“This“, a man’s voice tells him, “is your new target.“
People like his client like to meet in diners and cafés, thinking that the noises and general bustling will cover their words, their intentions. Kyrill likes to meet in the open, with next to no eye witnesses around, and a good view on his surroundings.
No one ever listens to his requests, so he is back in a small diner in a busy part of town, surrounded by too many people to keep an eye on.
Kyrill grunts in acknowledgment, not touching the pictures in front of him showing a blond man with a silly haircut and bad teeth.
“His name is Darwin Tremor”, the man continues as Kyrill makes no move to inspect the file closer. “He has been reported dead three times now, the last time on the roof of a hotel in Reno, but the bastard keeps popping up again.”
Kyrill watches the man as he speaks. Dark, expensive business suit, dark glasses covering his eyes, to hide his nervousness. It’s a poor job, given that his hands are clutching a napkin, nimble fingers ripping it apart. He’s sitting with his back to the door, and he twitches every time when the bell over the door rings, announcing the come and go of the customers.
“You think you can do this?”
Kyrill arches an eyebrow at Business Suit, staring at him until he shrugs.
“Fine. I take it you want the money now?”
Kyrill, close to question himself if this idiot is worth the trouble, watches as Business Suit takes out a huge envelope bulging with dollar bills.
“We would appreciate this to be over quickly. And we want prove he’s really dead this time.”
Kyrill keeps from rolling his eyes only just, grunts again as he takes his time counting the money, then gets up slowly, letting the guy see how he tugs away the gun he’s been holding at his knees all the time.
Darwin Tremor sips his coffee slowly, eyes roaming the place. He’s gotten rid of his haircut, short hair glistening in the sun.
Kyrill observes how he sits back in his chair, all smooth movement of long limbs, muscles shifting slightly in jeans clad thighs.
From where Kyrill is hiding, he’s got a perfect view, sniper rifle pointing at Darwin’s head, iron sights framing his face.
Kyrill could do it now, shoot him in the head, drag his dead body to the client, and be done at lunch, back home in the evening.
His finger slides from the handle to the trigger, already slightly crooked, when Darwin takes another sip from his coffee. Kyrill finds himself mesmerized by the way his Adam’s apple bobs, and shakes himself, anger creeping up inside of him.
Then Darwin straightens, his body showing an alertness Kyrill knows only too well, and he follows his gaze to a man, sitting a few feet away, folding a newspaper, getting ready to go.
Kyrill swivels the gun back, watching as Darwin drowns his coffee, peels a few dollars on the table.
Kyrill takes a deep breath, finger back at the trigger, crooked against it, slowly pushing it back – and Darwin turns his head, looks right at him, and winks.
Kyrill lift his head, blinking stupidly. He can’t have seen him, he’s too far away, too well hidden.
When he bows his head again, looks through the scope, Darwin is already walking down the street, his hips swaying in an almost cocky way.
Loud music wafts from the open window. Rammstrein, Kyrll concludes, his foot tapping against the floor in time with the rhythm.
Darwin, across the street, is bent over his target, a sickly orange something stuck between his lips as he shakes his head along the music.
He really is slightly psychopathic, cutting the dead body over and over, smearing blood everywhere. A chainsaw lies next to him, as does a rope.
Kyrill’s seen what he did with the rope, laying it around his target’s throat almost tenderly, and tugging at it, his muscles standing out with the effort.
Kyrill doesn’t want to know what the chainsaw is for, but he has a rather good guess.
Darwin straightens, flicking blood from his knife. He sucks in the orange thing he’s been chewing on and turns to the window, his eyes almost challenging.
Kyrill is sure he can’t see him in the dark room, but can’t help taking a step back from the window.
Darwin shakes his head, smiling almost maniacally, and bends down again as Rammstein is followed by Nine Inch Nails.
Kyrill eyes his rifle next to him, reaches out to pick it up and end this job for good. A voice in his head stops him. He wants to be close to this one, wants to hold him while he bleeds, while he dies. Wants to feel his skin under his fingers, smooth and hot, growing colder as the life runs out of him.
Kyrill lets out a groan, fingers gliding to his knife. It’s a stupid idea, irrational, unprofessional, letting himself go like that, leaving the security of his dark hiding place, but it’s like he’s led by an invisible leash, moved by something other than his own will, and when he blinks, he finds himself in the doorway of the target’s room, staring at Darwin’s ass in tight jeans, swaying in time with the music.
Kyrill’s hand clenches around the knife as he enters the room, his feet making no noise on the thick carpet.
He stops close to the other man, his hand moving upwards. He grabs Darwin’s hips as his other hand presses the knife against his throat.
