The First Kill (First Place)

“What are we gonna do?” Andy whined, sweat trickling down his back. The heat inside the abandoned warehouse felt like the inside of a broiler.

Bulldog stopped pacing and whirled, his glare slicing through Andy. "I'll give you a hint, you little runt.  You only got one option." He pressed the Glock against Andy’s palm. 

“I… I can’t. You said no one would get hurt. You said all I had to do was grab the girl.” His fingers trembled as he grasped the gun.  “What about her old man? If we kill her, we won’t get the money.” 

“Harvey just texted me; he’s already got the drop.”

“But I ain’t never killed anyone before.  Oh, man….” His stomach rolled, threatening revolt.  “She’s just sixteen.”

Massive jaws quivering, Bulldog shook his head and loomed over Andy.  “It’s either the brat or you, boy! She saw your face, not mine.  That makes it your mess, not mine.”  Bulldog’s beady eyes turned even colder.  “And if I have to clean up your mess…” Bulldog’s voice trailed off, letting his meaning sink in.

Andy took a step back and turned to face the door to a back office.  He clinched the Glock in his right hand, the cold metal seeping into his blood.  With his left hand, he slowly turned the handle.  Rusty hinges squeaked as Andy pushed. 

In the middle of the room sat a young girl, sweat plastering limp blond hair to her head. Ties bound her hands to an old office chair, and duct tape covered her mouth.  She whimpered, tears pooling in her soft-brown eyes. 

Andy froze.

A barrel pressed against the back of Andy’s neck.  Hot air brushed against his neck as a whispering menace reached his ear.  “The first kill is always the hardest.”



"Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 

Word Count = 296