Secrets of a ***er

[Harvey’s Point of View]

The lamps on the hallway ceiling made a soft glow on the carpeted ground. My steps were quiet. I had learned to be quiet. My back was turned against the hallway wall. Even though the lights were on, the hotel still had something dark, like the lighting was casting more shadows than the dark would have. It was nice hotel, not some shabby motel you see along the road. I wondered how he could afford this. He didn’t rob banks; he didn’t do anything for a living. He just tortured people, for fun.

The file hadn’t said much: Dante, 24, sick bastard. Okay, it didn’t say sick bastard, it said mentally unstable. I thought he was a sick bastard. Smacking people around was one thing. I had experienced it up close, too close. However, what this guy did to his victims was really sick.

He toyed with them. Slowly breaking them in pieces; first physically, then mentally. I had seen pictures of victims found after several weeks. They were so bruised up that you couldn’t see what skin color they had been. They looked starved and sometimes a finger or toe was missing. However, I didn’t become a bounty hunter to get all weak and mushy about some victim who I couldn’t save anyway. I didn’t catch these guys to be a hero of any kind. I just did this for the bounty. I loved walking with a rifle or gun in my hand. Blasting doors open and demanding an arrest.

The colt that was hidden between my jeans and my hip felt warm, like it already felt the warmth of the bullet leaving the barrel. I tried not to linger on it. I was well packed. Some throwing stars, a knife and my beloved nun chacks.

A cold breeze flew through the hall, it made goose bumps appear on my lower back. My leather jacket was too short as was my top. My tight, low jeans didn’t cover up more than was necessary. My neck was getting cold; I had just chopped my hair shorter.

I badly wanted a smoke; just a cigarette to warm me up. Oh, how I loved that feeling of my lungs burning... I loved the taste of smoke on my tongue and liked it even more if I could blow the smoke out in someone's face.

There weren’t many female bounty hunters and there weren’t many who looked like me. I knew how the others looked at me. They treated me with what they called respect. But I still didn’t know if it was because I had received my share of bounty or because I was a fine piece of ass. I just took my share of it and left the whole circus around it. I wanted to have a bit of fun and fun for me wasn’t going out in clubs. I had done that and I was through with it. No, fun for me was kicking some ass. It was shooting my gun and throwing my knives.

A lot of bounty hunters worked in pairs or even threesomes, but I didn’t. Teamwork wasn’t my best talent. I usually ended up arguing and having the urge to shoot the other in the foot. I had never lost a toe and never really had killed a guy. I hoped I would never have to.

My feet brought me closer to the door. Number 220; that would be the room where my fate would be decided…Again, life or death. I grabbed my gun and it fitted in my hands like it had done a thousand times. He and I had become teammates. He was the only teammate I had stuck with for so long. The adrenaline started to run as my left hand reached for the doorknob. Softly without screeching of any kind I was able to open the door.

The room was dark. Lights were off. It was a standard hotel room. There was a big bed with a lamp next to it, a table with two chairs and a TV. Even though the lights were off, it was obvious that he didn’t clean up after himself. The room was a mess.

On the ground were half eaten pizzas in pizza boxes, articles of women's clothing, which surprised me a bit, and some ashtrays with a lot of cigarettes in it. Not the classic twisted fool. Most of them were neat and precise, living in their own sick worlds having compulsions that led to cleaning up most of the times.

He was laid in bed. I saw the sheets rising and falling under his breath. I noticed he wasn’t all bad looking. Dark curls that were shoulder length, a two-day-old beard and broad shoulders. Why was I surprised? He tortured people, you couldn’t be weak if that was you profession, now could you? My gun was pointed at his face. I had him. I was already smiling, imagining his face when I would wake him up.

“Wake up, you sick bastard. This is your lucky day,” I said with joy in my voice. But before he even opened his eyes I felt a barrel between my shoulder blades. Shit, Holy motherfucker. What was this? He was supposed to be alone.

“No, it’s your lucky day,” A women voice behind me said. I didn’t turn. I froze but didn’t lower my weapon. I hadn’t anticipated on this.

“Fuck,” was all I said.