Time is Short

A man is limply running through the streets of New York, weaving between herds of commuters who are too busy to look up from their phones. As he runs, he glances left and see’s the corner street sign reads 58th and Madison Ave. Ten more blocks to go. He returns his attention in front of him, but it’s too late. He collides with a man in his fifties who is carrying a cup of coffee. Hot liquid scolds the runner, who screams out in agony. But it doesn’t slow him down. After all, the clock’s ticking. 

“What the fuck?!” the man holding the coffee screams. “Watch where you’re going, asshole!”

The runner speeds up, not looking back. He wipes his phone against his chest. When he looks at the screen he sees the voice memo app is ready to record. He hits the red circle.

Jim… I always told you that if I go missing, you need to check the multiple safe deposit boxes I own. This one is at the Citibank on 68th and Madison. If you’re listening to this, something’s gone wrong. I’ll explain what I can in the time I have.

He reaches 59th street and speeds up.

They have Audrey and Samantha. This pains him to admit. He takes a second, then continues. Last night, my house was broken into. When I came to this morning, I woke up in a padded room with a window. On the other side of it sat Samantha tied to a chair with a gun pointed at her head. Those are the kinds of people we’re dealing with here, Jim… the kind of people that can do that to a five year old. I was able to see Audrey in the background, hogtied on the ground and bleeding from a gash in her head.

He reaches 60th. The light is green, but it doesn’t stop him. As he races across the road, a red Subaru comes within an inch of hitting him, but stops short. The horn blares. He is unfazed. 

Before I could understand what was happening, I felt a fist put all its weight into the side of my ribs. The pain was immense. I went down… hard. 

“Robbie Bennigan… it’s good to finally meet you,” the attacker said. I got up, ready to face him. Instead, my gaze met a silver glock pointing at my face, and a man in a ski mask locked eyes with me.

“Wish I could say the same,” I answered, rubbing my ribs, which I was certain were at the very least fractured, possibly broken. “Who the hell are you?”

“I think you know who I work for,” he said. “Mr. Solito said it’s time to cash in.”

“Jesus Christ. That was twelve years ago.” 

“A deals a deal.” He dropped a folded note and a watch. “Instructions are here. You’ll note it’s now 8:42am. Time expires at 11:00am. I’d get going if I were you.” He turned to leave. I bent down to pick up the note and watch, still clutching my ribs. That’s when I heard him slide the chamber of the glock back. “Oh yeah, and one more thing.”

I knew what was coming, but there was nothing I could do. I heard the shot. It was deafening. My leg gave out from under me, and I hit the floor for the second time in as many minutes. I could hear Samantha crying in the next room over, panicking. My calf was burning from the bullet, which went straight through. Blood was slowly trickling from the newly formed hole in my leg. 

“Mr. Solito wants you to succeed. Me, on the other hand, I want to see you fail.” He looked down at his watch. “Two hours and sixteen minutes. Better get going.” The man left the room and closed the door behind him.

He passes 61st street. It’s the first time he’s able to cross without danger, due to the red light. He can feel his makeshift tourniquet loosening, but he presses on. His calf is in excruciating pain, but he knows he can't stop. If he stops now, death follows for everyone he cares about.

I read the note. It was a name and an address. Seth Groggins. 224 East 72nd street, apartment 6D. And underneath the address was a message. “Dispose. No traceback. No cabs. Run. Fast.” I checked the watch left for me and realized I had just over two hours to get it done. I looked through the window one more time and saw the man holding the gun to my daughters head. I stared. He slid back the chamber and pushed the gun harder against her scalp. I knew I had no options. So I ran, looking for an exit.

62nd street came and went without a hiccup.

I didn’t know if they actually had a way of tracking me if I actually took a cab, but how could I know? I decided it wasn’t worth the risk. I knew if I took off running, I’d be able to make it. Barely. But I knew I could get there. What I didn’t factor in was how much the bullet wound in my leg would slow me down. I wasn’t thinking about it at that point. The adrenaline was taking over. I took off running.

Passing the sign for 63rd, Robbie notices two police officers on horses patrolling. He slows down, taking the angle to conceal his bloody leg. He walks at a brisk pace with his head down, trying not to draw attention. He hears the horse whinny, but when he turns around, the officers are looking in the other direction. He takes off again.

