Dark Road to Redemption
written by: Alpha Rigans
The man was a sniveling, praying, wailing mess, his body shaking with sobs as he spewed out a jumbled mess of pleas. My boys, Frank and Rory, had him pinned down, their hands gripping his arms behind his back, boots planted firm on the ground, the gravel crunching beneath their weight. Frank, a hulking bastard, had one boot pressed into the base of his neck, keeping his head flat against the curb. I stood on the other side, a little off-center, my massive hammer at the ready, the metal head glinting in the dim moonlight. The hammer felt good in my hand, like an extension of my arm, a tool of justice in a world gone to shit.
It was around 3 AM on some side road of the construction site, nobody around to hear his pathetic whimpers, the only witnesses the dark, indifferent sky and the machines that loomed, their engines cold and still. The late autumn night was chilly, the smell of asphalt and oil from the machines pervaded the air, a pungent mix that lingered long after the engines had been shut down.
I crossed myself, my hand slightly trembling, and I raised my head to the heavens, starting the silent prayer I invoked each time before a holy mission. ‘Jesus, our savior, you too had doubts about your divine calling. Please give me your strength to bring justice to a society where justice no longer exists…’
‘I swear I didn’t do anything,’ he whimpered, ‘it wasn’t me, I’m just an employee doing my job.’ The fucker’s cries brought me back, like a slap in the face, a harsh reminder of the task at hand, the weight of my responsibility. ‘Jesus, give me patience,’ I exhaled in frustration.
‘Your job?’ I sneered, my words dripping with venom, the taste of bile in my mouth. ‘The road’s been under construction for more than two years now, and I know you take pleasure in it.’
‘No, I take no pleasure at all,’ the disgusting twat begged, his voice cracking. Every damn time, that’s what they always say, it’s like a script they memorized, a desperate plea for mercy from a man who’d never shown any to the countless souls he’d ruined with his bureaucratic bullshit and political machinations.
‘Shut up,’ I continued, my voice a cold, hard command. ‘I know you get off on seeing people stuck in traffic jams every day, desperate and angry, their blood pressure through the roof, their lives turned upside down by your incompetence and greed.’
As I spoke, I remembered myself being one of those poor, frustrated souls stuck in traffic, fists clenched in anger on the steering wheel, cursing and fretting to arrive late to work. That was some time ago, but the memory still burned deep in my gut. I inhaled deeply, the cool air filling my lungs, ‘Well, now it’s payback time, cunt’.
He started blubbering and shouting again, ‘Please, I have a family, I have small children… the school play of my little Sophie tomorrow. Oh God, please no…’ and other similar idiotic pleas I’d heard so many times before. They never remembered their children except when they were about to face the big, sobering void.
My guys pressed down harder, their knuckles bone-white and their veins throbbing like exposed circuitry beneath their skin. I gave a small nod, and they tensed, their muscles coiled like springs ready to snap. I raised the hammer high and brought it down with all my might. The hammer descended, not with a dull thud, but a sickening crack that reverberated through the night, splintering bone and pulverizing skull. A spray of crimson and a grotesque geyser erupted from the man’s temple, painting the curb and gravel in macabre brushstrokes. The force of it sent a tremor up my arm. The men flinched and Rory cried out, jerking his own head back in a futile attempt to protect himself from the spray of blood. The cunt’s final gasp was a strangled, gurgling wheeze, a choked sound of pain and disbelief cut short by the abrupt silence of death.
I stood there, bathed in the coppery reek of blood, its metallic tang assaulting my nostrils, a bitter taste clinging to the back of my throat. My own skin felt slick, a film of red slime clinging to my overalls. Frank’s cry, ‘Mother of God, what a mess!’ rang hollow in the sudden stillness. A wave of nausea, unexpected and unwelcome, rolled over me, battling with a perverse sense of satisfaction. The dead man’s vacant eyes, staring sightlessly, seemed to bore into me like a silent accusation.
A chilling calm descended, replacing the adrenaline-fueled frenzy. ‘Job’s done,’ I wiped the hammer clean on the dead man’s shirt, the fabric already soaked in blood. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said, and we started walking back to the truck, the only sounds the crunch of gravel beneath our feet and the distant hum of the highway a few miles down south.
***
The sun had long since abandoned the sky, leaving behind a canvas of deepening twilight, when I was awoken from my slumber by the incessant buzzing of my phone. An unfamiliar number stared back at me. Who the fuck still calls in this digital age of messaging? I thought, as I picked up the phone, my voice still thick with the remnants of sleep.
