Sinclair stalked his prey from amongst the shadows, he knew his target well, the large warehouse had become a market of filth these past months, so much so that it was able to buy of any heat that could bring a stop to it. Cars came and went for most of the night, the frequency of customers was quite suprising for something so illegal in a first world nations city. It only further illustrated how things had slid into this gutter of decadence. It was closing in onto twenty past four in the morning, the markets generally seemed to close down now, with its peak being around mid night. At this time Sinclair figured that there would be less innocence around, if you could call the customers that visited here such a thing.
Dressed in dark blue jeans and wearing a dark grey-blue woolen jumper Sinclair was able to conceal himself amongst the dark spots as he pounced from shadow to shadow, his face hooded by a black ski mask and a customised army webbing tightly wrapped around his athletic torso. He was armed for a fire fight, his big L1A1 self loading rifle was heavy though at home in his arms, while at his hip he had his Browning Hi Power 9mm automatic hand gun, his two standard fire arms that he had aquired through nefarious sources early in his campaign.
A shot gun armed door man guarded the entrance to the warehouse, he was dressed in a black suit, as though he was a bouncer to an exclusive night club. In his ear he had a radio piece, and on his chest a name tag. He held the Remington 870 pump action in a down ward non threatening manner, so as not to scare away any of the edgier customers, as he checked each one in. Inside Sinclair had noted that there were two more armed security members, and another near the cash safe that was kept in an up stairs office. Sinclair just two nights ago had visited as a customer, wearing a long mullet wig that he had paid five dollars for , he was convincing as a drug head boganlooking for some fire power to ply his new trade, Sinclair had even gotten into a conversation with one of the guards, asking all sorts of questions about his shot gun, it was a good way to gauge just how professional these guys were, and just how much they knew about their fire power. Sinclair was able to determine that for the most part, they were simply bouncers with guns, guys that had been linked as muscle for organised crime most their lives, who now got a gig here.
Standing across from the man with the shot gun, Sinclair aimed his big battle rifle from his position in the shadows, kneeling Sinclair pressed the rifles butt plate into his shoulder, pulling back the trigger he sent a full metal jacketed NATO 7.62mm round into the unsuspecting man's right shoulder. Instantly Sinclair rushed towards his target, his rifle at the ready, another man armed with a hand gun appeared, Sinclair fired a round into his chest, the man fell heavily to the bitumen.
Now at his first victims position, Sinclair secured the shot gun and felt the man for any more weapons. Still alive, though in shock, Sinclair pressed a dressing against the man's wound.
"Hold this, and stay low, or you will die." Sinclair told the man, before he darted to another position inside the warehouse. Having slung his L1A1 over his back he held the Remington scatter gun in his arms ready for action. Several people were laying flat on the cement floor as Sinclair's eyes searched for targets, other armed men and the conductor of this market place, one of the ruthless lieutenants of the organised crime that had its turgid tendrils in everything. Another shot gun armed bouncer skirted along the side of the ware house walls, Sinclair aimed the pump action at the man, and fired a shot. The pellets sprayed him as he ran, causing him to twist in agony, Sinclair dropping the shot gun rushed towards the wounded guard, unslinging his big self loading rifle. Standing over the sorry looking bouncer, Sinclair kicked the man's damaged shot gun away and searched him. Grabbing his wallet, phone and contraband, stuffing it into his webbing. The man was lucky, the pellets tore his arm's and missed most of his torso. He still writhed in enough pain to ensure that he was out of this fight.
Another man appeared, Ryan "bloody boot" Rugari, Sinclairs main target. Aiming his rifle at Rugari as the pairs eyes met, each frozen for a moment.
"Drop it, and you can come with me alive. Play tough guy and you can come with me missing a leg or an arm." Sinclair said his eyes cold and focused on Rugari's.
The man known as Bloody Boot threw his hand gun to the ground and placed his hands high, Sinclair pushed him face first to the ground, quickly Sinclair was able to hand cuff his prisoner's arms behind his back as he tied a hessian bag over the man's head.
"Stay here, if you move, ill put a round in your skull." Sinclair said, as he quickly lept up the stairs to the office, where the cash was kept. Once he reached the office, his rifle ready Sinclair came across another armed guard. This one cowered face down on the ground begging for his life. Sinclair liberated the man of his fire power and even had him open the lock box. Getting his new assistant to pack a garbage bag full of the one hundred dollar bills and other notes, Sinclair watched from his perch high up for any more trouble. It seemed every one was to scared that they stayed face down and unwilling to attempt any heroics. Once the bag had been packed, Sinclair patted his assistant on the head playfully, and left the office, snatching up any paper work that was on the desk.
Back on the ground floor Sinclair pulled his prisoner to his feet, using him as a shield, rushing him out of the warehouse.
"Your a dead man my friend." Rugari arrogantly threatened from beneath his hood.
"I died a long time ago." Sinclair replied as he threw his captive into the boot of his car, making sure it was a painful process.
Sinclair was able to speed back to his hide out in the hills as the police and emergency services responded to the shootings. In the morning Sinclair would learn that all of those shot would survive their wounds, though whether his new prisoner would survive would be unlikely.
