A Gunpoint Retirement

A Gunpoint Retirement

By: Deadsomeone

In Las Vegas, Nevada, in a non-descript apartment complex, a man walked down a less then remarkable hall. To the untrained eye, this man was as unremarkable as the hall he was walking down. But if you knew where to look, his body painted a very different picture. Even though he was nearing the age of fifty, the only thing that actually indicated this was the graying hair near his temples, the wrinkles and the large scar on his face. His body seemed to otherwise belong to a man in his physical prime. But under the shirt and jacket he wore, there were several other scars, small and large, that served as reminders of the war he'd fought in nearly thirty years ago. The scar on his face though, that one was from a particularly nasty job he had done for some old friends a while back. Another telling sign was the fact that his left hand was missing most of its pinkie, telling those who were in the right circles that he'd had a less then successful run in with the yakuza.

But then again most of his business partners ended up dead.

As he walked down the hall, and his eyes landed on a particular door that was slightly ajar and stayed there until he passed also told something else; he was being watched. The how was easy enough, he hadn't exactly covered his tracks. Looks like this guy doesn't quite understand discretion, he thought. Who had found him and why were what really made his neck itch. That particular line of thought was answered when he reached the door of his apartment and felt the barrel of a gun pushed into the small of his back. He couldn't help the small smirk that appeared on his lips.

So he's here to kill me, not that surprising.

He felt the barrel of the gun pushed into his back with a bit more force.

At least he was smart enough to use a suppressed gun.

The ex-soldier took the fact he was alive as a message to go inside the apartment. Once inside though, he headed for the apartment's small kitchen and grabbed a beer; the sound of the assassin's steps following the entire way. The click of the modified gun's hammer being pulled back told him just how much the assassin appreciated the apathetic way he was acting towards the situation. "Don't worry I'm just getting a beer" the old killer said with a chuckle. His voice holding a rasp that spoke of an especially violent knife fight in bar near the ashes of a burned down city. He sat down at the table to the right of the doorway where the assassin stood pointing the gun at his chest.

Finally getting a good look at the assassin the ex- mafia hitman noticed that he looked young, with his dark hair cut short, but the face under that was scrunched up in a scowl. So someone had set up a hit, but who, he asked himself.

They must not think much of me if they sent some two-bit punk like this.

"What's with the face boy is it supposed to scare me? Because if it is, I've seen scarier shit come out of the ass end of a camel." The assassin almost seemed surprised by the comment and the time-worn man couldn't help but smirk.

"Now then, who sent you boy?" asked the old man, his voice a far cry from the almost aloof voice he'd used earlier. It was the voice of a man who made a life out of killing without a second thought and learned all the hard lessons that came with the job.

The only visible sign the assassin showed was the twitch of an eye and the way his hand tightened on the gun and his finger twitched on the trigger. So they sent someone with some experience.

"The Don sends his regards, says Joey 'The Gun' is too dangerous to be left alive".

"Really?" said Joey frowning at the nickname the mafia had given him.

"He says you know too much…" "Yeah, yeah, I don't care, what I'm wondering now is why the hell you let me get inside, when you could have shot me and been gone." The assassin seemed to all too happy to respond, but from the old soldier's perspective everyone talked too much.

"What can I say; I got the chance to meet the legendary Joey, and be the guy who finally shot him dead." The assassin's previous scowl blossomed into a toothy grin. "I want to see your face when I do it..."

So the guy is one of those people, I swear sometimes being the best is more trouble then it's worth, but none of that matters if I'm stuck with just a knife. Well fuck, I'm not going to just lay down and die, I'm not that old yet.

