NO WAY OUT

"I am completely done with this kind of work," Mark said, taking in the air like a drowning man. His chest heaved, and sweat clung to his skin despite the cool night. He removed the extra garments he'd worn and tossed them onto the passenger seat as he struggled for his keys.

His phone vibrated.

"Is it done?"

Mark swallowed with a dry throat. "Yes."

"Look at your checklist." A pause. "Tell me you have everything in your possession."

Mark rushed through it, his fingers quivering as he pulled out the crumpled list. "A knife, gloves, broken glass, fingerprinted cloth, rusted gun, pebbles, strings and a blood bag. "They are all here."

Silence.

A strong inhalation is heard from the opposite end. "Agent Mark…" The voice became brittle, razor-thin. "Tell me you didn't put the rusty gun and ended up putting the good one."

Mark's pulse quickened.

"You were supposed to—"

"I know." His voice was hoarse. "Look, I—"

"Did you forget to call the police too? because that will give you a good window to fix–”

He paused. The weight of his own error fell on him like a stone, slamming into his ribcage. "No."

A beat of quiet. Then, steel. "You absolute fool."

His fingers clasped around the telephone. "They should be there in a few minutes."

"Go back." Her voice was cold now, leaving no room for dispute. "Fix it before they arrive." No holes or loose ends. "The press will be there."

"I'll handle it, ma'am." His mouth was dry. "I'll—"

The call was cut off.

Mark stared at the phone, the weight of his failure crushing into his chest.

And then he turned and walked back into the night.

Mark pulled on his black glove, but his hands were moist with sweat, causing the leather to cling to his fingers. He flexed them, exhaled through his nose, and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Despite the cold night, his body burned.

"What happens if I get caught?" What will happen to my family? Will I live another day?"

The questions gnawed at him, each one more serious than the last. He had been playing this game for far too long and in-depth. Every job chewed him up and spat him out. But this was different. One mistake. One gun was misplaced. And now he was walking directly into the fire to put things right.

"One final job. One final fix. Then I am done."

He'd told himself this previously.

The fence loomed ahead, corroded and bent at the top, where he had previously slipped through. His escape path. He is now on his way back inside. The path leading to the house seemed strangely neat as if someone had swept away the turmoil. What about the entrance? A different story.

Bullet shells littered the floor. The windows shattered, jagged glass striking the moonlight like broken fangs. A battle had occurred here. 

Chickens. Some were dead, stiff with panic. Others still running, wings flapping wildly. Mark crouched, grabbing a pair of torn shoes from the ground, and placing them carefully by the door. A string tied nearby—if the chickens moved, so would the shoes. A simple trick. Misdirection.

One last job.

Mark's boots crunched softly as he took a step forward, his breath tightening. He eased passed the barrier, surveying the surroundings. Inside, damaged light bulbs dangled from exposed wire, and the area smelled of cordite and filth. His gaze flickered to the door ahead, which led outside.

He returned inside, boots silent against the floor. A hallway extended ahead, leading upstairs. The stairs were stained with blood. At first, little droplets. Then there's a trail. Thickening. Building up.

Mark followed. Take slow, measured steps. He rounded the corner.

There.

The body lay on the floor, limp and motionless. A rare, beautiful, untouched pistol sits beside it. Blood pooled in various shades—bright crimson, fresh. Dark red, strategically arranged. Crossfire illusion.

His fingertips twitched. He took the decent pistol from the floor and placed it in his backpack. He moved to position the rusted gun, which should have been there all along.

Then—

A clattering sound.

Mark's body froze. The sound resonated throughout the empty house, bouncing off the damaged walls. His breath was trapped in his throat.

From downstairs, a voice.

“Who’s there?”

Paul, the police boss, stood at the front entryway, gun pulled, observing the wreckage before him.  The apartment was destroyed—bullet shells at the entrance, broken windows, and an odour of blood.  His chest contracted.

His brother lived here.

A noise.  Upstairs.

Paul's jaw constricted.  Somebody was still inside.  He took a slow step forward.  Glass crushed under his boot.

"Who's there?"  His tone was stern and cautionary.  No response.  His grip on the gun intensified.  He was not in the mood for silence.

Inside the house, Mark froze.

His breathing was ragged, and his heart pounded against his ribs.  He needed a way out.  The windows were excessively high, and the entrances were blocked.  His pulse shouted at him to act quickly.

His gaze flickered to the yard. Chickens. 

Mark took a small rock from his pocket and tossed it at the hens outside. Flap. Flutter. Chaos. The torn shoes shook.

Paul turned toward the noise. The gun is raised.

"Stop there!" "I'll kill you!" His voice rang through the night as he stepped outside and fired a warning shot. The gunshot echoed. He walked cautiously, rifle level, eyes scanning the yard. The hens were still panicking, and dust was kicking up around them.

And then he saw it.

A string. Tied to the shoes. Attached to the chickens.

His breathing slowed.

A setup.

Inside, Mark moved. He only had seconds.

He hurried for the stairs, but his foot landed on a loose board. A modest sound, but sufficient.

Paul froze. He turned back. Prepare to fire.

"Who's there?" His voice was now low and controlled. Measured.

Mark pressed himself against the hallway wall. His hands were wet from sweat. His lungs pleaded for oxygen.

Paul was closing in. Step by step. In a few more seconds, he'd turn the corner.

Mark's thoughts raced. Another trick.

His hands found a string. He yanked.

An upstairs door slammed shut.

Paul turned toward the noise. Mark moved.

Paul's boots struck the stairs, but he stopped. His eyes caught something. Another string.

He breathed slowly. More misdirection.

 He pretended to be climbing by making footsteps.  He needed the bastard to believe it.

"If you're up there, now is the time to come out."

He reached for the string and pulled.  The door swings open.

Paul waited.

Then there's a shadow.

It slipped passed the hall.

There.

Paul stalked forward, silently this time.  His muscles were stiff and ready.  He rounded the hallway with his rifle raised.

Nothing.

Mark was gone.

A quick fluttering of wings outside.

Paul's stomach sank.  He turned, too late.

Mark was already at the fence, rushing.

Paul dashed to the door, rifle raised, but the sirens were already sounding in the distance.

Mark disappeared into the night.

He scrambled for his phone, hands trembling. He pressed it to his ear.

"The job is done," he murmured.

A shadow observed him from a distance.

He did not notice.

Mark breathed sharply. His fingers had curled into fists. His heartbeat refused to slow.

His gaze flickered to his hands.

His gloves were gone.

The revelation struck like a bullet.

Mark gulped hard. He cleaned his face and felt the weight descend into his bones. Then, his lips parted and his voice scarcely rose beyond a whisper—

"I am completely done with this kind of work."