In the heart of Midtown Manhattan, near
2:00 AM, a mysterious man didn’t seem bothered with the night’s air or the
uncomfortable heat, but something else was eating at him. He knew what he was
about to do was going to upset a lot of people, but to him, this was something
he had to do. I’m a dead man either way, he thought. He shivered when an
unsuspected chill ran down his spine.
The mystery man
wore a long, black trench coat with loafers of the same color protruding out
from under its bottom seam. Though it was nighttime, he wore sunglasses to hide
his eyes. He gripped the handle of a black briefcase tightly in his hand.
He stopped on
the curb, needing to cross Broome Street in order to reach his objective.
Although there was no traffic on the empty street, he looked both ways to
ensure a safe crossing. Nothing coming, he thought, and then made his way
across the street.
On the other
side, the man walked between an apartment complex on the left and a hotel on
the right. He needed to pass through a courtyard that was near fifty-foot
square and void of people. In the center was a metal table surrounded by four
metal chairs. About ten feet away from the table and chairs was a wooden bench
that ran lengthwise on three sides. In the far right corner of the courtyard, a
lone light illuminated a wooden shed, which jutted out from the back of the
hotel. A single door in the brick wall led into the side of the hotel. At the
other end of the courtyard, an eight-foot high concrete wall that blocked of an
alley.
The mysterious
man stayed close to the apartment complex wall. He passed two darkened windows,
a door, two more dark windows, and then another door. A light shined from the
inside of the next two windows. The second door was his objective. He placed
his hand on the knob, turned it, and opened the door. He stepped through the
doorway and let the door close on its own. He looked down the hall to the
intersection about twenty feet away to make sure no one was around. The light
at the far end flickered, giving the hall an eerie feeling. He made his way to
the intersection, turned the corner to the left, and made his way to room 112.
He stopped in
front of the door, but before entering, he looked around to make sure no one
had followed. He knocked twice, paused, knocked again, and then waited for a
response.
Within moments,
the door opened to reveal a large, Mexican man with wide shoulders. He had a
mean look about him. He wore a blue muscle shirt with tattoos covering both
arms and his neck. Etched in the corner of his eye was a teardrop tattoo. He
stepped aside and motioned with his hand for the newcomer to enter. “Sup,
Holmes,” he greeted.
Without a word,
just a nod, the mysterious man entered the room, the door closing behind him.
Unfortunately,
neither man noticed the figure in the shadows down the hall. Read more.
