Spy Chapter One (I haven't named the novel yet)

Chapter One

“What do you think you’re doing?” Words gurgled out of his throat, a thin line of blood trickling down his chin as he spoke. “You can’t kill me! Do you know who I am?” He was trying to yell, but the chain wrapped around throat stopped his pitiful attempts.

From the corner of the room, a much taller man stepped forward. A cloud of smoke surrounded him completely. In a deep raspy voice, he exclaimed, “I know exactly who you are, Jarkov. Your time has come; your death has been sanctioned.” Reaching into his charcoal suit jacket, he pulled out a small blade. It shimmered in the dim lighting as he took steps toward him.

“Money. You want money? How about drugs? I can get you drugs man!” Typical in a sense, trying to bribe an assassin, everyone does it. Some bribe with money, some with sex. It really depends on the person. In one fluid motion, the man sliced sideways, just above the chain. Blood poured out of his neck, onto the metal ground below, making a subtle tinging noise with every drop. The shadowed man stood, staring at his lifeless victim. Chains wrapped each of his limbs, imprisoning him to the walls around. There would be no mourning this man’s death; he was a murderer, a drug dealer, soulless. Before turning around, the man impaled the knife, into Jarkov’s lifeless body.

As he pulled his hand away from the knife, blood dripped down onto his metal hand. He laughed lightly while shaking his entire arm. It was all metal, his right arm, after an accident left him wounded too badly for his healing to work. The field medic had to amputate it, which was one of the worst pains he could recall.

Now in a much louder, friendlier voice, the obscurity spoke, “The job is done. Tell Jane I grow tired of these petty kills. I’m going home.” Without waiting for a response, he pulled the ear bud out of his ear canal. A microphone came with it, resting in the palm of his hand. Calmly, as if he had done nothing wrong, he walked out of the large shipping container, closing the doors as he exited. With ease, he threw both off to his right. They landed in the harbor, a splashing noise assured him. The six foot figure appeared to grow larger as he walked away towards Fifth Street. His tan skin shimmered in the dim lamp post light. Despite the darkness, his hair was noticeable. It was cut like a soldier’s hair, styled perfectly. Hollering out, he raised his hand.

“Hey taxi!” A red and yellow taxi was driving by, stopping ten feet ahead of him. Falling all around him, the light hint of rain, drizzling down, an annoyance of living in New York City. Looking at the sky as he walked, the mysterious man studied the moon, directly above. It was around two in the morning, late for him to be out. His face showed no sign of remorse, though his chocolate brown eyes showing his sadness, his hatred for himself. The second the back passenger door opened, he could hear a soft playing of music. It was some soft rock, not his type, but did he really have a type?

“Sixteenth and Lexington, please.” The taxi driver didn’t speak a word, he only began to drive. At this time of night, the roads were empty, luckily. For being the city that never sleeps, the streets were dead, perhaps only some parts of the city slept, while the rest partied. From his suit jacket, vibrations, a couple every second. His head shaking, the dark man answered his phone, angrily.

“Jane, what is it?” She laughed at him, her high pitched laugh audible from at least four feet away. Her voice much more calm than her laugh she answered.

“You’re tired of it Drake? I’ve told you before, if you want out, we won’t stop you, but we won’t keep the dogs at bay either.” He hated the fact that she had complete control over him; his shaking stopped, as a long silence arose.

“You know what? I am done. I’m out. I’ll expect payment at the usual drop site, send the dogs, you know they’ll only hinder me.” Rolling down the window, he threw the phone out, not even hanging up. Saying something for the first time, the taxi driver directed himself at Drake.

“Did you just quit your job man?” He sounded Jamaican, but it was impossible to tell. Trying not to be rude, he simply responded with a nod. Peering out the window, he admired the city. It’s so calm at night, peaceful, Drake hated it.

“This is good man, I’ll walk the rest of the way, keep the change.” He handed he driver a fifty, and got out of the car. The rain was light, but it still dampened his clothing. His apartment was only a block away, if that, but he knew to expect trouble. Studying the environment, Drake practically sprinted down the wet sidewalk. For being so old, he sure could run fast.

