Fly Away Home

A Moment of Mercy in the Heart of Darkness

Vincent was on his knees when the train came rolling through, loud enough to swallow a gunshot whole. He gurgled a cough, tasted blood, and figured it was as good a last meal as any.

Carlo, sleek in his bespoke suit, loomed over him and lit a cigarette, his dark Italian features painted flickering orange. The coal blazed and he blew out a lungful of smoke. He glanced down at Vincent and offered him the pack. He shook his head.

Carlo shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The train’s metal wheels clattered and squealed as it ground onward, out of the railyard and through Forge’s night. The crooked alley where they had cornered Vincent wormed between a cobbler’s shop and a corner grocery, the kind that stayed open late for shift workers coming home.

“When’s that fuckin’ whistle gonna blow again so we can do this thing and get outta here?”

The new kid. Everyone looked at him.

“What?” he asked. “Fucking cold in this alley.”

Carlo rolled his eyes. “It’s the middle of July, Joe.”

Vincent squinted at the kid. Black hair. Scrawny neck. Cheap suit. There was something familiar about him.