Blood Red Orange

Your nostrils flared and clenched at the reek of citrus and mould. It really was a horrendously humid day. Everything always smelled worse in the heat. The fuzz covered fruit left sprawled rotting across the ground. The prickling sweat that ran down your limb in grotesque beads. The bird faeces  splattered across the tinted windscreen of your Bentley. The blood that was eternally embedded into your palms, leaving them dry and cracked. All of it stank, a gut quenching combination that left a vile taste on the rough of your tongue. One of many reasons why business was always better conducted at night; today's business however, was far too delicate for a moonlit meeting. Instead, you were left standing standing in the blistering heat with little to accompany you but the occasional thud of an orange falling to the dirt and the quiet purr of your black car idling. As always, your driver sat silently at the wheel, seated comfortably in the cool air-conditioned vehicle. Being boss was not all it was cracked up to be.

A soft rumble from nearby indicated the arrival of your confrere. Finally, finally your affiliate had graced you with his his presence.  From behind the trees the dark Mercedes rolled out into view. A popular car for those in their profession, in your profession. The black automotive stopped parallel to your own, several meters down as was tradition. Slowly the back window of the opposing vehicle lowered itself. You'd expected the door to open, the window in place was never a good sign. Reacting on instinct alone, you ducked at a flicker of movement from within the Mercedes. The bullet chimed off the metal of your Bentley, ricocheting into the orchard beside. Frantically you tore open the door of your Bentley. Diving into the back seat, as another shot bounced off the door, you screamed orders at your driver.

A loud growl resounded from the engine before it roared into action. Kicking up mud the car jolted into reverse, throwing you rib first into the central console. Ignoring the pain, you clutched on for life as the driver span the steering wheel. The sudden shift caused via the J-turn almost sent you flying out of the still open door. Never assume, you had told yourself that plenty of times and yet you still assumed that the Mourilyan family would not be stupid enough to shoot at you in broad day light. A war was surely to follow, but for now the battle of survival was far more important. Clambering onto the seat you yanked the door closed, your new found enemy in hot pursuit.

Flicking a small catch, you opened the hidden compartment concealed within the headrest of the passenger seat. Stealing the P99 and a Gemtech silencer from the contents you attached the two in preparation for slaughter. Ignoring the constant stream of bullets chipping away at the bullet proof glass, you reached for the twelve round magazine. The familiar echo of the magazine grinding into place rung blissfully in your ears. The cold metal of the barrel soothing against the warmth of the overbearing sun outside. The ridged grip soft to your calloused finger tips. The cheerful click of the safety being switched into that adrenaline zone of danger. Your blood boiled, it always did when work was about to be commenced.

The electric window lowered on command. The ever mute chauffeur pulled the handbrake and span the vehicle into position, just as ordered. Leaning out the window you shot three precise rounds into the wheel of your hunters. As desired, the Mercedes veered off into the fruit trees. Clangs and clutters of metal followed by a wisp of black smoke declared your success. Your devilish grin etched itself across your face in victory. Pulling your door open, you stalked up to the wreckage with the superiority you had earned over the years. A gazelle could never hunt a lion. You were the king. No measly peasant could uproot royalty. You and your determination alone ruled over the city and the surrounding lands likewise. Killing was all part of the elevation to power.

Walking to the driver's door, you watched the pitiful lackey of the Mourilyan family struggle with the air bag that had pinned him to the seat. With as much emotion as a man would spend on a piece of wood he was about to chop, you pulled the door handle and shot the bloke point blank in the head. He was of no concern to you. Leaving the warm corpse you searched for the next to be deceased.

Crawling on his knees. It was exactly where the scum of a would be assassin deserved to be. Bowing before the king that would not be granting mercy. Without need to aim you shot the gun from out of his hand, leaving him a defenceless coward kneeling on the ground. Picking a ripe orange from a nearby tree you rubbed the smooth bumps of it's surface. The peel created an odd dust as you caressed the firm fruit. Pointless apologies, begs for forgiveness, cries for pity all spewed from the mouth of Vincent K Mourilyan as you savoured the moment. Plunging your thumb into the watery fruit you tore it open, revealing the sour insides. Juice splattered down your face as you took a bite of the acidic nutrient. Scars in the corner of your lip stung with the refreshing citric liquid. Today was not as bad a day after all. Looking down at your victim, who was now trying in vain to reach the lost gun, you decided it was time to finish this pathetic fools life. Eight remaining bullets. One for each leg, one for each arm, two for the stomach and one for the head. Seven was a more enjoyable number. Seven shots and the battle would end. Seven shots and the war would begin.