The Watcher 2
941 Words
The locks clicked open as Alfred walked into his house, he staggered as he held a beer bottle in hand, without locking the door he slumped into his chair and began snoring loudly, the sound of his snore echoed through the empty house. He had been doing that for a week straight, going to clubs, drinking himself to stupor and returning home to sleep on his couch. Tonight while he was drinking someone gave him a drink that a lady had bought for him, he knew it was drugged and threw it away then started acting drunk as usual and headed home staggering.
As he pretended to snore his door creaked open he gave a slight smile barely perceptible to an onlooker his stalker had just walked right into his trap and ultimately his demise, as he lay there pretending to snore deeply a small knife was in his hand.
The intruder walked boldly towards him thinking he was under the Influence of the drug he put in his drink, he stood over him pointed his silenced pistol at him and was about to pull the trigger when with speed like lightning Alfred stabbed his thigh.
The knife caught the man's thigh. Alfred immediately knocked the gun away, causing the shot to miss.
The struggle began.
Alfred and the man wrestled for control of the weapon. Several shots rang out during the struggle until the pistol finally clicked empty.
Alfred drove his elbow into the man's mouth, he staggered back and threw a punch which Alfred dodged and gave him a punch to his solar plexus, the man gasped for air, Alfred kicked his knee bringing him to his knees and then gave him a rear naked choke the man was unconscious in under a minute.
The man slowly regained consciousness an hour later. He blinked hard as he tried to use his hand to shield the light entering his eyes. His movement stopped when he realized he was in handcuffs, both hands secured above his head.
He looked around the room.
Alfred was sitting across from him in a chair, calmly cleaning the small knife he had used earlier.
The man stared at him.
“How long have I been out?”
Alfred didn't answer.
The man swallowed.
“Where am I?”
Alfred finally looked up.
“My house.”
The man's eyes widened.
Alfred placed the knife on the table beside him.
“Who sent you?”
Silence.
The man looked away.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
Alfred leaned back in his chair.
“You broke into my house with a gun.”
“I came to rob you.”
Alfred stared at him for several seconds.
“You're a terrible liar.”
The man said nothing.
Alfred stood and walked toward him. He stopped a few feet away.
“You knew what time I'd be home. You knew I would be alone. You knew about the drug.”
The man's expression changed.
Alfred noticed.
“So,” he said quietly. “We're getting somewhere.”
“I don't know anything.”
“Then tell me something you do know.”
The man remained silent.
Alfred picked up the photograph from the table—the same photograph that had been left in his house days earlier.
He held it up.
“You took this.”
The man's eyes immediately fell on the photograph.
That was enough.
Alfred smiled faintly.
“You should've left when you had the chance.”
The man sighed.
“Fine.”
Alfred waited.
“I was hired.”
“By who?”
“I don't know his name.”
“Then give me something useful.”
The man hesitated.
“A middleman contacted me.”
“Who was the target?”
The man looked directly at Alfred.
“You.”
Alfred's expression didn't change.
“Why?”
“I wasn't told.”
“Who hired the middleman?”
“I don't know.”
Alfred stared at him for a moment before turning away.
Then the man spoke again.
“But I know where the order came from.”
Alfred stopped.
“Where?”
The man took a breath.
“The people who hired you.”
Silence filled the room.
For the first time that night, Alfred's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But the man noticed.
“They want you dead,” he continued. “They said you knew too much.”
Alfred slowly turned around.
“Victor Hale.”
The man's eyes widened.
That was all the confirmation Alfred needed.
He walked back to the table and picked up his phone.
The pieces were finally beginning to fit together.
Victor Hale had been the job.
Someone had paid him to eliminate Hale.
Now, whoever had ordered the hit wanted the only person who could connect them to it gone.
Alfred looked at the man.
“What's your name?”
“Marcus.”
Alfred nodded.
“Marcus.”
He dialed a number.
The call connected.
“Tommy.”
A familiar voice answered.
“What happened?”
Alfred looked at Marcus.
“We have a problem.”
“What kind?”
Alfred's eyes hardened.
“The people who hired me to kill Victor Hale just hired someone to kill me.”
There was silence on the other end.
Then Tommy spoke.
“Are you sure?”
Alfred looked down at the empty pistol on the table.
“Very.”
He ended the call.
For the first time in years, Alfred wasn't hunting someone because he had been given a name.
Someone was hunting him.
And Alfred had no intention of becoming the prey.
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