Bulletproof - Xavier Neal Page 0,1
lock it.
Allan’s crooked tooth smile widens over the sight of finally spotting me again.
Not exactly hard to miss in this condition.
I may not be glowing in neon body paint like I was for that job in Toronto, but I still stand out.
For fucks sake, I haven’t felt this filthy since assisting in that rescue mission in Rio de Janeiro.
Don’t even get me started on how I was “randomly” recruited for the excessively dirty assignments one right after another.
They both made me miss my custom dual shower system.
God, I can’t wait to get back to my condo in Highland and enjoy a nice, long, hot session with it.
Allan purposely flings more pig shit in my direction with the pitchfork he’s lazily dragging.
Three.
Three long, hot showers back-to-back to fucking back.
Without a word, I disappear through the cracked open space, giving the illusion I’m being hunted as opposed to doing the hunting.
Maniacal laughter can be heard upon his approaching; however, it doesn’t rattle me, which I’m sure is what he’s hoping for. That’s quite a hard thing to do considering I’ve got seven years at this shit under my belt. Some yellow-toothed, pale-skinned hobgoblin toting around a rusty farm tool doesn’t even make the list of top fifty things that get my adrenaline going. Honestly, the sicknesses I could catch from the pig feces I’m drenched in are more frightening than he could ever be.
He crosses the threshold, eyes initially looking left like most people tend to, providing me with the open opportunity I need for an attack. The first punch is propelled into his face the instant his head moves my direction. He stumbles backward from the hard hit yet manages to remain on his feet. Another strike is delivered lower, closer to his ribcage, forcing his frame to crinkle and his hold on the tool to loosen. Groans of discomfort reverberate throughout the dreary space, and I simply use the echoes of agony to fuel the momentum of my movements. Not wanting the innocent – albeit negligent – woman he’s been suggesting romantic, watery deaths to and swearing that he’ll show his undying love in the form of self-mutilations to suffer the same sounds or worse, I keep my execution quick. Precise. I deliver a blow to his forearm to unleash his grasp on the makeshift weapon followed by a right hook that sends him flying. Professionally trained reflexes have me catching the handle before it can hit the ground and swiftly jamming the pointy end of the object through the chest of my attacker. Allan’s initial gasp of shock is overpowered by the racket of the metal anchoring itself into the wooden door behind him. It loudly creaks with every continued push as I don’t stop stomping onward until it's damn near falling off its hinges. Blood gushes out of the holes made, along with the four prongs, and down to the ground where it joins the other excretions that have left him. The choking on his own vital fluid is scrutinized closely, grip on the gardening equipment unwavering until all actions of the enemy completely cease.
Allan’s lifeless slumping becomes the indicator that the mission is complete.
That Lucy is safe.
That I make the company I work for look good while saving taxpayers’ dollars by not having this psychopath drain resources from the already unstable system he might’ve been sentenced into.
I relinquish my hold on the pitchfork and back up slowly, stare pasted on the corpse just in case I called his death too prematurely. Once it’s safe to declare the threat has been eliminated, I begin my trek back in the direction of the SUV, silently crawling around in my own skin out of desperation to get clean or at the very least into a suit that doesn’t smell like I was an extra in Babe.
Lucy’s expression transposes from one of fear to one of excitement when she sees I’m the only one coming in her direction. Against what I would label to be good judgment, she darts from the vehicle and throws herself into my arms.
“Ohmygod, thank you! Thank you!” She squeaks in equal amounts of gratitude and relief. “Thank you so much, Bradford!” Her arms tangle around my frame in continued hysteria. “You are amazing!”
I use one hand to give her a small pat in the middle of her crop-top-covered back. “Just doing my job, Miss Marks.”
More squeals of elation escape her, although these are incoherent. It takes an understandable amount of time for her to finally pull