Vinnie gets the point

Invasion on our home turf

Checking the shipment with Tony

Inside the mansion's dimly lit garage, Tony and I are deep in the process of checking in last night's shipment—a collection of weapons that had nearly been our undoing at the harbor. The memory of gunfire and shouting still echoes in my mind, a stark reminder of the life I've chosen. "Remember the look on that guard's face before you took him out? Cold, Vinnie, real cold," Tony says, his voice a mix of admiration and jest.

I nod, the image vivid in my mind. The guard hadn't stood a chance, caught in the unforgiving sights of my gun. "It's kill or be killed in this game," I muse aloud, a grim acceptance of my role in this dark world. Survival of the fittest, or perhaps, the cruelest.

The mansion, with its grandeur and opulence, is a fortress of vice. Its walls have seen transactions that could turn a man's stomach, hosting deals that bind flesh and fortune alike. But to me, it's just another day at the office, another step in a dance with the devil that I've grown all too accustomed to.

Tony claps me on the back, pulling me from my thoughts. "Your turn for sentry," he says. Even though my rank usually exempts me from such duties, I don't mind. There's something about the quiet of the night, the roar of the surf in the distance, and the weight of my weapons—a comforting familiarity in this chaotic life.

Sentry duty. A welcome quiet moment and a good cigar.

As I step out into the night, the contrast is stark. The cool, crisp air is a welcome reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere of the garage. I light a cigar, letting the smoke wrap around me like a comforting shroud. The quiet, punctuated only by the distant sound of the surf and the weight of my pistol and submachine gun, offers a rare moment of peace. The estate's manicured lawns stretch out before me, leading to the shadowed treeline—a boundary between our world and the one we prey upon.

Tony's voice crackles through the headset, a sudden intrusion into my reverie. "Hey Vinnie, what's the difference between a job and a wife?" His tone is laden with the anticipation of the punchline.

I can't help but bite. "I dunno, Tony, what?"

"After five years, the job still sucks." His laughter is raucous, a sound that carries a semblance of camaraderie in this life we've chosen.

I chuckle the laugh punctuated by smoke as I continue toward the treeline adjusting the strap of my submachine gun held ready... my mind wanders. Mexico... A hacienda, a beautiful woman, a life far removed from this endless cycle of violence. "One of these days," I whisper into the night, the words a promise I'm not sure I can keep. I take another draw from my cigar and continue on.

That's when I hear it—a soft, mysterious whoosh, so alien yet so immediate. The sensation that follows is unlike anything I've ever felt—a sharp, excruciating pain that punches through my chest. Looking down, the sight of an arrow shaft protruding from me is almost too bizarre to comprehend. Blood begins to well up, dark and ominous. I stare transfixed by the sight of the ancient missile embedded in my chest and the stain of crimson spreading across my shirt. It seems impossible... unreal.

As I am looking, cigar smoke trailing from my lips another soft whoosh and a second arrow embeds itself in my gut. I see it in slow motion, watching as the point enters my body and the shaft sinks in deep... feeling the pinch as it exits my back. The sight of the arrow deep in my belly is alien blood now seeping through my shirt around the two wounds.

I see it in slow motion, watching as the point enters my body and the shaft sinks in deep.

The clock returns to normal as a wave of pain washes over me punctuated by my low grunt. My body stiffening against the onslaught. I feel the same adrenaline and surge of testosterone as my groin tightens with surprising arousal.

Stumbling, I search the treeline, my hand trembling as I try to aim my weapon. I open my mouth to shout a warning, but another whoosh is the only precursor to the arrow that strikes me just below the neck. The pain is immediate and overwhelming, my windpipe punctured, my lungs and mouth filling with blood. The cigar falls from my lips, a final plume of smoke marking my last breath as I collapse to my knees, then face-first into the cold, hard ground. 

My body convulses in pain a searing hot wash as the sticky liquid of my blood throbs from my body. A flash of indescribable euphoria and I feel myself release and then the pain comes back like a lightning bolt as a booted foot slides under me turning me on my back. A soft grunt as blood flows from the corner of my mouth. 

First scumbag down

"First scumbag down" the man standing over me in black fatigues whispers into his headset, his rifle trained on me as my life fades. He looks around and then down again with indifference at my fallen body as he listens to the reports of my fellow sentries being eliminated. Then he glances once more and spits, his saliva hitting my form. "Rot in hell fucker" he grunts and walks away. More boots step over my form a forgotten footnote in the attack.

Moments later the sounds of gunfire and men shouting reaches my ears. In my headset I hear Tony shouting, "Fuck! THEYRE EVERYWHERE!" I look up at the cloudy night sky.

Lying there, my thoughts turn to the irony of my end. A life spent trafficking in the latest weapons, only to be brought down by the oldest. As darkness consumes me, thoughts of Mexico and the future I'll never have fade into the endless night, swallowed by the cold embrace of death.