She didn’t see the ceiling cave in on the suits, a body and stucco collapsed across them. No, she was focused on poor lifeless Marco. My fault, she muttered, over and over. My fault…
The head suit stumbled out of his seat for cover as soon as the body falls through, unsure of the assault he faced. He saw the rugged man stomp on the back of his colleague’s head, then directed his knee to another’s face as that one tried to clamber to his feet.
“God dammit. Denton! Jensen!”
While two suits writhed on the ground, two still stood surrounding the rugged man. The dark spots surrounding his sunken eyeballs, his posture hunched over the debris and bodies—the man was a raccoon, rabid, backed into a corner.
“I’m just here for the coffee,” he grated.
“Slick, you’re not here at all,” the head suit said, quickly reaching into his jacket. But the man had a combination of size and speed they didn’t account for. One leg stepped forward, just as quick as the other lunged straight into his chest. The kick smashed his hand around the butt of the pistol, nearly firing off a round in the process, and sent him reeling on his ass.
He pivoted from the kick, swinging around to face the other suit, still brushing stucco chunks from his jacket. The head suit held his right hand gently, with even the slightest pressure shooting a pain through his wrist. “Broke my fucking hand,” he whimpered, scurrying to his feet.
The rugged man parried each of the suit’s strikes with precision and method, as if rehearsed. While his first strikes were fierce, utilizing extensive training and experience, the suit’s inability to land a blow was met with frustration. His kicks soon devolved to erratic form, his fists swinging wildly, both failing to connect.
“My fault,” Jenn sobbed into her hands. She hunched over Marco, no longer able to look at him. Why would they? He didn’t do anything wrong. And his girls, what will they do? Poor Jimena, poor Yasmine. It wasn’t fair. But Jenn reminded herself, sitting on the floor it’s never fair. She would always bare the scars of proof.
Jenn finally looked up from her hands to survey the chaos, just in time to dodge a flailing body tossed over the countertop and into the kitchen doors. Another suit, his coat ripped at the seams as he collapsed while his sunglasses lay shattered around him. It was him, Jenn recognized. He executed Marco. The only man left was he who gave the order.
And Jenn felt a rage she thought was reserved for one person—a rage she kept in check. That was before they killed poor Marco.
2/18/14 tues. The Terrible Infant.