Page 14 of Vas

“Do I look like a fuckin’ cop?”

Vas checked his eye roll. “Isn’t that the point? Not to look like one.”

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. “Here’s my ID. I own the Quickie Mart on the corner of Norris and Polk. You can verify that at any time.”

The license was legit. Tom Holliday. 5’8”. 145 pounds. But Vas still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced. “How much we talking?”

“Five grand.”

Shit. That was a lot of cash, but he played it cool. “How do I know you’re good for the money?”

“I’ll pay half now and half when it’s done.” Then, as if sensing Vas’s reluctance, he added, “Listen, I know your connections and you know where I work. I won’t stiff you.”

Vas ran through the deal in his head. No lie, his family could use the money and five grand was more than he made selling drugs after everyone took their cut. Not only did his mother work too hard, but his sister, Yana, wanted to go to beauty school and he worried if she didn't get her shot at that, she'd choose to hook up with one of the sharks that were already circling. But the big question was, could he kill a man? Even a piece-of-shit, no-good one?

When he still hesitated Tom stressed, “I’m desperate, man. I love my sister but I can’t convince her to leave her husband. I’ve already taken her to the clinic three times this year. She won’t survive too many more beatings.”

The desperation in the guy’s voice and the grief lining his face tipped the scales. He really did love his sister. Vas thought about his own sister and what he’d do if in the same situation. Without a qualm, he’d kill the fucker.

He’d made up his mind. “You get me the twenty-five hundred, let me see the second half, and I’ll get it done.”

Emulating a deflating balloon, the guy’s body sank in relief. “Thank you. Come by my store whenever you’re ready. I’m usually there. I’ll have your money for you.”

Vas watched the guy walk away, his head already whirling with ways to get the job done.

Vas should've found the act of killing a man in and of itself harder than it had been. Both in the planning and his ability to execute the deed. But after a week of observation, his qualms had been laid to rest. Tom’s sister had been rushed to the hospital and was currently in the ICU. She survived this beating, but the chances were she wouldn’t the next.

Patrick Monroe had sealed his fate.

After that, the hardest part was finding him alone. But soon he noticed a routine. Every night at nine o’clock, he walked down the road to the local bar, sat and drank for two hours, and then walked home. It had been during one of those late-night walks when he’d met his maker.

Staked out in an alley that was free of surveillance, Vas leaned against a wall between two dumpsters, unlit cigarette between his fingers, waiting patiently for his target to pass by.

“Hey, man. You got a light?” Vas asked, stepping out of the shadows.

Patrick stopped in his tracks, squintingat him through beer goggles. “Sure.” Dangling his own cigarette between his lips, he fumbled in his pocket, producing a lighter.

Vas took it but didn’t light up. Instead he tilted his head to the side and said, “Do I know you?”

Patrick shuffled unsteady feet, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

Vas snapped his fingers. “You work at the Jiffy Lube on Foothill, right? I was there the other day with my cousin, getting an oil change.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I think I remember you now,” he slurred.

Vas forced a laugh. “Small world.” He stuck his cigarette between his lips and lit it. A non-smoker, he was careful not to inhale the smoke. The last thing he wanted to do was start coughing, and break character. “Thanks, man.” He passed over the lighter, letting it slip through his fingers at the last second to clatter on the ground. “Shit, sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” Patrick waved a hand before leaning over to pick it up.

That’s when Vas made his move. He hiked a leg, kneeing the piece of shit under his chin to knock him off balance, while at the same time reaching behind to pull a field knife from its sheath at the small of his back. He twisted Patrick into a chokehold, facing away from him, raised his arm holding the knife, and with only the slightest hesitation, slit the dude’s throat.

Vas wasn’t expecting the amount of blood that gushed out. Holy shit, it spurted a good two feet—the movies definitely didn’t get it right. They also screwed him over thinking the guy would be dead before the knife finished its arc. Nope, Patrick tried to claw at his arm, making gurgling noises, the sounds of which Vas doubted he’d ever forget. It seemed to take forever for him to go completely limp, Vas growing more and more antsy while straining to listen for even the slightest hint that someone might be walking down the alley.

Heart rate jacked to the point he could hear it thumping in his ears, Vas struggled against the suddenly heavy weight, hoisting the dead body up and over the rim of the dumpster, careful not to get blood on himself. His arm was already covered in a cooled sticky coating that had matted the hairs. He’d thought ahead, bringing a jacket which he’d scooped from the ground along with the dropped lighter and unsmoked cigarette. Throwing it on and stuffing his gloves in his pockets, he hightailed it out of the alley, the murder weapon secured in his waistband for later cleaning.

His first kill hadn’t gone as planned, but he would get better.

Over the next couple of years, more and more people reached out, to the point he'd started to train with an array of weapons. It seemed there were a lot of bad people who the police either couldn't or wouldn't touch. Vas ditched the drug dealing, and after his mom died, he moved his sister and himself out of their apartment in the dead of night. He couldn’t afford to be on the cops’ radar, and his old gang hadn’t wanted to let go easy. He continued to work out and bulk up and taught himself to kill in any situation.

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