into the house.
"Parking lot, third floor."
After a minute, I looked towards the stairs. Ethan, a brown-haired man with a light beard in his mid-twenties, came running towards me.
"Believe it or not, I'm impressed," he said, helping me stand up.
"These guys are professional killers. Each one like a military special forces soldier. Surviving eight of them is not less than a main character situation."
I chuckled and moved into his car.
Six minutes drive to the hospital. Stay awake no matter what.
I pointed at the stereo as he revved the car.
"What? Music?" he asked.
"Heavy Metal," I muttered.
"Man you are fucking insane you know that?"
|---- 14 Hours later |
I woke up to the scent of sandalwood incense. A wooden-furnished room, clean white bed, white sheets laid above my body. I was all bandaged up on the wounds.
"Awake?" I heard a familiar voice from the right. It was Ethan's.
"No."
"No damage to internal organs or whatsoever, minor injury on the head, cut on the collarbone required sewing, not to mention the bullet wounds fired at almost point blank. Due to GSR content, you will have thorough checkups on the wounds every week, take pain relievers and anti-inflammatory medications," he recited a well-learned paragraph.
I looked at him; his clothes were changed into a casual shirt and joggers.
"Did Tommy contact you?" I asked.
"Tommy? You mean former judge Thomas Bennett? He was on his way to the hospital when I talked to him thirty minutes ago," he replied.
"Speak of the d—" He was about to continue when the doors opened and a muscular man, reaching 6'4" in height with a heavy white beard, rushed inside the room wearing a black coat and pants, white shirt and no tie.
He is Thomas Bennett. A former high court judge, and current managing partner of Caldwell & Associates, a really top-notch private law firm.
He looked at my condition and stared at my face. The silence in the room was definitely making me uncomfortable.
"You are going back," he said in an authoritative tone.
"No, I am not," I replied.
"Yes, you are. Do you even realize what consequences will arise if anything were to happen to you?" he grunted in anger.
I looked at Ethan, and he nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him to give us some privacy.
"What has my father got to do with this? It's a profession, there can be ups and downs—"
"So you don't realize! Ivor, this is not about your career but about your life. You, outside your family, are my responsibility. If anything happens to you, it's gonna be my neck on the line."
"No, it won't. You want me to write it down and sign it? Then you can just show it to my father that all my decisions were mine alone and you don't have to take further responsibilities. I insisted on not informing my family, I insisted on not asking for help, I insisted because it's my life, and you're making me say so much even after knowing that I just woke up!" I stated loudly.
"... Ivor, it's not about responsibility. You're like a child to me—"
"No, stop. Stop with the emotional blackmailing," I cut him off.
"Listen to me first."
"Not buying your arguments."
"It's for your own good."
"That's why I'm not buying your arguments."
"… …"
"Fine, I want that thing written on a paper with your signature on it, also write down that you put a gun to my head to make me fall for that agreement," he said, dropping the emotional act.
"Sure."
"But you gotta stay off-grid. Those guys operate in the US because of the channel they have built. Going cross-country is not just their work. So move yourself to another place for a while," he said.
"I can think of that," I replied.
"Perfect. And I just got the thing for you." He took out his phone and asked me to take a look when my phone buzzed with a notification.
"Just the kind of cases you love, a high-profile murder," he said as I picked up my phone and opened the mailbox.
"Delicate, needs brains, and a perfect opportunity for you to explore a different culture. I've already hooked you up with a local law firm in Korea."
"You fucking set me up!" I looked back at him.
"No, I'm just taking responsibility to save my neck," he replied and added, "Your flight's scheduled for the night. You'll get the required documents via Ethan."
With that, he left the room, and Ethan barged in with his phone in his hands.
"What the fuck is even this?" he shouted.