Now normally Joey would never be caught unawares, but he'd just recently moved in and started the modifications to the apartment. Especially since his guns were still locked up in a guitar case under the floor boards of his room. Seeing that the assassin's little monologue was winding down, Joey looked at his now half empty beer, hating to waste a good Guinness, before throwing it at the talking assassin. The bottle hit the wall behind the assassin just as he ducked, but then hitting the assassin wasn't the point. As the mafia hit man moved to point the gun at Joey again only to find Joey in the air, knife in hand and tackled him into the hallway wall. As both men began rolling around, Joey quickly gained the higher ground and tried to use his right hand to stab the man beneath him and his left to bash the assassin's right hand into the floor. As he did this, he silently hoped his neighbors were out for the night. Soon enough the gun went sliding down the hall into the living room with the soft clatter of its materials.

As Joey placed both hands on the knife and slowly pushed into the mafia man's shoulder he felt a shard of his once beer bottle jammed into his shoulder and cut deep enough to hit bone. With Joey temporarily out of the fight the assassin pushed him off and kicked him once in the head to make sure he stayed down and ran for the gun.

When the shard had cut into him Joey's world went black and white with pain and almost slipped into unconsciousness. But the kick had hurt, not enough to knock him out, but enough to make him wonder why he ever quit the military. Ignoring the fact that his blue shirt was turning a dark purple with his blood and how the blood from the cut on his forehead didn't let him open his left eye.

Sonofabitch, can't let'em get the gun.

As he reached the living room he saw the killer's hands wrap around the gun and went for the gun too. As Joey struggled to get a good grip on the gun as well, he decided he couldn't risk the gun going off again and head butted the assassin, remembering why he didn't do that anymore. Using the distraction to rip the gun out of the hitman's hand, he ejected the clip, the bullet in the chamber, and threw the gun into the hallway behind him.

I need to finish this quickly. And he immediately set upon the other man with a series of jabs to the side and felt the wind push out of him. Taking advantage of the assassin's momentary weakness, Joey shot a kick at his knee and missed as the younger man made a sloppy move to the side and went for a haymaker. Even as he dodged Joey felt something was wrong and knew it when he felt his opponent's other hand grab his knee and the hand he'd dodged grab him by the neck and he felt himself falling into the ground as the other fighter pushed into him and fell with him the rest of the way. The fall itself didn't quite hurt him, the barrage of punches that followed most certainly did. Feeling several of the punches slip by his guard Joey quickly lashed out and felt one of his fingers dig into the assassin's eye.

The man recoiled with a sharp scream as he clutched at the gory mess that was once his eye. Joey quickly tried to stand up, but could already feel the new bruises forming and quickly grabbed the man into a head lock and began squeezing with all the strength his tall frame allowed him. As the assassin began to squirm in his grip, Joey stood to his full height and tried to keep his victim's feet off the ground, but never did when he felt a foot nearly invert his knee and an elbow smash into the gash on his forehead. Joey fell into the hallway and reached for the knife as he felt an arm grab his and pull him up and turn him straight into one of the wooden stools he'd bought and felt what little remained of his strength vaporize.

As Joey lay against the wall the Cyclops raised the stool above his head.

"You old bastard, I'm going to aagghGH-" he choked on the last words when five inches of stainless steel shot into his throat at thirty nine miles per hour and left him in a growing pool of his own blood. Joey watched for a moment as the last of his enemy's life poured out into his new carpet.

"You talk too much." He mumbled around the blood in his mouth.

As Joey stood up and dropped the handle of the ballistic knife, he grabbed the phone and limped towards the bathroom feeling every one of those fifty years.

"Shit, I think I broke a rib", he thought, frowning at how his left arm had gone numb and wincing as his broken rib moved. Dialing a number he talked to the man on the other end.

"Francisco, I need your help", he groaned into the phone and frowned at the person on the other end.

"I don't give a shit who you're with get your ass over here now, and bring Anna too. Tell her to bring her medical supplies". As he hung up the phone Joey looked at the bathroom mirror as thoughts passed through his head. He began pulling out his meager supply of bandages, the first aid kit, and the bottle of rum he'd stashed earlier.

I wonder how much it'll cost to replace the carpet?