Slowing to a subtle walk, he stepped into the apartment complex. Water rolled off of him onto the yellow and white carpet. Despite both hallway elevators being on the ground floor, just to his left, he walked towards the stairs at the end of the. Four apartments on either side of him, their doors would be locked. He always found it funny, that people thought a simple lock would keep them safe. It took him but a second to start flying up the stairs, he always tried to move fast. Even though he was moving so fast, he was nearly silent. He sprinted passed the second floor, and then the third. Drake stopped on the fourth, taking a deep breath. The hallway ahead of him was dim, dim and very quiet, silent in fact.

“You know Drake, it was smart taking the stairs, but we figured you would, we’re not even watching the elevators.” The voice sounded familiar to Drake, it was firm but still friendly. Turning around, he stared at the man sitting on the steps.

“Of course they would send you, send a man’s protégée to kill his mentor, have they any honor? Who else did they send? Johnson? Eldridge?” Drake turned around and started walking towards his apartment door, ignoring the man on the steps. The man was beginning to stand, his face barely visible in the dimness. He was a little shorter than six feet, about five inches shorter than Drake. The two men could be twins, their hair the same color and style.

“We both know APH doesn’t want you dead, well, and that you can’t die. We just want a blood sample.” A blood sample right, of course that’s all they want. Drake was just shaking his head, as he pushed his house key into the bronze door knob.

“Do you think I’m stupid Alex? Just stop before you get hurt.” Alex was walking towards him, at an alarming pace, pulling out his handgun.

“Don’t make me do this,” Drake was pleading to him, not wanting to hurt the man he once considered a son. Pushing Drake into the small eight hundred square foot apartment, Alex aimed the pistol at his head.

“Kneel.” He demanded of him, his light blue suit looking darker in the pitch black lighting. “Guys, get up here, I’ve got-” Before Alex could finish talking, Drake swept his left foot around. In a second, he fell straight to the ground. The large gun went off as it fell to the ground, the bullet hitting Drake in the side.

“You made me do this Alex.” With ease, he wrapped his right hand around Alex’ throat, and picked him up. Hastily, Drake carried the man down the small hallway towards his bedroom. His side was bleeding lightly, both in front and back. Taking a look down at his side, Drake admired the already healing skin.

“Bullets are the worst; they hurt the most, and take the longest to heal.” Alex couldn’t respond, he was gasping for air, trying to escape Drake’s grasp. A small wall safe was hidden behind an ugly painting of flowers, which he was slowly inputting the combination to. With all of his strength, Alex hit his captor’s arm, only receiving a sore hand in return.

“Oh, you like it? It’s metal, the whole arm is. The agency didn’t tell you about that did they?” He laughed at Alex, still holding him eight inches off the ground. When Drake pulled the safe open, he could hear the distinctive footsteps of four men, all who just entered his apartment.

“We’re down here guys, come on don’t be shy.” He laughed at their look of triumph. In the safe, sat a single silver suit case, nothing on it or around it. Two of the men were walking down the hallway, aiming their assault rifles at Alex. Drake was hidden behind him, using his weak body as cover. Hastily, he released Alex’ throat, but then punched him in the stomach before he fell to the ground, sending him flying back into the two men. Not wasting any time, Drake pulled the suit case out of the safe. Taking a deep breath, he sprinted around his bed. The window in front of him was locked, not an issue for him.

Taking one look back at the hallway, he dove through the thick glass, shattering it instantly. Even though he hadn’t ran that fast across the eight foot room, he still managed to zoom across the street. He landed on top of a restaurant, something Asian. Drake had spared Alex’ life by not hitting him as hard as he could, at the worst he would have a few broken ribs and a bruised throat. The rain had subsided, leaving the rooftop slippery and wet.

Running as fast as he could, he sprinted onto the next roof and then the next, jumping over ventilation shafts and chimneys. When he finally reached the final building, he was on the roof of a two story liquor store. The blood from his gunshot stopped bleeding, his skin mostly healed up, he still hurt. His eyes showing the pain that his face ignored, a man’s eyes never lie. With a blink of his eyes, his jumped down onto Sixteenth Street; a parked police car was waiting there for him.

Wincing in pain as he landed, his ankle twisted. Calmly he walked on it without a limp, rushing into the driver’s side of the car. The engine didn’t hesitate to start, as he turned the key. Sitting on the passenger seat, a note, reading, “Saint John’s Hospital, room 501.” Drake read it carefully, as he drove away from his apartment, now swarming with officers of all different branches.