Ryan Rugari awoke disorientated, as though he had been on a major downer for most of the night, his head throbbed and his mouth was dry, desperate for water or any cold liquid. He searched his surroundings as he sat tied to his chair, his arms painfully bound to his rear, his legs tied so tight to the chair that he could barely feel his toes. The last thing he remembered was the car stopping and a sudden impact cracking him hard on the head. That hard crack was the butt of Sinclair's rifle.
"Hello, any one there ?" Rugari asked with a raspy voice, his head throbbing.
It seemed that he was in an old gardening or utility shed, the floor had been concreted poorly and the walls were made of stained corrugated iron. A single faint globe hang from the roof, though it was on, their was enough light coming through from the gaps in the roof to let Rugari see his prison.
Some hours past before Rugari heard some movement outside. He could hear some one move around the shed's exterior.
"Who the fuck is out there? Let me go now, and I swear on every thing that you will live." Rugari yelled from his small prison.
"Why do they call you 'bloody boot'?" The voice asked, from outside. The light bulb now clicking off.
"What, what do you mean ?"
"I asked, why do they call you 'Bloody Boot' Rugari ?" The voice asked as it circled the shed.
"It is just a name I earned coming up, it means nothing really." Rugari answered.
"You did not earn it stomping to death three people ? One a fifteen year old boy who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time."
Rugari did his best to swallow, but his mouth was completely dry.
"'Bloody Boot', may I ask which foot is the bloodiest?" the voice asked again from another position outside the shed.
"What do you want ?" Rugari asked his hands clenched as he tried pulling them free, his effort was only met with pain in both wrists.
"Names, addresses and information. Then maybe you go away from here breathing. Does that sound fair 'Bloody Boot'?"
"What names ?"
"You know whose names I would be interested in. I want the names of the hand that feeds the little doggies like you 'Bloody Boot'."
Rugari tried rocking the chair free, but found it to be locked into the floor. His mouth seemed to be drier, and his legs seemed to cramp up painfully. He looked at the walls, trying to focus as best as he could.
"What have you done to me ?" Rugari asked.
"I ask the questions 'Bloody Boot', and if you do not start to answer them, your window to leave here breathing will suddenly disappear."
"Mal Harding, I have his number and address in my phone. That is who you want. What is wrong with me ?" Rugari began to sound desperate.
"Relax 'Bloody Boot'. Anything else you think you should share ?"
Rugari's stomach began to turn painfully, the last few minutes it had tightened with an unbearable knot of agony. He felt like he needed to relieve himself though he could not for what ever reason. He started to breath harder, each lung ful of air an effort, he closed his eyes tightly wishing the pain away, desperate to broker some deal with the voice outside of the shed.
"I'll do what ever you want mate, listen I will get you girls, money, anything, just let me out of here."
A long silence followed, the voice was gone. Rugari sat writhing in pain as he tried to muster some saliva for his dry throat.
"Hello, are you there ?" with a barely audible rasp of air, Rugari asked.
"You can go free on one condition." The voice replied some minutes later, Rugari in to much pain to here the man's coming and goings.
"What is that?"
"You can bring back to life those peoples who you stomped to death with your bloody boot, or any other life you took, so as to benefit your pathetic piece of shit life." The voice answered flatly.
Rugari started to panic, his heath thumping hard in his chest. He mustered as much strength as he could in an attempt to tear himself free of his position, but still just the searing pain as the hand cuff's cut into his wrists.
"The dry cell batteries that you swallowed earlier are slowly eating away at your stomach. It is only going to become more painful, and their really is not much you can do I am afraid. Though it lacks the brutality of stomping a kids head in with your boots, I am sure that in time after you are found in the country some where, that you will earn another nick name, acid belly perhaps, ever ready maybe. How about you decide this as you enjoy your last hours."
Though Rugari had little saliva, his body had tears, as heavy warm drops began to roll down his cheeks, desperate and scared he thought of his own impending mortality and not of the victims he had taken along his journey. Even to the very painful end, the animal that was Ryan "Bloody Boot" Rugari thought of no one but himself.
Sinclair leaned against his run about, a late model Commodore, common and anonymous enough to get by with little suspicion it served its purpose time and time again. He thumbed through Rugari's Iphone as he took in as much intel as he could. All the while inside he could hear the cockroach that was 'Bloody Boot' begging for his life.
Sinclair slid into his car, he looked ahead as his gloved hands griped tightly on the steering wheel. Turning to the passenger seat, he opened a folder up. In it was the photo of a young boy, his face bashed in, the jaw crushed and the eye socket severly shattered. The soft brown hair of the boy was matted by clumps of thick blood, in one photo the boy's soccer uniform was tinged with what could only be brain matter and bits of scalp. It was with this visual reminder of Rugari's crimes that Sinclair was able to squash any tinges of compassion that he felt for the man who was dying slowly inside the shed.
Drawing his eyes from the small childs broken body, Sinclair sped away. He hoped that Rugari could hear the car pull away.
"Fuck him." Sinclair whispered as he reached the bitumen road, heading back into the city.
SInclair would return a day later to bury "Bloody Boots" body. It would be some months before it was discovered in a shallow grave. In a vineyard owned by one Mal Harding.
