Out of breath Desirée gasped for air as quietly as she could within the darkened alleyway entrance that Lonigan had pressed her into. He was even worse off than her.
It hurt to hear his age worn lungs gasp for usable breath from the coldness of the night air that had seemed to seep into their very pores. There was no denying that they were being hunted as never before.
The presence of the hunter out there just out of range was a palpable sensation. No matter how Lonigan had tried to move into a more lively inhabited corridor always the hunter was ahead of them keeping them pressed back from civilization’s welcoming lights and gazing faces.
They’d been on the run for what felt like hours ever since leaving the diner, but most likely it hadn’t been that long. This night was soon becoming the length of an entire era and yet time felt like it was running out quickly for both of them.
Raising her hand Desirée pressed it over her heart. It was okay. She could die now.
She’d been faithful to do all she’d been given to do. If tonight was her last then so be it.
Blinking her tears away she glanced to Lonigan, who turning his worried gaze to her and pointed down the dark trash littered alleyway behind her and said roughly, “Run!”
With that said he turned back and brought up his two 9mm pistols that he was never without and began firing. Desirée with a cry of remorse took off down the alleyway blindly, even as Lonigan stepped free of the alleyway and headed for where he thought the hunter would be, firing his guns as he went.
Lonigan had no hope of really succeeding in the coming confrontation, but hopefully the excessive number of gun shots would attract attention and bring others to the scene and disrupt this urban hunt taking place in the shadows. Quickly moving forward he wasn’t without the time worn experience of remembering to exchanges magazines for fresh ones as he took calculated shots into the dark gloom of these abandoned streets.
With two magazines emptied there was still no answering shot returned and yet Lonigan felt that if there was it would be to his instantaneous death. Lonigan once more out of breath pressed up against the corner of the alleyway most of his shots had been directed at.
He swung around it prepared to come face-to-face with the hunter, but the wolf wasn’t there. He turned about worriedly in search of the presence he felt, but the streets of this abandoned and run down corridor of Detroit were barren of any life.
Too late he heard the rushing of air and with a surprised cry of exclamation he attempted to look upward and bring his gun to bear, but a heavy booted kick sent him careening backward into the street. Even in his flight through the air the anguish of the knowledge that he had failed Desirée scoured through him with such a bitter causticness that it ate away the pain of the feeling of his 67-year-old body connecting with the pitted and cracked asphalt of the street.
Groaning for a moment, as it felt as if his back had been broken, he then managed to half bring himself up on his one side. One of his guns lay but a foot before him. Was it the empty one or the one he’d just loaded a magazine into?
His eyes traced up from it to take in the visage of the one who had authored the terribleness of this moment. The man stood there silently watching him.
Lonigan debated about what to do, but the gun before him he felt sure was the empty one and so he did nothing, as he felt even the strength to stand was even beyond his hard worn body to even now accomplish. The man who had brought him to this moment of bitterness stooped down to pick something up. It was Lonigan’s other gun.
Without looking he stripped the mag from it that still gleamed with unfired brass and tossed the gun to the side. His action brought Lonigan’s gaze to the large pistol slung low in a shoulder holster that only a big man such as this hunter of men would’ve been able to pull off as looking normal.
From the looks of it by size it was a Russian 44 magnum. What kind of hitman walked around with a cannon like that?
The man spoke in a heavily Russian accented voice, as he shucked precious brass cased shell after shell from the magazine he held within his big hands, “You have one chance left old man. Here. Take it.”
The hunter flipped the magazine now devoid of shells except for one at Lonigan and Lonigan caught it even as he lunged with his other hand for the pistol that lay just within reach. Why hadn’t the hunter fired yet?
The spent mag fell free and in repetition honed true Lonigan still on his side slammed home the mag with its one promise of continued existence and fired it at the hunter’s heart. The man had never even moved to reach for his own weapon and with the impact of the bullet he for only a moment was pressed back against the cracked front glass window of an abandoned corner store.
Straightening back up with a rolling flex of impressive physique he reached up and grasped his button-down shirt at the collar and tore downward sending buttons flying everywhere. With remorse Lonigan took in the view of the bullet proof vest the man wore even as the big Russian said, “Always you aim for the head.”
With that said he pulled his own gun free and Lonigan saw that it was indeed a 44 magnum as it was pointed directly at his head.
“Think whatever you want Rusky, but this isn’t over. Kill me, even kill her, but you can’t kill what and who we stand for. However, that being said, I want you to know that I forgive you. That will be important later. Now do your job.”