The Mafia's: Bodyguards Redemption

One: Bluish Green Eyes

Bluish Green Eyes

One: Antonio

I am a dead man walking. This I know as I come out of the elevator, into the foyer of the Grand Hotel in New York City. I look around taking everything in, not knowing how long I have until they come for me. That is one thing about this profession I have or had, I should say. Always follow orders if you deviate in anyway. Let your humanity take the front seat. The front seat before your orders. Then you become the target. You become the lose end that needs to be tied up. The one your conscience tries to protect. The one you try to save is next on their hit list. That used to be my job. I’m a Bodyguard and now I’m the one that needs to be taken out.

You may be wondering who would make a harden thirty-year-old man. One who has never had a heart finally, grow one. I close my eyes as a sigh leaves my lips as I exit the Hotel to the line of taxis sitting out front waiting for patrons. I get into one and hand the address on the folded piece of paper out of my suit jacket pocket to the cabby. I lean back as the bluish green eyes of my downfall flashes in my mind. As her mother’s dead body lays not five feet from her. Knowing the tears rolling down her face were my fault for I was the one to kill her mother. I was ordered to clean up a mess and ended up in a hug pile of horse sh*t.

I open my eyes as the cab comes to a stop. I look around as we are sitting at a red light. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I bow my head. My eyes looking around under my lashes trying to find the focus of my distress. Someone is staring at me, watching me. Now I just need to know who. I don’t feel as if I’m in danger, as of yet. That still doesn’t lower my guard as someone has me in their sights. Throwing some money at the cabbie. I open the door. Getting out I’m aware of everything going on around me. This is my comfort zone. What I was trained to do, what I live for.

I hate New York. The streets are always packed with vehicles and people. Which is good when you want to blend in and lose a tracer. Not so much though when you want them to corner you. I need to know who this person is working for. Is it my employers or if I have already been put on a hit list. Walking down the crowded street during lunch time is a great way to get yourself killed. The first alley I come up to I dunk into it. The smell of defecation with the strong stench of urine permanenting the air as I quickly walk down to the end. Bringing my arm up against the wall at the end of the alley. I lean my forehead down, opening all of my senses as spread my legs, relaxing and loosening my ridged body.

I keep my breaths even, as I hear the hesitant footsteps enter the alley. Every hair on my body standing on end as my fingers itch to reach for my throwing knives. I take another breath as the body language coming off of the person standing still about ten feet away from me is filled with nervous energy. This person is not the one that was staring at me from earlier, but I feel as if this person. Somehow this person was also searching for me. “Sir.” I hear a meek voice say so low that I almost miss it with the noise from the street echoing into the alleyway.

I don’t move as I feel my gut telling me that another is in the alleyway with us. I focus on that negative energy that I feel in my gut, is moving towards me with malicious intent. “Sir, please can you help me….” I barely hear the woman as my focus is on the way my body is reacting to the eyes that are on me from somewhere on my other side. I glance that way under my eyelashes. I see the red brick wall that has a sliding ladder accessing the fire escape. I don’t move my body at all as I open my eyes wider and see black leather shoes on the last landing by the release lever for the ladder.

I let out a breath slowly as my hand on my right side where the woman is. I reach into my coat to my waist where my throwing knife is hidden slipping it out of its sheath. As soon as my hand wraps around the hilt of my knife my skin starts to crawl as I hear the girl next to me gasp in surprise. This is my chance, I have just seconds to react. While the tracer’s attention is on the gasping woman beside me. The muscle memory from decades of training has me turning to my side quickly as my hand slides up, my knife out, whipping my hand up with years of practice, releasing my weapon. Everything moves in slow motion as my knife leaves my hand and smoothly hits the tracer in his chest, in between his ribs, burying deeply into his heart. He slumps, leaning over the railing, falling down on the stained asphalt right next to me. I turn just in time to see a woman hitting the dirty alleyway.