MULLIGAN
991 Words
Ian Mulligan sat at the yacht’s far end, dark shades hiding his eyes, a Vogue magazine open on his lap, its pages fluttering in the sea breeze. The ocean stretched out, vast and calm, its waves lapping against the hull, a soft whisper in the quiet. He sipped his cocktail, the glass cold, sweating in the sun, and smirked, satisfied. This was peace, or as close as he’d get. He could do this forever—lounging, drinking, the world far away. Vacation was his escape, a break from the blood, the shadows, the Agency’s leash. He glanced at his wristwatch, its hands ticking past noon, and sighed, leaning back in the chair, its wood creaking under him. The air smelled of salt and freedom, the sky a sharp blue, cloudless, endless above. Mulligan wasn’t much of a man, less of a human. A soldier once, he’d fled the army, slipped away like smoke. They’d hunted him, sent men to drag him back, but he’d vanished, declared dead. He wasn’t dead, not yet, though sometimes the idea appealed to him, a ghost walking among the living. It made him feel special, untouchable, like a shadow with teeth. After deserting, he’d joined the Agency, trading one war for another, one master for a worse one. His army training made him lethal—fast, accurate, a devil with a gun. Give him a target, and he delivered. No questions, no regrets. He was their dog, but a damn good one, his kills clean, his hands steady. He turned, watching his female attendant approach, her hips swaying, her smile professional but warm. “Permission to head back, sir?” she asked, her voice soft over the waves. Mulligan nodded, his eyes lingering on her, a lazy smile curling his lips. He pulled his sleeping mask down, reclining further, the sun warm on his skin, the yacht rocking gently. Home sweet home, he thought, the sea’s rhythm lulling him, the magazine slipping from his fingers. He didn’t see the danger, didn’t feel the eyes watching from the shadows, didn’t hear the soft creak of boots on the deck. Someone else was there, uninvited, a ghost of a man, his once-strong frame worn thin, his face hard with purpose. James Brock moved silently, a cord wrapped tight around his wrist, its rough fibers biting into his skin. He wasn’t here for the sea, the sun, or the peace. His eyes were cold, fixed on Mulligan, his breath steady despite the poison burning in his veins. Nathaniel Cross had done this, injected him, made a deal sealed in blood. Kill Mulligan, get the antidote, live. Fail, and die slowly, the poison eating him from the inside. Brock had no choice—the Agency would kill him if he went to a hospital, a wanted man with nowhere to hide. He stepped closer, the deck slick with spray, the air heavy with salt and the promise of death. Mulligan slept, his shades crooked, his chest rising slow and easy. Brock’s hands moved fast, the cord looping around Mulligan’s neck, pulling tight, cutting into flesh. Mulligan woke, thrashing, legs kicking wildly, hands clawing at the cord, his shades falling to reveal wide, panicked eyes. He fought, his body jerking, the chair scraping the deck, but Brock was stronger, relentless, his grip iron. The sea watched, its waves steady, indifferent, as Mulligan’s struggles slowed, his body slumping, his head falling back, lifeless. For the second time, Ian Mulligan died—this time for real. Brock stood over him, breathing hard, the cord still tight in his hands, blood flecking his knuckles. The yacht rocked, the sun glaring, the air thick with death.Brock’s mind was a storm, fear and triumph clashing. He’d done it, kept his part of the oath. Nathaniel would give him the antidote, save him from the poison’s fire. He cut Mulligan’s left wrist with a knife, the blade sharp, the blood dark and warm. Proof for Nathaniel, a trophy to buy his life. He tucked it into his coat, the weight heavy, like a stone in his pocket. The sea stretched out, endless, uncaring, its rhythm mocking his urgency. He felt the poison now, a burn in his chest, a weight dragging him down. He had to find Nathaniel, had to live. The yacht’s deck was slick, the air heavy with blood and salt, the magazine fluttering in the breeze, its pages stained red. The attendant hadn’t seen, hadn’t heard, her back turned as she steered the yacht toward shore. Brock moved past her, his face blank, his steps steady despite the pain clawing his insides. He’d been a mistake his whole life—born wrong, living wrong—but not today. He’d killed for the Agency before, for money, for power, for their approval. This was different: for survival, for a chance to outrun his past. The yacht’s engine hummed, a low growl, carrying him back to land, to Nathaniel, to the antidote. He gripped the rail, his knuckles white, the sea’s rhythm steady, endless. Mulligan’s wrist in his pocket was a reminder, a curse, a hope. He’d done what Nathaniel asked, kept the oath. Now it was Nathaniel’s turn to keep his. Brock stood at the yacht’s edge, the wind sharp against his face, the salt stinging his eyes. He saw his life, all his mistakes—his parents’ curses, the prison bars, the girlfriend he’d lost. He’d always been running, always failing. Not this time. He’d killed Mulligan, proved his worth, not to the Agency but to himself. The poison burned, a fire in his blood, but he pushed it down, focused on Nathaniel, on the deal. The shore was close now, the town’s lights faint in the distance, like stars fallen to earth. He’d find Nathaniel, get the antidote, live another day. The yacht rocked, the sea whispering, and Brock felt alive, for once, like he could outrun his name, his past, his mistakes.
- Writer