I’m almost at the bank… so I’ll try and wrap this up. I have to kill this man. I don't know who he is. I don't know what he did. My best guess? He’s a dealer who's encroached on Solitos territory. Why is Solito calling in his favor? Well, you know why. But, in case he harms me or my family, I want you to have documentation that you can bring to the police. So I'll explain for the record. 

He passes 64th and the street opens up more. There is less congestion, for which he is thankful. Panting and in pain, sweat glistening from his forehead, he presses on faster. 

Twelve years ago, I was working as a mule for Solito. A transport went bad and I was taken at gunpoint by the competition. They stole around two hundred thousand dollars worth of cocaine from me and left me bloody and bruised, beaten within an inch of my life. Solito’s guys found me and brought me to the Dixie Pig, where Solito ran his operation out of the basement. He tied me to a chair and tortured me. Told me if I don’t make him whole on his two hundred, he’d find everyone I know and love and kill them first, make me watch, and save me for last. I told him I had saved up about a hundred and twenty grand working for him. It was every penny I had, and I told him I’d pay him back the rest with a favor. A blood favor. No questions asked. 

65th street was a mess of street vendors selling fake watches and butterfly knives. Robbie glanced at the knives, but knew what he had waiting for him in the safe deposit box. He continued on. 

He said he’d give me a loan for the remaining eighty grand. That I could work off, and he’d spare my life. Once I worked it off for him, I was out, forever. I couldn't be trusted anymore. But as a form of interest, I owed him that favor anyway. That stupid blood favor. That’s the price I paid for my life. I agreed. After another two years of muling, I had made my nut and paid him off, and that was the last time I saw him. 

The 66th street sign passed. Robbie felt woozy. He stopped to catch his breath and looked at his watch. 10:34am. He had some time, but he still needed to get to the safe deposit box, open it, swap the phone for what was waiting in there, then get to the apartment before 11. He decided he couldn’t rest. He pushed on. 

After a few years, I didn’t think he’d ever cash in. I went straight, launched my business and met Audrey. We had Samantha, and the business took off. Life was good. He paused. Shit. You know this already. You’ve lived it with us. Ever since you married my sister, I’ve let you in on all my secrets, good and bad, haven't I? I guess… I’m rambling. I’m nervous. I don’t know if I can go through with this. I’ve never killed anyone before. And if I don’t do this, I’ll end up dead. And so will Audrey and Samantha. So I’m rambling. Confessions of a dead man, I suppose. 

As he sees the 67th street sign, he can see a block ahead of him the sign for Citibank, his destination. He sprints, wincing in agony.

I’m here, so I’m signing off. Hopefully you’ll never hear this. If I’m successful, I’ll come back and take my phone, delete this evidence and decide what’s next. If I’m not, take this to the police and have them use it against Solito. Take him down once and for all. 

Out of breath, he stops in front of the Citibank. He looks at his watch. It reads 10:37am. Just enough time, he thinks. 

Jim… I’m going in now. There’s a gun in the safe deposit box. I’m swapping it with the phone, then going to that apartment. He hesitates. One more thing… I’m sorry I put you in this situation. I never wanted to worry Heather, my poor sweet sister, after everything she’d been through. Instead, I burdened you. I’m sorry for that. But please know, I appreciate everything you’ve done for our family, and I’m happy as hell my sister met you when she did. I hope I see you again. I really do. Tell Heather and my parents I love them. And keep Audrey and Samantha safe if someway, somehow they’re not harmed. He pauses. God, please don’t let them be harmed.

Sniffling, he hits the end button on the voice memo, takes a breath, and limps into the bank, sweaty and tired. 

3 days later

A man walks into the bank. He approaches a representative and asks for access to safe deposit box 397. He is a co-signer on the box. The woman verifies his ID, showing James D’Amuro. 

“Right this way, Mr. D’Amuro,” says the representative. 

“Jim is fine. Mr. D’Amuro was my father.” His smile is charming. His salt and pepper hair is slicked back, and his beard is clean cut to his face. The representative laughs, a little too hard, and blushes. 