“Drop that knife.”
Kyrill has seen a lot in his life, thinks it’s as close to everything as you can get in this job. Begging, pleading, grown man build like houses crouching in the dirt in front of him, asking for another chance. Bribing, offerings for sexual favours, he’s heard them all.
What he doesn’t expect, what he hasn’t experienced before, is the low chuckle rumbling through Darwin’s body, shaking him, the muscles moving under his skin.
“Took you long enough,” he pants out between the laughter.
Kyrill scowls at that, tightens his grip on Darwin’s hips.
Darwin cranes his neck to look at him, blue eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Do you really think I didn’t know you were following me?”
This really is new. Kyrill has never been noticed before, has always been known for being almost invisible, and it hurts his pride a little that, of all people, this mad fuck is the first one to actually realize he’s after him.
Darwin’s lips turn up into a crooked smile, and he wriggles his eyebrows as he asks: “So, are you going to kill me, or are going to stand there all night?”
It’s another first for Kyrill to lose his temper, his nostrils flaring as he hoists Darwin against his chest, stepping forward, crushing Darwin against the wall, knife pressing harder against his throat, close to breaking skin.
Darwin is still laughing, and Kyrill feels the vibration of it against his body as Darwin leans back against him.
“What are you waiting for?” Darwin pants out between chuckles, and before Kyrill knows what he’s doing, before he can think, he twists Darwin around, surges forward, and crushes his lips over Darwin’s.
He can still feel him chuckle, and presses harder against him, the knife still at his throat, his other hand moving under his undershirt, moving over hot skin.
Darwin starts moving his hips, they kiss and moan and bite and at one point, Kyrill hears a clatter and realizes he’s let go of the knife, but he can’t find it in him to care, not when Darwin kisses a hot trail along his neck, not when there is a thigh between his legs, gently moving along the bulge in his pants.
Kyrill looses track of time, forgets the dead body on the floor, focusing on plush lips moving under his own, on strong hands gripping at his shoulders, on Darwin’s moans.
He reaches for Darwin’s pants, makes short work of the buttons, reaches inside Darwin’s boxers, fingers curling around his erection.
Darwin arches into his touch, head hitting the wall as he groans. Kyrill rests his head in the crook of Darwin’s neck, feels warm breath gusting over his face, feels a hand palming him through his trousers, and then, finally, Darwin’s hand is on his cock, and they cling at each other, moans echoing around the almost empty room, and Kyrill squeezes his eyes shut as Darwin twists his wrist, and it’s almost embarrassingly soon, but he can’t help it, he’s coming, and it’s somehow relieving that he feels Darwin’s come squirting over his hand shortly after.
Kyrill falls forward, panting, feeling Darwin’s chest rise and fall against him.
“So, you still want to kill me?”
Kyrill looks up at blue eyes twinkling in the light, looks at hideous tattoos on pale skin, and he reaches down, taking the knife in his hands again.
Kyrill walks through the door, a bell ringing over his head.
It’s the same diner than a few days ago, and Business Suit is sitting at the same table, his hands again clutching a napkin.
At least this time he’s sitting with his eyes on the door.
Kyrill does not sit down, comes to stand next to the table, eyes scanning the room.
“Did you do it?” Business Suit asks him.
Kyrill tosses an envelope onto the table, watches as the man before him takes out a set of photos.
Darwin Tremor, lying on the floor, open eyes directed unseeingly to the ceiling.
"I can’t see any wounds. How did you…?”
Business Suit nods, apparently satisfied, then leans back in his chair.
“And what about the proof?”
Kyrill reaches inside his bag, draws out a small box, throws it down next to the envelope.
Inside, there is a thumb, cut cleanly from Darwin’s hand, already turning slightly grey.
Business Suit swallows, looks at Kyrill through his dark glasses.
“So he is dead? For sure?”
Kyrill remembers splattering blood, remembers Darwin’s cries as he cuts off his thumb, remembers blue eyes looking at him questioningly, and he looks out of the window, his gaze settling on his car.
“Good,” Business Suit reaches for a suitcase under the table, and Kyrill sighs in relief as he is handed his money.
Not looking back at the client, he gets back to his car, his gaze darting over the street as he opens the door. A bandaged hand reaches up to take the suitcase from his hands. When he is perched behind the steering wheel, he leans toward a blond man, looking into electric blue eyes before planting a kiss on his mouth.
The blond man switches the radio on, and Kyrill makes a face when “Heirate mich” starts blaring out of the speakers.
But he had promised not to bitch about Darwin’s taste in music.
After cutting off his thumb, it is the least he can do.