The Hunter(Darrell Case) He could feel him behind him. A desperate young man. A boy, really. One who would kill for drugs or loyalty to their gang or any reason or no reason at all. Sometimes just to see someone die.

“Not tonight my young friend, not tonight.” The hunter murmured under his breath. Now he heard him. He thought of turning and firing but would wait. The waiting made it more dangerous. Like the gunfighters in the old west. In the street or saloon. Always ready for some kid with a fast gun and a slow brain.

So he waited, hearing the whisper of footsteps closing in. Were there more of them, or was the boy alone? Would they surround him? Wound him? It happened one other time when he was just starting out. If they came at him from the sides, how many were there? He leaned on the cane, triggering the mechanism. The disguise of an elderly man serving him well. He carried no visible weapons. The cane and his wallet would do. He leaned on the cane as if catching his breath. He was on him.

“Yo, old man, give me your money.” The kid said, dancing around as if he could not stand still. Slowly, he turned to the boy. “Now or I’ll kill you and take it from your dead body.” 

He pointed a black pistol at him turning it sideways. The hunter listened. No others. The kid no more than 18 was alone.

Using his Italian accent, he said. “Why you want to do this? You go home.” He waved the cane around.

“You get that cane outta my face.” The kid screamed. His finger tightening on the trigger. The Hunter pressed the button on the cane. The explosion caught the boy by surprise. Blood blossomed on the bottom of his shirt. His finger reflectively depressed the trigger on his pistol. The Hunter stepped aside. The bullet passing harmlessly, smacking into a nearby tree. Straightening up, the man stepped on the boy’s arm.

“Please, mister, I’m hurt bad.” The kid said. Tears trickled out of the corner of his eyes and ran to the dirty sidewalk. “You gotta get me some help.”

The accent gone the Hunter looked into the dying boy’s eyes. “No, I don’t. How many did you rob tonight?”

“You the only one, I swear. Please, mister, send for an ambulance.” The man put weight on the arm. Using his heel, he dug into the shoulder muscle. “Two, just two.”

The man put his full weight on the arm. “Three.” The kid screamed.

“And murder? How many of these three poor innocents did you murder you sniveling little coward?”

“None, I swear oh please I’m dying.”

The man stomped on the arm, breaking the bone. The boy screamed, a high-pitched sound echoing through Central Park.

Sobbing, he said “Two, the other ‘em got away.”

“That’s what I thought you rotten momma reject.” The Hunter straightened up. “Well, no more will people be afraid to walk the streets because of you.” With a gloved hand, he picked up the boy’s pistol. He looked at it in the flickering light of the street lamp. “It is only fitting you should die with your own gun. This gun that has taken so many lives.”

“No, mister please I…”

He shot the boy in the forehead, then lay the pistol by the dead kid’s side. Straightening up, he reloaded the cane. Glancing at his watch, he smiled. Three hours until daylight. Time to hunt again. Turning, the hunter shuffled down the sidewalk.      

 

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