Finishing A Sentence

The late summer rain drummed against the window panes, echoing the rhythm of the gentleman’s fingers as he consulted the folders in front of him. Sighing, he stands up and paces over to the liquor cabinet across the room. The ice tinkles as the whiskey drops into the glass and a flash of lightning illuminates him as he stares out into the storm.

His lips curl as he sips, and he speaks quietly, barely a whisper, “Are you sure?”

“I wish I wasn’t, but the camera doesn’t lie. What you want me to do?” rasps a voice made course from long years of Marlborough and Lucky Strike. A flame flares from a skull covered lighter, and a scarred face materializes in the gloom.

The thunder cracked silence is measured by the tolling grandfather clock as it strikes nine, and as the last tone dies away the gentleman turns from the window. “Don’t make me regret sparing you,” he drawls. “Make sure they know why before the end.” The gentleman strolls over to his desk and lifts a feathered mask off its mahogany surface. “Call me when it’s done.”

Only after the double doors swing to a close, does the second man grind his cigarette into the silver ashtray on the desk, languidly pulling a cellphone out of his pocket. As the digits ring out in the tone, a smile flickers across his face and he draws in a little, tight breath. “Go.”