into the present

So, I've started over on writing The Assassin. According to E.J., this is the "right draft, Laura!!!"

Yes. I did indeed copy that straight from our facebook conversation. But, anyways, I did put the new version up on wattpad and with some new advice, I edited earlier, and I wanted to share the first chapter with y'all!

I see you, I think as the man walks down the sidewalk.
            People weave in and out between us, but I never lose sight of him. Doing so would have consequences that I don’t want to dwell on.
            He looks both ways before crossing the street, looking up to the building he lives in.  There’s a sag in his shoulders from the week, and it’s obvious that he’s going straight home, not out to a bar like he would any other Friday night.
            He brushes past a woman, who in turn gives him a dirty look, but he never notices. Something is on his mind. It’s written all over his face. Does he know?
            The sun slowly sinks behind the tall New York buildings and street lights flash on. Car horns constantly go off as people jump in front of them.
            It’s the town that never sleeps. There’s no time for that. But as I watch him walk into his building, I know it’s only a little while before he’ll have all the time in the world.
            I was here last night. He lives on the third floor which makes my job easier. Even better is the fire escape that leads straight to his patio.
            Nothing has changed from last night. The chair on the patio is still turned on its side, the table has been shoved against the edge. I slip over to the sliding door and check the lock. It’s unlocked, but he’ll be coming any moment. Best to wait until I know where he is.
            His front door swings open, and I cling against the wall, listening to the sounds of his footsteps inside. He’s a heavy walker, strange for someone who’s so fit for his age. The closing of the door vibrates through the walls and I slide to the door and open it.
            I slide the door closed when I step inside and take a moment to review the apartment in my mind. Bedroom on the left, kitchen on the right. It looks like a generic, modern New York bachelor pad.
            “What the hell is wrong with you?”
            I spin around and stare at the door. Someone else is here and whoever it is doesn’t belong here. He lives alone, never has friends at his place.
            Why is this time different?
            “What the hell is wrong with me? What about you?” He’s obviously as mad as the stranger in his bedroom.  
            Scanning the room, I see an open cupboard in the kitchen that I can slip into. It’s a tight fit, but it’ll work.
            “You owe me, Sharp. I helped you, saved your goddamn life, and all I wanted was one little name, one name of a teenager, and you can’t deliver?” The pots in the cabinet shake a little when someone is pushed into the wall. My guess is that the stranger pushed him.
            “I told you, the last records for the name are when the kid was three!”
            “You failed me when I needed one little favor from you.” The man sounds like he could kill someone.
            “Look, you can’t blame me. Whoever sealed that file was trying to protect her, and it worked. I had numerous people looking for that kid. She’s gotta be dead.”
            “She isn’t dead,” the stranger roars. In any minute, someone from a nearby apartment will become nosy and call the police.
            “She has to be! I’m telling you, she’s dead.”
            “She’s not dead, she’s alive, somewhere, but you’re as good as dead.”
            One, two, three.My ears ring as I count the gunshots.
            The door to the bedroom flies open and a man walks out. He’s trying to act like he’s calm by the way he walks, but his hand is shaking from anger. His eyes are scanning the room, taking in the details as he leaves.
            There’s a single scar across his left cheek, but beyond that, he’s non-descriptive. Early to mid forties, a little fat on the sides and stomach, with receding blond hair line. Perfect to blend in and never be noticed.
            He leaves through sliding door, but I wait a moment to make sure he doesn’t come back.
            When I’m sure that the man won’t come back, I slip out of the cabinet and walk to the bedroom door. It’s cracked open and I push it open with my arm.   
            David Sharp is dead. There’s no doubt. I bite my lip and mentally count the spots where it looks like he’s been shot. There’d been three gun shots, but that didn’t mean they all were in Sharp. His shirt is dyed red and a red river weaves down his forehead.
            What did the man want from him? Who was the person he was looking for? And why did the man kill him before I did?
            Killing him was supposed to be my job, but here he is dead on the floor. 

1 Comment:

Kate said...

i am really impressed; don't often comment but have been reading the paragraphs and chapters you post and this is by far the most gripping post i've read! :)
knock it out of the ballpark girl.

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