The Four-Strike Killer
Dean had been waiting for this moment. She had been waiting for the right opportunity to strike. The countless nights that she had watched him, observing his every move. The way he works, his whole schedule. It was this night that she finally had his timeline mapped out fully in her head. And she was ready to put it to good use. Knowing what was soon to happen brought a sinister smirk to her face. He won't know what hit him before it's too late. He'd already be dead. She was sure of it. So sure, in fact, that she had sent him a message to him, as clear as day. Here's the inevitable: I'm coming for you, the note had said, the letter signed out by 'An Old Friend'.
Dean was standing just outside Johannes Butch's apartment building in Chicago, Illinois. She was decked out in your typical burglar attire: all black. Black gloves. Black hat. Black pants, sweater, everything. She was prepared. The air about her was sinister. Just as Johannes Butch and his three, now-deceased buddies. The three sons-of-bitches had it coming, Dean thought, and now it's your turn. She giggled evilly, loving the fact that she had the upper-hand. She knew that, right now, Johannes had his shotgun he always hid in the coat closet of his apartment. He would be posted up on his couching, waiting for anything to happen. She knows because she had just been watching him just before she got ready to push forward in her task.
He's scared, the poor thing. Well, fucker, you should have thought about that six years ago when I was in your current, unlucky shoes, Dean thought, beginning to walk into the apartment building complex, pulling down her mask over her face. Though she did not know, with every step she took, somewhere in Johannes' apartment, his heart pounded harder and harder against his chest, sweating accumulating above his brow.
Once she reached the his floor, she went to stand in front of his door. Descending from her height to that of a child's, she retrieves the lock pick gun from her waist band. It took her a couple of tries to get the lock undone, but she did finally hear a 'click' sound. So, she stood, deposited the lock pick gun back in the front of her waist band, and moved herself to the side, away of the doorway view. She could hear the cock of a gun through the door, and she grinned. Oh, my sweet, you will not get to use that any time soon, she taunted from inside her head, placing her hand on the door knob. She did not hesitate to twist and push the door open.
"You had better get on! I know you're the 'Old Friend'! I'll shoot you with no hesitation!" Johannes shouted. Dean heard shuffling and knew he was cautiously getting up and scooting toward the open door. She reached behind her, taking out the gun and the silencer she had stored under her shirt and snug under her belt. She carefully and quietly brought it to her forefront, screwing the silencer on to the gun.
A few seconds passed, and she was sure he was right at the door. Dean could hear his rapid breathing, so she readied her gun. And, once he step out, she pointed her gun at his head, saying, "Get inside, now." She pressed the gun to his forehead and pushed him towards the doorway. He stumbled in, dropping his shotgun, and she closed the door, locking it.
After picking up his shotgun, Dean made steady, onward steps, he continued to trip over himself, finally landing on his couch. "Hello, Johannes Butch," she began, putting down his shotgun and removing her mask to reveal herself, "I would be that 'Old Friend'." Though she had grown a bit, Johannes could not mistake her for anyone else. She was Dean Wright, the girl who's life he had so terribly changed.
"Y-you're that girl Dean. From-from the Wright family," he acknowledged.
"Yes. Surprise!" she returned.
"Look, Dean, I-I'm sorry about--," he began, however she cut him off with her laugh.
"Six years too late, Johannes Butch. Look, I'm on a tight schedule, so I'd like to speed things along here. Okay, you had it coming, blah, blah, blah. Your buddies suffered and so will you, yadda, yadda, yadda." Pwoom! A gun shot, so surprisingly silent, had be fired, right in his left kneecap. Johannes howls from the pain.
"Pl-please, Dean, wait. NO--," he cut himself short.
"And this is for my father. This is for my mother. This is for my sister. And these two are for me," she said, shooting off rounds after each sentence. She had shot two bullets into his after her latter sentence. And she was done. It was over. Far quicker than she'd imagined.
Not waiting to contemplate, Dean tucked her gun back in her belt with the safety on, took his shotgun, and fled, his body to be discovered sooner or later by a neighbor.
-----
She returned home by 12:45 AM. Dean had to drive a little ways away in order to bury both guns. Though she did wear gloves, Dean could not risk it. So, after she had buried them, she drove back home, chanting in her head, My mission, my goal, is accomplished.
When she walked into the house, she immediately grabbed the pajamas under the couch and settled for taking a shower in the bathroom downstairs, as to not make noise and awaken her sleeping beauty, Theo Matthews. And, when all was done, she quietly scurried upstairs to their room, where Theo slept with a loud snore. Dean tip-toed to the bed, and ever-so-gently slid under the comforter. Theo moved when she stopped, his arm wrapping around her body. Dean smiled, and she closed her eyes, ready to be taken under by the slumber that held Theo hostage.
Dean knew Theo Matthews was a murder detective.
She didn't know he had been assigned to investigate her killings.
