Weaver

Chapter 22

He chuckles softly, a dark, somehow angry laugh. His thin lips turn up into a faint grin, but he still keeps his eyes downcast, polishing the revolver lovingly. Putting the towelette into his pocket, he looks up towards Beck, who stands casually in between the two wrecked cars.

Then, the man levels the gun, and shoots Beck in the center of the head.

I gasp slightly, eyes going wide. The darkness inside of me roars up, urging to attack the man. But I hold steady for a second, waiting to see Beck's response.

The force of the bullet knocked him backwards off his feet, and he lays, sprawled out on the wet concrete pavement of the highway. Where the bullet entered his skull is merely a round, dark hole, with little blood exiting the wound. That would have tipped me off that something was up, but this man declared him dead, pulling out the towel and turning his back, polishing once again.

Beck groans.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, propping himself up on his elbows. "Headaches suck, don't they? God, haven't had one in decades."

Whirling around, the man drops the towel and levels the gun at him once again. Beck's eyes stay on the weapon, eyes hooded, bored. "What are you going to do, shoot me?"

Levelled yet again, the pistol barks angrily: once, twice, three times, and a fourth. They erupt in Beck's chest, and with a jolt, he collapses back onto the ground. I imagine they can't hurt that bad, given that I just snapped my neck back into place without complaint. Yet he lays on the ground, dead as can be, chest still, face blank. His shooter stares at him, anger and satisfaction alight in his eyes, not turning around this time until he's sure that he's dead.

After a long moment, the man finally turns on his heel, a satisfactory humph the only sound as he walks away.

I look back to Beck, expecting him to be sitting up with a snarky comment in hand.

But the pavement is empty, save for the scattered parts of the destroyed vehicle.

I suck in a deep breath, closing my eyes. My shoulders shrug as I roll my head back before opening my eyes to find him. The squadron surrounding the wreckage now hollers, noticing that Beck moved, no longer playing dead on the ground; their commander, Beck's shooter, stops in his tracks, feet together, not turning around.

"Still playing games, Mr. Ashkova?"

"It's quite entertaining to watch you get mad."

Beck sits atop his wrecked car, swinging his feet in and out of the shattered passenger window. Perfectly at ease, he looks around, fixing his cuff links and adjusting his jacket. Several small, dark holes litter the front of his dark shirt, but his forehead is impeccable, no mark whatsoever.

The shooter turns toward him, taking in Beck's uncaring-- yet very alive-- state with an impassive expression. "You're not dead, I see."

"Congratulations. You have eyes."

"I want you dead."

"Fabulous. Get in line with that last group of yahoos that tried me."

"You killed my father."

I purse my lips. So this guy has a vendetta against Beck, and a history to back it up. His hatred is clearly blinding; he hasn't yet spotted me, or if he has, doesn't care enough to riddle me with lead as well. I watch Beck carefully, see if he recognizes the man, or realizes exactly who he killed.

Fingers gripping the edge of the car, Beck looks upward, thinking. "Now, why would I do that? Let me think...." Suddenly, he pushes himself off the roof, sliding down silently before sauntering forward.

A single shot rings out, somewhere along the long line of shooters kneeling on the blacktop.

Blindingly quick, Beck's hand shoots up, pulling the bullet out of the air, holding it between two fingers. He rolls his eyes. "If you keep shooting me, you all are going to end up dead and without what you came for... which is...?" He trails off, leaning towards the man, the leader.

"Beck Ashkova, you're under arrest for nearly every crime in the books. I'm here to finally take you in. You've been... requested."

"Arrested?" Beck responds giddily. "Please, oh please, give me the handcuffs. Those are so much fun." He holds out his wrists. But he drops his arms suddenly, joking smile wiped from his face. "May I ask who requested my arrest? On such short notice, might I add?"

The man levels his head, pointing his chin up. I can see his eyes go hard, some underlying disgust for said boss finally getting to be seen. He opens his mouth to respond, but another shot sounds, far away.

His words catch in his throat, instead emitting a pained gurgle. Dark, crimson blood seeps through the front of his shirt, and he staggers to his knees before falling face-first onto the pavement. Beck's eyes go wide, and I can feel my face mirroring his.

"For once, I'm not the murderer here. What an odd feeling."

"Beck...."

I trail off, noticing a large figure striding across the other side of the highway. He holds an odd weapon, hanging down from his arm loosely, swinging with his gait. My incredible sight picks apart his features, growing more and more unnerved the longer I stare.

His skin is dark, an odd, unnatural gray-brown shade. He wears no shirt, showing a toned, muscular torso, riddled with layers of pale scars. Pants dark, they are a slim fit. His overall appearance is intimidating, and that's looking at him from a distance. However, as I scrutinize him, my stomach drops as my eyes scan his face.

One slanting, gaping scar crosses his forehead, ending precariously close to his eye. Which is the second kicker. They glow a flaming, abnormal orange, the colors shifting as he moves. His eyes squint as his lip lifts in disgusts, baring teeth in an almost primal expression.

For the first time since my death, I feel genuinely afraid.