Kikkoman Jack: 1
A Short Story by
A. James Hindle
Kikkoman got off the bus in Tumble Falls.
It was a rainy Sunday, and Kikkoman stood alone in it as the doors of the Greyhound slapped shut and the bus pulled away. He shook the water off the collar of his jacket, pulling it up around his neck, and with the small satchel he carried in hand, headed off to his job. It wasn’t far to the abandoned abattoir, and he didn’t mind walking in the rain.
The building looked just like the photo he had; run down and abandoned, with broken windows and a crumbling exterior. An alleyway led past it, circling around the back then veering off to the main road a short distance away. A door, hidden from street view at the back of the building on the loading dock would provide Kikkoman entrance. He tried the doorknob – it was locked. It only took a few seconds to pick through the lock and slip inside.
The air inside the building smelled old and rancid, like a slaughterhouse that had not been washed down when the busines had failed, and the owners simply walked away.
Flickering light leaked from an open door thirty feet down the hallway that Kikkoman now stood in.
As he edged his way toward the lit opening, placing three small packages from his bag along the wall as he progressed, Kikkoman felt a twinge of nervous excitement biting at his composure. At the rooms entrance, he cautiously peered around the doorway. A man was seated at a desk, leaning intently into a computer screen, his back to the door.
Kikkoman screwed a suppressor to the M9A Beretta as he continued to watch the man, then quietly stepped into the room.
His voice ripped through the air like exploding fireworks.
“Joe Badman?” (Well, he had to have a name.)
Surprised by a stranger’s sudden appearance and booming voice, the man spun around in his chair, reaching for a gun that lay on the desk, as he turned. He might have hesitated, had he noticed the pistol Kikkoman held at his side. Not that it would have done him any good.
“Yes, that’s my nam ……. ,” he began, as he attempted to raise the gun, but a bullet to his forehead stopped him.
Job complete.
Kikkoman gloved the silencer from his gun and turned to leave. A faint click sound caught his attention, and he quickly stepped back into the room just as three gunshots rang out from down the hall. Shred of door casing flew past him as bullets tore through the wood, inches from his side. He had wondered why the man, now slumped over the computer, had felt so confident as to have his back to the door – he had security. They just weren’t very good.
A window across the room, open wide, probably for ventilation from the stench, would provide an escape if Kikkoman could get to it. He fired two rapid shots down the hall, then headed across the room for the window. The sound of a barrage of gunfire followed Kikkoman as he dove through the open window onto the loading dock. Rolling to his feet, he spotted a bicycle leaning against the side of the dock. Leaping to the ground, he grabbed the bike and headed down the alley. As he pedalled hard toward the road, two shots rang out from behind him. He put his hand in his jacket pocket and pushed the button on a small remote. An incendiary explosion erupted, blowing out what few windows remained, instantly setting the old building ablaze. If the security, such as they were, had survived the blast, Kikkoman was sure they were now preoccupied.
The bike was a comfortable fit — he decided to borrow it for a bit longer. It wasn’t that far to Laverton, and if he chose, he could get a bus from there.