The Face Of The Enemy
You can feel the music throbbing through every bone in your body. Hundreds of sweaty twenty-somethings gyrating to that bass beat, but you're standing still, arms crossed and a sober expression on your face: watching. Scanning the crowd. You can see one of them, tall and blond, blending in almost as well as you do, moving with ease, but then he raises his wrist to his lips and says something, and his cover is blown. So fucking obvious, you think; why aren't they on cell phones?
A man with a tray balanced on his palm brushes past you, throws his shoulder into it a little, and jars you from your transfixed state: you look up and you recognize those eyes. So cold, so without feeling and sympathy. They are the same eyes that look across at you through the darkness of poorly-lit gatherings, between murmurs of "something historic." It is Jorge, who always misses the big picture; Jorge, who is extravagant beyond his purpose; Jorge, who believes he is destined for Allah, but keeps losing his way and ending up at Sing-Sing.
"Twelve o’clock," he whispers into your ear, and you can almost hear the stubbly beard on his chin through his voice. You turn in just enough time to see the One slipping-- no, tumbling ungracefully-- into the restroom. That, you think with a bittersweet raise of your eyebrows, was your doing.
Jorge shoves his tray into a passing worker, who gives a grunt and a muttered, what the fuck, but Jorge says he's going out back for a smoke and would you stop giving him shit? Your heart flutters a little when you try to not to notice the way the other worker looks him up and down, even looks at you, before nodding and saying he'll cover.
You can't believe this is happening.
No. You can't believe this is working.
It doesn't take much to get her into the fire escape: the GHB has made her a more than willing participant. Still, she is slowing you down as she drags her feet uncontrollably. You follow them, one eye over your shoulder the whole time.
In the alleyway, Hector is waiting. The gun is still in his hand and he doesn't look at all stunned; the blood is starting to pool around her head.
Oh, shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.
You know: your father is a lawyer. This could get you a needle. You can't stop staring at the blank expression on her face. You think, you were just a good little Protestant boy from Albany; how did you get to this?
She sees the dead body, and she starts wiggling around, making pathetic whimpering sounds. She's scared. Jorge tries to calm her down, but she squirming more and more, and it's getting harder to control her. Something appears in her hand: Jorge knocks it away with force and finally brandishes the ether cloth. Her body protests, and then goes limp.
How did it get to this?