Nighthawks

It’s been a couple of months since the government dumped Wilbur Lloyd like he was some worn-out dog, too old to be useful anymore. The man lost friends and relatives, not even mentioning twenty whole years of his life to his job. Two decades of secrecy and hiding, stalking and killing – all for what? For them to shove him out and throw him into this dump of a place in a matter of days. 

            Wilbur’s life had revolved around two things: family and work. Once he lost the former, he fully committed himself to the latter, hoping it would make up for the loss. Now his work was gone too, he spent his evenings at Phillies.

Today, he was with a girl. A divorced man stuck in a miserable work situation can surely spend a night or two this way, right? After all, what did he have to lose? His reputation and self-worth were hovering at zero anyway. 

He noticed a new figure at the bar today. This man wasn’t a regular 9-to-5 type. You didn’t need eyes sharpened by years of being an FBI agent to see that. The stranger looked like he was from the south – latino, dark hair and tan skin, a suit draped over his shoulders, his face half hidden under a hat. He was clearly waiting – for someone, or something. 

“So, what do you do for a living?” asked Wilbur’s ginger companion.

The question hung for a moment. Wilbur’s focus sharpened on the figure at the bar. The man adjusted his hat, revealing a hint of intensity in his eyes that seemed to take in everything around him.

“A little bit of everything” he eventually replied, the words slipping out in a low murmur. He forced a thin smile, but the reality was far from glamorous. His nights stretched endlessly, filled with faces and conversations that lacked significance.

The girl – Daisy – if he remembered right, kept speaking, but her voice was dull against the background noise of the bar, the clinking glasses, and the bartender singing a song. Wilbur’s attention remained fixed, his person preoccupied with the stranger. The man was now talking quietly to another person, his posture stiff. There was intriguing energy radiating from him, something darker than simple charm. 

Movement caught Wilbur’s eye. The man was tapping a finger against the bar, a subtle rhythm that seemed to sync with an unspoken countdown. Wilbur leaned closer, all but ignoring Daisy’s rambling about her recent mischiefs. She was a fleeting distraction, a poor substitute for a meaning he desperately sought.

Without realizing it, Wilbur felt a pull towards the anonymous figure. The memories of black suits and whispered commands came like ghosts; missions, jobs, the adrenaline that once fuelled his existence now felt more like chains.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Wilbur asked as he approached the man. The man’s sharp eyes shot towards him, evaluating him.

“Go ahead,” the man replied, his voice smooth yet there was a hint of warning. Wilbur ignored it, shaking off the chill that crept up his spine. There was something fascinating about this man, something that screamed he wasn’t ordinary, that his daily routine consisted of something a regular person would never understand. 

“Wilbur Lloyd,” he introduced himself. They shook hands, the stranger with a firm grip that felt surprisingly warm.

“Mateo,” the man replied casually. “You know, I’ve been watching you for a while now.” Mateo leaned in, his face centimetres away from Wilbur’s. “You’ve lost something, haven’t you? Just like me.” 

Wilbur’s eyes narrowed, he could hear his own breath, his pulse made him aware he was there, alive. What exactly did this stranger mean by “something”. What were they? Two souls, choking in a nameless ocean of betrayal, desperate for something to keep them swimming, somewhere to belong – Wilbur could be certain that’s what the stranger meant.

“Let me tell you a secret, Wilbur,” Mateo continued, his tone shifting, his gaze scanning across the bar. “The world doesn’t change because people watch it go by. It changes through action – by doing. When they throw us aside, we can either fold or rebel. I chose to rebel.”

Wilbur found himself nodding, the weight of all he had lost pressing on his chest.

“What do you plan to do?” Wilbur managed, his heart racing as he leaned in even closer.

Mateo’s smile widened, showcasing his pearl-white teeth. “I have plans. You have skills. Together, we could make sure they remember us, regret what they’ve done to us. You are in?”

“Absolutely,” Wilbur breathed, feeling the bar suddenly bustle with oblivion. Loss transformed into revenge. How hadn’t he seen this path before?

Tonight wasn’t just another night spent in despair, tonight marked the beginning of something greater – the dawn of rebellion.

Polina K

…                                                                      

I was sitting in a bar. I rarely went to such places, but this time I was on a mission. Andrew, my friend, was sitting in front of me, near a young woman. He called her Sara and placed something in her hands. She looked at money with satisfaction.

Why did he do it? I couldn’t understand because there was no conversation between them. I was concealing a gun, resting it on my lap, unbeknownst to any of them. The bartender, Sam, finally left the room to go check on his stock. It was time.

I rose from the table and shot her in the head. Her lifeless body fell to the floor, but Andrew didn’t react, he just kept smoking his cigarette. It wasn’t the first time a girlfriend of his had been shot beside him and it wasn’t the first time it had been done by me. 

“Let’s go Carl. It’s Sam’s problem now,” Andrew said, standing and walking outside. 

This street was quiet. How many minutes until she was discovered. Sam might even peek back in, find us gone, close the door and go home. 

Andrew stood next to my car, waiting for me. I opened it and sat in the driver’s seat, whilst he flicked his cigarette on the asphalt and stepped on it. We drove towards his house. I need to drop him off and head to my next destination. All the trip he stayed silent, only saying “bye” as he exited the car.

I spent the whole night finishing the tasks I’d been assigned and arrived to my house as dawn was breaking. It was enough for a couple of hours rest and then I went to Andrew.

