Until The Trial

Terry

Terry Harlow lets out a yelp as he falls face forward, pain shooting through his palms as they hit the floor.

"Damn kids," he grumbles, plucking a doll from under him. Pushing himself to his knees, he begins cleaning for what feels like the hundredth time this week. There is nothing he wouldn't do for his kids, but sometimes he just wants to give them a proper hard smack. Of course, the second their eyes turn sad, all ill will vanishes.

When he first gets fired, he immediately tries to find a new job, but no one wants to hire someone who got let go from the FBI. So he and his wife decide to switch roles. With money in their savings, they can last a good few months, but he knows he'll eventually have to find some sort of job. If necessary, he'll resort to using his skills for payment. He finishes tidying the living room and moves to the kitchen to start dinner. No matter how much he wants to complain, he knows better than to do so. His wife did this for years; he should be able to as well.

Tonight, dinner has to be a feast. His son is turning ten the next day, and in their family, a final meal in an age is always important. Harlow takes into account all the ingredients he has available. He sighs, not seeing many options. A lasagna and a salad will have to do. As he cooks, he tries to push away the thoughts that plague him all day. The FBI is his old life; he has to get used to his new one. He starts cutting vegetables for the salad while the lasagna boils and the chicken cooks. Wanting to silence his thoughts, he puts on his favorite band, letting the music drown out his worries.

As he hurries to finish the meal on time, his offbeat singing fills the kitchen. He fails to notice his alarm system announcing the front door opening.

"I want you right there, girl!" he sings, spinning the ground beef in the pan. Suddenly, Harlow stops singing, a chill running down his spine. Something feels off. An eerie sensation of being watched makes his skin prickle. Quickly grabbing a knife, he spins around, his heart pounding.

His breath catches in his throat. A stranger with a white mask sits at the table, a gun in his hand. The silence stretches on as they stare at each other.

"Who are you?" Harlow shouts, breaking the silence, inching slowly towards his phone. The stranger lifts his gun and shoots the speaker, reducing the music to a soft volume until he shoots the phone as well.

"Who are you?" Harlow repeats, forcing himself to remain calm.

The stranger cocks his head. "You really think I'm going to answer that?"

"I did everything I was told," Harlow says, his hands shaking. "I followed through with my part."

"If that were true, I wouldn't be here, would I?" the stranger says, spinning the gun lazily. "They're onto you. We saw them come a couple of days ago, and now the agent is checking your things."

"I didn't tell them anything, I swear!"

"Whether that's true or not, we can't have you doing so in the future."

Harlow's breathing quickens. He knows he is going to die.

"My kids, they are innocent," he pleads.

The stranger nods. "I don't kill kids. Your family is safe, as long as they don't know anything. Do they know something?"

"No," Harlow says quickly.

"Good."

"Please, have mercy. I don't want to leave my children," he begs, desperation in his voice.

"They will have their mother," the man says, tapping the table in a continuous rhythm with his finger.

"Please, you don't have to do this. I did everything I was told."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"I am only doing my job."

"And I'm only doing mine. A smart man like yourself should know that instructions should be followed."

Harlow nods, trying to think of a way out. "May I at least have a chance to say goodbye? It's my boy's birthday tomorrow."

"You had weeks. Much more than I gave others."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Harlow waits for his chance to attack. He might die tonight, but he won't go down without a fight. The opportunity comes when the oven beeps, alerting him that the chicken is ready. He dodges to the left and throws the knife at the stranger. He doesn't stop to see if it hits before lunging towards him. For a second, he pins the stranger down, hope flaring in his chest that he might survive to see his children again, to kiss his wife one more time. But the man hits him on the side of the head with the butt of his gun. Harlow's vision clouds, and he feels himself being pushed to the side. The stranger stands over him, mask still in place. Dark, soulless eyes stare into his as he lifts the gun.

Harlow's last thought is a prayer, a desperate plea for mercy, knowing it will go unanswered.