Gerald pointed the Buick Regal down the dark alley and sat breathing heavily for a moment while the warm engine sizzled under the cold rain. He threw the gearshift a bit early and the transmission ground the car to a stop. He ran a hand through the few strands of hair still tenuously clinging to his scalp and ground the heel of his palm into his forehead, doing nothing at all to dampen the growing headache that lie beneath.
He breathed and breathed and gripped the steering wheel, which didn't turn, and the rain fell and fell. All was still in the alley. All was dark. Gerald was glad no one was there to see him, mostly because it would've made things messy, but partially because he was embarrassed at what a cock-up he'd made of this job.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," he whispered. His chest heaved and strained the buttons on the too-tight dress shirt Emory had left for him at the hotel earlier today. This disguise had been completely useless and ill-fitting, and the constraint of the suit jacket across his shoulders did nothing to improve his feeling that he was being pinned in on this one. Someone had set him up. Probably not Emory, but someone, dammit. This was the kind of thing he'd spent his whole life looking over one shoulder to avoid, and he'd screwed it all up now...because of her.
A door opened at the end of the alley, and a man stepped out from the sudden pool of light holding a trash can. He looked briefly toward the Buick, then hustled over to a dumpster and emptied the garbage into it. He looked back at the Buick again before going inside.
Gerald's breathing had slowed now. He was quickly blowing past the point of no longer caring. No longer caring whether the man taking out the trash would recognize the Buick from the police reports. No longer caring that the man might have seen the details of his face. Not caring that the license plate was clearly visible and could be easily tied back to him.
And most of all, not caring whether or not the man had seen the two other occupants of the car: the dead body of the woman in the front seat, or the child slumbering fitfully in the back.
He breathed and breathed and gripped the steering wheel, which didn't turn, and the rain fell and fell. All was still in the alley. All was dark. Gerald was glad no one was there to see him, mostly because it would've made things messy, but partially because he was embarrassed at what a cock-up he'd made of this job.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," he whispered. His chest heaved and strained the buttons on the too-tight dress shirt Emory had left for him at the hotel earlier today. This disguise had been completely useless and ill-fitting, and the constraint of the suit jacket across his shoulders did nothing to improve his feeling that he was being pinned in on this one. Someone had set him up. Probably not Emory, but someone, dammit. This was the kind of thing he'd spent his whole life looking over one shoulder to avoid, and he'd screwed it all up now...because of her.
A door opened at the end of the alley, and a man stepped out from the sudden pool of light holding a trash can. He looked briefly toward the Buick, then hustled over to a dumpster and emptied the garbage into it. He looked back at the Buick again before going inside.
Gerald's breathing had slowed now. He was quickly blowing past the point of no longer caring. No longer caring whether the man taking out the trash would recognize the Buick from the police reports. No longer caring that the man might have seen the details of his face. Not caring that the license plate was clearly visible and could be easily tied back to him.
And most of all, not caring whether or not the man had seen the two other occupants of the car: the dead body of the woman in the front seat, or the child slumbering fitfully in the back.