As I drove to him, I discovered that the police and an ambulance were stationed outside. It was dangerous to show up with the police milling, but I decided to go up to Andrew anyway. When I reached his apartment, the door was open and I could hear people in there. I carefully pushed the door and saw police and doctors by a body. Everyone turned around and as the gap between them opened, I realised it was Andrew’s dead body.

The police pounced on me and started asking questions – who am I? what am I doing there? I told them I was his neighbour and just was passing by. The police finally left me and I went for a walk, my head fuzzy. Each street I traipsed down reminded me of a time we’d spent together. I couldn’t believe that there was no Andrew anymore. He was the only friend I had. I needed to find his murderer. Where to start? Andrew had a habit of telling to everyone too much information. How many people had he killed in cold blood. That woman, Sara, if it was to do with her, then why wasn’t I face down in a pool of blood? 

I started at his flat. The police had already moved on 24 hours later. I knew where his phone would be if the police hadn’t found it, inside his pillow. My hand found it immediately. I pocketed it and went to Sam. I sat down in my usual seat. He wasn’t in any mood. I asked him some questions, but he was dismissive. He said the police believed it was linked to the mafia. That was all he knew. Yet as I was leaving he told me – “follow the money.”

“The money?” I asked.

He shrugged and I went to the car. It could only be one person. Why? Why had our boss done him like that?

He was waiting for me, behind his desk. I asked him. I pleased with him, despite the fact it was too late. 

Our boss was silent for some time, then finally he spoke: “Andrew was talkative, but it wasn’t the only reason. No one steals my money. Not a single dollar.”

I thought about the money Andrew gave to Sara. Money he’d stolen from our boss? I barely had time to blink. I heard a shot and felt pain. I fell, blood coloured the floor.

“Why?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

Alina K
 

…

Same bar, same stool, same bartender as every other night after a long day at work. Except it was different. I wasn’t alone. She had come with me. She didn’t trust me. Not anymore.

There was a man; Latin features, broad shoulders, moustache; he held a glass tightly by the bottom in a way in which the contents of it couldn’t be seen. He looked tense, his face a depiction of anguish and regret. I looked at Mick with a questioning glance, and once I caught his attention, my eyes shifted to the man. A shrug of the shoulders was enough of a response.

Emily sat next to me, her face and body language uncommunicative, blank. We had met a while back. She was the dealer at one of the casinos. Back then, she had this way of making the cards dance, her fingers flicking them across the table like they were alive. Now, her hands were still, resting on the bar, her nails tapping a silent rhythm that felt like a countdown.

The man with the moustache finally turned his head, his eyes locking onto mine. They were dark, two empty bullet casings. He raised his glass slightly, as if toasting me, but there was no warmth in the gesture. Just a challenge. I felt Emily tense beside me, her breath catching for a split second. She knew something I didn’t. Or maybe she knew everything.

“You gonna introduce me to your friend?” I asked her, my voice low, almost a growl. She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for my drink, her fingers brushing against mine, cold and deliberate. She took a sip, her eyes never leaving the man across the room.

Mick, the bartender, wiped down the counter with a rag that had seen better days. He was a man of few words, but his eyes told stories. Right now, they were screaming at me to get the hell out of there. Too late for that.

The man stood, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator. He walked toward us, his boots clicking against the wooden floor. Each step felt like a hammer hitting a nail. When he reached us, he placed the glass on the bar, upside down. The sound it made was sharp, final.

“You owe me,” he said, his voice gravelly, that he’d been chewing on broken glass. His accent was thick, but the threat was crystal clear.

Emily spoke, her voice steady but laced with something I couldn’t quite place. Fear? Resentment? 

“I told you, I’m out. I’m done.”

The man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“You don’t get to be done, mi amor. Not until I say so.”

I felt my hand twitch, itching to reach for the knife I kept tucked in my boot. But before I could move, the man pulled something from his jacket. A small, folded piece of paper. He slid it across the bar toward Emily. She didn’t touch it.

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice firm.

The man’s eyes flicked to me, and for the first time, I saw the cold, calculating rage behind them. 

“A reminder,” he said. “Of what happens when you don’t pay your debts”

Emily’s hand shot out, grabbing the paper. She unfolded it slowly, her face pale. When she looked up, her eyes were wide, infested with fear, her lips trembling. Tears began rolling down her cheeks. She shoved the paper toward me, and I caught a glimpse of what was on it—a photograph. A man, tied to a chair, his face a bloody mess. I didn’t recognize him, but the message was clear.

“You think you can walk away?” the man asked, leaning in closer. His breath smelled like tequila and cigarettes. “You think you can just leave me? You’re in this with me chica. Up to your pretty little neck.”

Emily’s hand found mine under the bar, her grip tight, I could feel her pain. She was scared, and for the first time in a long time, so was I.

The man straightened, a smile widening. “You’ve got 24 hours,” he said. “Don’t make me come looking for you.”

He turned and walked out, leaving the glass on the bar. The room felt heavier, like the air had been sucked from it. Emily’s hand was still gripping mine, her nails digging into my skin.

“What the hell did you get us into?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for the glass, flipping it back over. Inside, there was a single bullet. She picked it up, rolling it between her fingers like a poker chip.

“We need to leave,” she said, finally, her voice hollow. “Now.”

Outside the streets were empty, neon lights flickered like dying stars.

Alba