A slurred and venomous voice filled my ear. ‘You’re a fucking piece of shit,’ he hissed, each word dripping with malice. ‘I’ll kill you, cut you to fucking pieces…’ Recognition dawned, a bitter taste in my mouth. Henry, my wife’s ex-husband, a pathetic drunk who periodically unleashed his bile like a rabid dog. His calls were a familiar torment, leaving me drained and questioning how someone so broken could still manage to breathe.
But today, his drunken ravings felt almost comical, the desperate performance of a man who’d never amounted to anything more than a festering boil on the ass of humanity. As I listened, the familiar simmering annoyance began to bubble within me as I started nervously flicking my fingers on the headboard. Was this pathetic display truly worth my time and energy? My mind raced, weighing options, each one as unappealing as the last. A direct confrontation would be pointless, I knew from experience, a waste of breath on a man who’d never understand the concept of dignity. Ignoring him entirely felt too passive, like letting a rabid animal loose in the neighborhood.
Then, as I was about to hang up, a thought, a seed of an idea, took root in my mind. What if I used his desperation, his hunger for validation, to my advantage? A calculated gamble, but one with potential to pay off. ‘Henry,’ I interrupted his rant, my voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to his drunken tirade. ‘I’ve got a job for you. It pays big, real big. Interested?’ A stunned silence followed, then gave way to a weaker sputtering, ‘I’ll fuck you up…’ ‘Listen,’ I continued, ‘Five grand, easy. Meet me at the central cafe tomorrow morning.’ Another pause, a signal of uncertainty, his voice wavering unsure, and finally, a muttered, ‘This better not be a scam, motherfucker.’ ‘Not a chance,’ I assured him. ‘And by the way, Jane left six months ago. You’re barking up the wrong tree.’ A snort, ‘I knew she’d dump your sorry ass. You were never good enough for her.’ ‘See you tomorrow,’ I said, ending the call. A ghost of a smile touched my lips, a fleeting moment of satisfaction at having turned the tables on this pathetic drunk. I needed soldiers, expendable pawns in my game, and where better to find them than among the city’s underbelly? Henry, blinded by his own bitterness and greed, had just volunteered.
The sun had dipped below the horizon now, leaving only the faint glow of streetlights outside. I stood up, my joints creaking in protest, and lit a cigarette.
***
Henry, already four pints deep by 11 AM, was a parody of human communication, his mouth twisting into a grotesque grimace as he forced out words that sounded like they were being pulled from his throat with rusty pliers. His tone wavered between a drunken slur and a desperate whine, as he vomited out his inane questions. ‘So we pretend to be a taxi service, and then we kidnap her?’, his words tumbling out in a chaotic stream. ‘Like in those movies, right?’
Henry’s idiocy was starting to get on our nerves. I could see Frank nervously increase the tapping of his foot on the floor, each time Henry asked one of his retarded questions. Getting Henry involved was a mistake, a drunken, bumbling liability that threatened to derail the operation.
‘Keep it down, you idiot,’ I hissed, my patience wearing thin, ‘nobody said anything about kidnapping.’ I glanced around the nearly empty cafe, my eyes scanning for any unwanted attention. ‘Your job is to take her on a scenic tour, that’s all. A longer route, nothing more.”
Henry’s face contorted in confusion, his brow furrowing as he tried to process my words. ‘But why?’ he whined.
I leaned in, my voice low and firm. ‘Do you want that five grand or not?’
Henry nodded enthusiastically, his head bobbing up and down. He slapped his hand on the table, nearly knocking over his beer. ‘Fuck yeah, I’m in! I’ll take her on the longest fucking ride of her life!’
I sighed, rubbing my temples. Frank and I exchanged a look, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. ‘Now, let’s go over the plan one more time…’
But Henry interrupted again with another incoherent rant, this time about his criminal record. ‘I don’t want no trouble with the police, man. I’ve got a history.’
I rolled my eyes, exasperated. ‘Just do the job, and you won’t have to worry about anything except how to blow that cash.’
Henry’s laughter was a shrill cackle, his body jerking with forced mirth. ‘No worries about spending that, for sure,’ he slurred, his words dissolving into an incoherent babble.
I shot a glance at Frank, who gave an almost imperceptible nod, his eyes narrowing into slits. He was a man of few words, Frank. He stood up, and I followed him to a more isolated corner.
