Gravel snapped and popped under the car wheels. Michael still had his sniper rifle in its case in the trunk of his car. The familiarity of the description began to ring in his brain, making him think... who was it actually?
Michael was near his destination. This little.... town out here didn't look the most accepting. That was fine by Michael. He was going to do his job and get out of here, never to return.
The dirt gradually began to stop popping underneath his wheels as he pulled into an abandoned hotel. He parked the car in the yard, near the empty pool so people wouldn't see it.
Michael got out of the vehicle, shutting the door quietly and then grabbing the sniper from the trunk. After he retrieved it, he began to head for a stairwell, which lead to the roof of the hotels. It'd be a perfect place to sit, considering it was an even distance from the building he was suppose to be watching.
The only noise was coyotes yipping in the distance, wind blowing through the sand and weeds, ATV's and dirt bike engines humming, and his footsteps slowly making their way up the metal stairs. The shoulder strap from the sniper dug into Michael's shoulder. It was a little difficult to get up the stairs, a heavy gun weighing one side down and an injured arm in a sling.
Once he reached the top, he entered a stealthy crouching position, which was not as sneaky since he was in a teal polo shirt, white and blue shorts, and yellow flip flops. If someone saw him, they could probably identify him.
"Dave said it's an alcohol store..." Michael laid down on the roof's edge, laying the sniper down next to him, and gazed out over the small town of Sandy Shores. He looked around but only spotted one building that somewhat looked like an alcohol store. Figuring it was the only building that was somewhat matching the description Dave gave him, he picked up the sniper and aimed it at the store.
He dialed in the distance and situated to get comfortable, to wait. The description was burning in the back of his head, way too familiar for him to merely forget. It couldn't be.... no, that wasn't possible.
"Keep it together, Mikey." Michael whispered to himself, biting his lip gently as he stared at the doors of the liquor store. There were figures moving around inside, making him a little uneasy.
"Goddamn it, Ron! You always fuck everything up!" A familiar voice shouted in the distance, barely audible by Michael. "You just costed us thousands of dollars!"
Two figures busted out through the door, one ahead of the other. They both fit the description pretty close. As Michael aimed his target at the one named 'Ron', he decided that he wasn't the right one due to his nervous stance and the way he rubbed his hands together. He wouldn't be the type to assault officers.
He moved his gun to the other one, having to look twice through the scope to make sure he wasn't mistaking.
Michael knew deep in his heart that that guy was his old friend that he abandoned nearly ten years ago.
"Trevor, I'm really sorry! Wasn't aware of my mistake!" Ron nervously rubbed his hands together, cowering as the other one stopped cold in his tracks.
"Trevor fucking Phillips." Michael gasped, his finger dancing on the trigger. He would miss... but if Trevor found out he was still alive, he was screwed big time.
Instead of taking the shot, Michael crawled back from the ledge and grabbed his phone, fumbling it around in one free hand and managed to dial Dave Norton. Once it rang a few times, a voice came over the phone.
"Hello?"
"Dave, it's Michael. What the fuck! You said you didn't know who the suspect was!" Michael quietly growled into the phone.
"We still don't. Have you caught a name yet?"
"Yes, I did. It's Trevor."
"Trevor fucking Phillips?" Dave had more shock in his voice than Michael had ever heard before.
"Yes."
"Fuck, get out of there. He can not discover you are alive. You will be screwed to next Sunday."
"You don't need to tell me twice. Bye." Michael clicked the red button before Dave could and slipped the phone back in his pocket.
Before Michael could pull back the sniper from the ledge, he heard a distant shout which made his stomach fall to the ground three stories below him.
"Who's up there on the roof?!" Trevor shouted. He was way more closer than he was five minutes ago. He must've spotted Michael from the building. Curse his arm sling.
"Shit.." Michael hissed, getting into a crouching position. He heard footsteps coming up the staircase. It was off the side of the building or being caught by his worst nightmare.
Making an instant decision, he tossed himself off the edge of the building, hoping to God that there were no debris or rubble that would kill him. The impact itself would be enough.
"Hiding won't keep you safe!" Trevor's deep, rough voice shouted angrily, slicing through the air that Michael was falling through.
WHUMP!
Michael was taken by sudden surprise of the impact, all the air in his lungs being forcefully pushed out. His neck and lungs burned and he gasped for air. Dust was kicked up into the air, settling in his eyes and skin.
His arm began to tingle, which turned into a painful throb within a matter of a few seconds. Michael bit his lip from the pain and refused to make a noise, anymore than he has. Trevor has undoubtedly heard it.
Slowly getting up, Michael groaned in pain. His legs ached and his ribs were probably bruised, but they'd be a lot worse if Trevor found them. It was still debatable.
"Get over here, you stupid fuck!" Trevor seethed in anger, his voice running in the direction of Michael. In a quick panic mode, Michael bolted off towards the corner of the building. All he needed to do was get to his car and drive away.
Drive away from this mess, this nightmare. Go home and watch old classic movies along with a few nice cool shots of whiskey...
Pay attention, Michael. Your life is on the line. Michael reminded himself. He could almost taste the liquor in his mouth and a few selected favorite movie beginnings starting in his brain.
"Whoever you are, you will regret running!" Trevor's footsteps were becoming more frequent... more quicker. Michael had to find a way to move faster or he'd be caught on his sprint to the car.
His lungs were burning from the quick exhaustion, considering they just had the wind knocked out of them and he was out of action for two weeks. His knees ached with a dull pain that wasn't too healthy.
Keep moving Michael... your life depends on it. What does Michael care for his life? His wife cheats on him, his kids are assholes, he's haunted by his past, and now his nightmare is chasing him. What is holding him to this planet? Is it his burdens and guiltiness that leave him to remain here?
A sharp, alerting yell from behind made Michael nearly jump if he had been standing. Just another ten more yards....
Trevor's yelling was unbelievably aggressive. He always was sort of a wack job anywho. If Michael gets out of here, he vows never to come out here again. Perhaps retire and enjoy life with his kids and wife -- like that would happen.
"You are a wounded bird, that arm's slowin' you down! Along with that big ol' marksman sniper." Trevor was easily gaining on Michael. Thank goodness his windows were tainted pure black.
Raspy and ragged breaths were coming out of Michael's dry lips, pain throbbing through his entire body. His ribs, arms, and knees were probably the most concentrated in pain. Maybe his old years were kicking in and telling him to stop this.
His uninjured hand numb flung against the metal car door. Michael couldn't keep his hands from nervously shaking. He was frightened out of his mind, like a child finding a monster under their bed.
Finally getting the door open, Michael jumped in, slamming the car door extremely hard from the rush of fear and hitting the lock about twenty times. Trevor's frequent shouting had crashed into the window... literally. A fist began to bang on the thick glass.
"Get out here, you pussy!" Trevor growled, attempting to get the door open. Michael's only hand fumbled with the keys, shakily shoving them into the ignition and lighting it up.
Not today,T. Michael thought in his head as he stomped on the gas, putting the pedal to the metal. Rocks and dust enveloped Trevor, leaving him sputtering and shouting frivolous profanity into the clouded air.