mirror. Sometimes I hardly recognized the man looking back. The guy in the glass was a cold-hearted son of a bitch. Icy blue eyes that didn’t blink. Throw fists or fire bullets at me, it didn’t matter. I wouldn’t flinch. Nobody could scare me.
I peeled off my leather driving gloves and looked down at my hands. A lesser man might be shaking, given everything that had just happened. Not me. My hands were calm and steady. I could perform surgery despite the adrenaline coursing through my system and the way my breath came in hot and heavy spurts. It didn’t matter. My hands never shook.
To think that this had become my normal life. Driving away from cops and criminals alike, engine blasting, true thugs riding shotgun as I got them away from whatever hit or theft they were carrying out that day.
I was a driver for the Broken Bones. Not just any driver, I was the best. I was the one they called when the mission hung by a hair. When the streets were tight and the police were close, I was the only guy in the whole damn city good enough to get away. I’d never been caught. I didn’t think I ever would be.
Driving came too easily to me. Nothing had changed since the day Slim first popped open the door of that luxury sedan and swung it open, gesturing for me to slip inside. When I’d taken the driver’s seat and put my hands on the wheel, I knew right away that this was where I was supposed to be. This was my horse.
And every time I got in the car, I felt the same click in my chest, like something settling into place, a big, resounding Yes from a place deep within. A man knew when he’d found his calling. No one could convince him otherwise. Driving was what I was born to do.
The confidence in my face was obvious. But it wasn’t the flashy swagger I’d seen on the face of so many other drivers during my twelve years as a member of the Broken Bones. Cockiness got a driver killed. A sharp turn didn’t give a damn if you thought you were the best. All that mattered was that you respected it. In a job like mine, there was always something after me. Someone on my tail with anger pumping through their veins or the road trying to kill me at every turn, twisting just a bit more than it thought I can handle. But nothing got to me. I just didn’t let it.
This city was filled with jokers and idiots. Arrogant teenagers popping wheelies on their bikes during street races were always thinking that they could step into my shoes and do it better than me. What they didn’t realize was that it wasn’t about the machine; it wasn’t about being willing to take a risk or whip around a turn faster than the next guy.
It was about these steady hands. They didn’t shake. They never would.
Tonight’s job had been routine. I’d picked up Gordo, the hitman, just before midnight. He’d come lumping down the stairs, looking pudgy and dirty, although that was pretty much par for the course when it came to this particular specimen.
“Evening, Dom,” he said as he slid into the passenger seat. He groaned as he shifted his weight to one side and pulled out a handgun from the waistband of his sweatpants. He kept talking as he took it apart, inspected it, and then put it back together one piece at a time. “Lookin’ forward to this one tonight. Real ugly son of a bitch we’re puttin’ down. You know, it just ain’t right to be slappin’ around a woman, is it now, Dom?” He didn’t wait for me to answer before going on. “It ain’t right at all . I don’t care if you are her pimp, still shouldn’t be beatin’ up on a female.”
Gordo sucked his teeth and shook his head in dismay. The machinery in his hands clicked as he locked the silencer down into place. I executed a smooth turn through the sparse late-night traffic at the intersection, gliding down the dark road towards what would soon become a murder scene. I didn’t say a word. I kept my eyes on the road. The wheel hummed
I peeled off my leather driving gloves and looked down at my hands. A lesser man might be shaking, given everything that had just happened. Not me. My hands were calm and steady. I could perform surgery despite the adrenaline coursing through my system and the way my breath came in hot and heavy spurts. It didn’t matter. My hands never shook.
To think that this had become my normal life. Driving away from cops and criminals alike, engine blasting, true thugs riding shotgun as I got them away from whatever hit or theft they were carrying out that day.
I was a driver for the Broken Bones. Not just any driver, I was the best. I was the one they called when the mission hung by a hair. When the streets were tight and the police were close, I was the only guy in the whole damn city good enough to get away. I’d never been caught. I didn’t think I ever would be.
Driving came too easily to me. Nothing had changed since the day Slim first popped open the door of that luxury sedan and swung it open, gesturing for me to slip inside. When I’d taken the driver’s seat and put my hands on the wheel, I knew right away that this was where I was supposed to be. This was my horse.
And every time I got in the car, I felt the same click in my chest, like something settling into place, a big, resounding Yes from a place deep within. A man knew when he’d found his calling. No one could convince him otherwise. Driving was what I was born to do.
The confidence in my face was obvious. But it wasn’t the flashy swagger I’d seen on the face of so many other drivers during my twelve years as a member of the Broken Bones. Cockiness got a driver killed. A sharp turn didn’t give a damn if you thought you were the best. All that mattered was that you respected it. In a job like mine, there was always something after me. Someone on my tail with anger pumping through their veins or the road trying to kill me at every turn, twisting just a bit more than it thought I can handle. But nothing got to me. I just didn’t let it.
This city was filled with jokers and idiots. Arrogant teenagers popping wheelies on their bikes during street races were always thinking that they could step into my shoes and do it better than me. What they didn’t realize was that it wasn’t about the machine; it wasn’t about being willing to take a risk or whip around a turn faster than the next guy.
It was about these steady hands. They didn’t shake. They never would.
Tonight’s job had been routine. I’d picked up Gordo, the hitman, just before midnight. He’d come lumping down the stairs, looking pudgy and dirty, although that was pretty much par for the course when it came to this particular specimen.
“Evening, Dom,” he said as he slid into the passenger seat. He groaned as he shifted his weight to one side and pulled out a handgun from the waistband of his sweatpants. He kept talking as he took it apart, inspected it, and then put it back together one piece at a time. “Lookin’ forward to this one tonight. Real ugly son of a bitch we’re puttin’ down. You know, it just ain’t right to be slappin’ around a woman, is it now, Dom?” He didn’t wait for me to answer before going on. “It ain’t right at all . I don’t care if you are her pimp, still shouldn’t be beatin’ up on a female.”
Gordo sucked his teeth and shook his head in dismay. The machinery in his hands clicked as he locked the silencer down into place. I executed a smooth turn through the sparse late-night traffic at the intersection, gliding down the dark road towards what would soon become a murder scene. I didn’t say a word. I kept my eyes on the road. The wheel hummed
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