‘Why do we have to use this moron, boss?’ Frank growled, ‘he’ll fuck up everything.’ I could feel the tension radiating off him.
‘I know, Frank,’ I replied, my voice measured, ‘but we can’t risk being identified by a CCTV or some other surveillance if things go south. We’ve been exposed too much already. We need layers, so we use him.’ I lit a cigarette, taking a long drag as I surveyed the cafe.
We returned to the table, and I turned back to Henry, who was still grinning like a moron, his eyes glazed over and unfocused.
‘Alright, Henry,’ I said, leaning in close. ‘You pick her up from the airport, take her for a little joyride. And then at a certain point along the route, we’ll cut you off.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I got it,’ Henry enthused, his voice rising and falling like a sing-along. ‘I take her for a spin, and then… and then…’
He trailed off, his mind clearly struggling to keep up with this most basic of plans.
‘And then at a certain point along the route we will intercept you,’ I repeated, my voice firm. ‘Just make sure you don’t fuck it up, it’s very simple really.’
‘And if she asks why we’re taking a detour?’ Frank asked, testing Henry’s understanding. Henry stared back blankly.
‘Henry, we’ve gone over this already like three fucking times,’ I said, my patience wearing even thinner. ‘Again, you’ll tell her it’s because of roadworks, and if she tries to check her phone, all signals will be jammed in the car.’
Henry nodded again,’ yes, sure, yes…’
If we could pull this off despite all the hurdles, it would be a miracle, something that would make the Guinness Book of World Records weep with envy.
***
I squinted at the glowing digits of my watch: 11:40 PM. Thirty minutes past the expected arrival time for that fuckwit Henry. Frank and Rory were getting antsy, pacing like caged wolves. Frank’s restless energy manifested in a constant shifting of weight, his boots scraping against the gravel as he stopped and started, hands clenched into fists that occasionally unfurled to nervously tap against his thighs. Rory, on the other hand, moved with tension, his long limbs vibrating slightly, each step deliberate and measured, like a predator circling its prey. He occasionally glanced at his watch. Frank shot me a look, and I shrugged, my jaw tightening involuntarily.
Had that idiot Henry gotten lost? Did he even make it to the airport? Or had he stopped off at some seedy dive to get shit-faced and forgotten the whole plan? My foot tapped a nervous rhythm on the dirt road as I entertained a whole host of doubts. Then, headlights sliced through the dark, coming up the road. The car drew closer, and I could see it was Henry’s, or rather the fake taxi he was driving. I flicked the remains of my cigarette into the dirt and steeled myself. The car came to a stop, and I could see Henry grinning, thinking he’d pulled off the job without a hitch and was now expecting his reward.
I ignored the cunt and strode over to the back door, yanking it open. The beam of my torch cut through the darkness, illuminating the backseat. And there she was, Ursula Sauer, the CFO of Vermayon, staring back at me like a trapped animal. Her chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths, her pupils dilated, reflecting the harsh car lights like tiny, frantic stars. Her voice, when she spoke, was a trembling whisper, barely audible. ‘What’s going on here?’ she asked, her words catching in her throat.
‘Hello Ursula,’ I said, flashing her a wide, toothy grin. ‘You’re coming with us.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ she bluffed, trying to sound tough. ‘Take me home or I’m calling the cops.’
‘Please get out of the car,’ I said, keeping my voice level.
Ursula, though, was a right wee drama queen, her face contorted in a mask of terror, her lips pulled back in a silent scream. A bead of sweat traced a cold path down her temple, her fingers digging into the worn leather of the car seat, her knuckles white. Frank cracked his knuckles. Rory just stood there, a silent, menacing presence.
Ursula’s pleas turned desperate, a strangled sob escaping her lips, ‘Don’t hurt me, please…’ For a split second, I hesitated, a flicker of something akin to regret, like a faulty neon sign buzzing in the back of my mind. But then the cold logic of the job kicked in, snuffing out the flicker. No time for sentimentality now. In a swift move, I whipped out the taser, the blue arc a silent promise of oblivion, and zapped her clean.
We dragged her out of the car and into my Audi. As we prepared to drive off, Henry started whining about his pay-off. I told him Rory would sort him out, and we hit the road, Frank and me in the front, Ursula in the back. Ten seconds later, a loud shot rang out. Cleaning up the loose end. I glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing Rory standing over the body.
- Dark Road to Redemption - May 24, 2025