A few minutes later, he walks out with Robbie’s cellphone in his hand. He puts it in his pocket and checks his watch. Hurrying, he finds the nearest coffee cart. He buys a cup of coffee, then puts on an over sized pair of aviator sunglasses and puts his hood up. He looks left, then right. He sees Charlie Watras running, and looks back at his watch. 

Much too slow, this one. He’ll never make it in time. His lips curl in an evil grin.

He grabs a small electronic device and conceals it in his right hand. He holds the coffee in his left hand and starts walking towards Charlie's running path. At the last second, Jim veers into Charlie’s lane, causing Charlie to knock into him. As the coffee spills, Jim slips the electronic device into Charlie’s jacket pocket unknowingly. 

“What the fuck?!” Jim screams, disguising his voice as he’s done many times before to make sure Charlie doesn’t recognize him. “Watch where you’re going, asshole!” Charlie runs on, ignoring him, checking his watch. 

Jim turns around and grins his same evil grin. Another success. He takes Robbie's phone out of his pocket and drops it to the ground, steps on it and smashes it to pieces. He picks up the remains and dumps some of it in a nearby trash bin. He walks away, dropping bits and pieces into different bins until the phone is no more.

Later that night

In a dark room, the television is on and the News is playing. Breaking news music comes out of the speakers, and the headline that sweeps the screen reads:

Four men die in similar fashion. Police urge caution. 

“Four men have died over the last two weeks, officials say,” reads the anchorwomen. “All four seemed to have been targeted with a small homemade explosive device rigged to go off at a specific time. Just three days ago a third body, that of the e-commerce tech giant Robbie Bennigan, was found in pieces in an empty apartment on 72nd Street and Madison Avenue. Neighbors said they heard a small explosion at 11:00am. It was unknown what Bennigan was doing in the building at the time, let alone in an unoccupied apartment. His family has not responded to our request for comment.

This morning a local school teacher named Charlie Watras was found dead in a vacant lot, seemingly killed in the same pattern. This marks the fourth victim of killings of this nature. There has been a link established, as all four of these men had ties with the Solito crime empire…”

Jim cuts off the power to the television. He’s changed his coffee stained shirt, combed his hair, and is sitting at his over sized table. In front of him are two explosive devices, one of which he is working on. There is a neon sign in the background that reads Dixie Pig. A man comes walking down the stairs.

“Solito,” Jim says, without turning around to see. 

“Yes, sir?” Solito answers. 

“Take the Courdray’s family tonight.” 

“Tonight, boss? The pattern’s been three days...” 

“I don’t give a fuck what the pattern is,” he snaps. He puts down his soldering iron, stands up and faces Solito. He puts his left hand on Solitio’s shoulder and stares at him. “If you want to see your wife and kids again, you’ll do as I say and take them tonight.” There is an awkward pause, then Jim smiles and pats him on the shoulder in a playful gesture. It’s a hard enough hit that Solito loses his balance slightly. 

Jim turns around and continues his work. Next to him is a notepad with seven names, four of which are crossed out, two being that of Robbie Bennigan and Charlie Watras. The next name on the list was Harry Courdray. Solito stares at his turned back, wondering if he can make a move and end this game right here and now. He looks around for a weapon as sweat beads from his forehead. After another few seconds, he thinks better and shakes his head. He retreats to the stairs.

Before Solito leaves up the stairs, he turns back. “I know why you’re doing this. What those people did… how they wronged you. And they don't even remember. But what’s the rush, all the sudden? Why take me hostage and make me do this?”

“You’re connected to all of them. It’s called leverage,” he says, picking up the soldering iron and blowing on the tip. He spools off more solder, and the remaining spool is resting on a folder. The folder reads: James D'Amuro - Terminal Patient - Memorial Sloan Cancer Center - Guidelines. 

“As for the rush… I’m running out of time.” He glances at his watch. “And from the looks of it, so are you.” Solito looks down at his watch, then turns and races up the stairs. Jim watches him race away, enjoying the sport of it all. The table, which had previously been occupied by two explosive devices, has only one remaining. He grabs the notepad and looks down to the name after Charlie Watras. It reads Enrique Solito. Jim crosses both Charlie and Solito off the list, and grins. 

As he said… time is short…