Mr & Mr Hitman

Affectionated Revenge

"You heard what I just heard, yeah?", Priscilla quietly followed Samuel as they tiptoed towards the building, trying to figure an opening into which they could sneak in quietly.

"Hopefully we're both as deaf as a post," Samuel answered, his tone laced with worry.

Minutes would collapse as they tried to find an aperture; there were windows, but they were up too high up and unreachable, even if one of them morphed into a ladder.

Hitmen aren't ninjas, to our great disappointment.

Priscilla halted, Samuel nearly colliding with her, "Woah," he tripped, gripping the wall for balance, "At least announce it when you're braking."

She didn't reply, instead gestured her head to a door just beside her, "Do we risk it? There could be numerous gunmen for all we know," she chuckled at the visible consideration on Sam's face.

"We'll have to face it one way or the other," the protagonist sighed, "Why? Scared?", he rose a cheeky eyebrow.

"As if," she grabbed the metal handle, pulling it hastily, the rusted grinds creaking loudly and echoing into the woods, "Oops."

To their grand surprise, the storeroom was empty. Empty as in, 'gunmen' weren't lurking around, at least from what they've observed so far. Cargo, boxes, tables with brewery materials, "Shit," Samuel breathed, "Surely they must be in here."

Was screaming even an option? What if the men from before heard them? Then again, no one came running when the door screeched.

Their ears perked up from a familiar voice, almost exhausted, yelling "Somebody please help!"

Priscilla scurried in the direction of the voice, dodging boxes, pushing carriages aside to free the way, as Samuel leisurely followed her. "That was-"

"Olivia," Priscilla exhaled setting eyes on the woman, sobbing quietly as her arms were tied behind her back, legs also bound together, preventing her from any movements. She was on the verge of falling asleep, her head bouncing while she tried to remain conscious. Our characters both sighed in relief,

Thankfully, she isn't hurt.

Physically at least.

"Olivia," Priscilla crouched down, slightly tapping her shoulder, while Samuel untied her legs, frowning at the bruises the tightness left.

Matthew Field, huh? Dead meat.

The mother jerked awake, her tired caramel eyes gazing into the other woman's as her breathing accelerated, her orbs engulfed in tears as they poured out, "You guys-" she tried to speak, betrayed by her own emotions that took away her ability to. "You're finally here-", her eyes continued to pour while she buried her face into Priscilla's shoulder, the latter untying her hands.

Matthew.

"Yes Olivia you're safe now," Samuel sighed, sharing a sympathetic glance with Priscilla, "Do you know where Cameron is?"

She jolted her head up once again, staring into the man's eyes, "They took him out," her breathing hitched once again.

"Calm down," Priscilla rubbed her back.

"Please go get him," she whined, augmenting the level of the others' worry, "Please make sure he's safe," she continued crying, "Please," her voice cracked.

Field.

"Shush now you're over working yourself," Samuel bit his lips, "Where is he?", he felt his breathing fastened by the second, his body yearning for tobacco on account of his rising anxiety.

"I don't know, but," she breathed in, "he's hurt," her throat tightened, "badly."

The hitmen once again shared a glance, "Take her to the car, I'll be there shortly," Samuel spoke, hurriedly going out.

Matthew fucking Field, you're messing with the wrong crowd.

"Sam," the hitman paused in his quest to redeem his lover, "You're going to bring back Cameron?", Olivia spoke in Priscilla's arms, the bigger woman carrying her bridal style.

"Of course I am," he sighed, "I'm sorry for your boyfriend," Samuel peeked over his shoulder, "Seeing your state, I'm not sure that you'll see him again."

"Who feels sorry for him," she announced, coughing slightly, "I do not wish to either see him, nor do I want him near any of us."

Priscilla huffed as a smirk crept on her face, half astound and half impressed by that statement, "Damn, missus is angry angry," she flicked her tongue.

"Who wouldn't be?", her reply slowly faded away as Sam frantically scurried outside, taking out his Browning Hi 9-mm to make sure it was loaded; its magazine occupied 20 bullets, and he didn't have any more ammo than that, meaning mistakes weren't allowed.

Carefully sneaking around the area, he couldn't find anything else. He could feel his palm sweat as he began to feel more fretful, eyes roaming restlessly around for anything that could potentially lead him to Cameron, until his auditory senses caught some prompt.

Shuffling.

He followed the sound, basically sprinting to the area, before he caught a glimpse of a crowd. Samuel murmured, slowly getting closer, "Fucking finally."

"Can't- anything-"

"He- kill- us-"

"We should just do our job."

Behind a trunk stood our favourite hitman, the men in black's backs facing him, engulfed in their conversation. He could barely comprehend anything, since they talked with awkward pauses, their tones monotonous, like something was holding them back from talking comfortably.

Did they see me?

Samuel was proven wrong when he heard that one familiar voice that unleashed butterflies in his stomach and a tent in his pants,

"Just admit none of you have balls instead of making such half-assed excuses,"

Cameron's voice cracked, sounding way more deep, almost raucous, like a man who smoked 40 packets of cigarettes daily for 20 years.

Which, is impossible, if you were thinking otherwise.

"Be silent, you're one to talk," one of the man scoffed as his colleagues chuckled.

"Whatever you say, Mr. Castrated."

Samuel's senses awakened when he heard a click of a gun, emerging from his hiding spot, his foot stepping down on creaking leaves, all heads turned towards him, including his dearest, first flinching, until his expression softened.

The butterflies are back.

Both of them thought.

"And who the fuck are you?", the man holding a gun to Cameron's head questioned, pressing the muzzle into our character's temple.

"Put the gun down first," he cocked his glock to the guy's head, his chocolate eyes peering through his eyebrows, "Quick."