We were too late. Didn't even know we had a fucking time limit. Whitecrow was worried about this job, I could tell. I should've payed more careful attention. Now Remington got his ass ghosted, Frasier had his head fucked up, and 'crow is fucking missing. Suicidelle and I are the only two unharmed, and we don't have a fucking clue why we were allowed to leave. Last night that bitch 'washed her hands' of us and left me to keep an eye on Frasier all by my fucking lonesome. Cunt.
Watching this son of a bitch would be easier if I wasn't tired as hell. If I could fucking sleep, I wouldn't be having this problem, but every time I close my eyes I watch everything happen all over again, and it isn't fucking pretty.
We moved out on the 23rd. That was the execution date 'crow decided on. None of the rest of us had any real preference, though Frasier whined about having some other business to attend to at 3:00 that afternoon. Probably had to pick his brats up from school, or something. I was relatively pleased with the training I'd put everyone through. Whitecrow had always been good, but he was better; same went for Remington and Suicidelle. As for Frasier...well, he's always been more a thinker than a fighter, and a fat fucking lot of good that did him.
But we were simply unprepared. Our plan was to use the trees behind her house as an entry and exit. No one would see us coming in the dark, even with Whitecrow's fucking mask, which he refused to paint black for stealth's sake. We figured we would be safe in the trees. That's Father's territory, after all. The Runners are the ones who get fucked in the woods at night; the Proxies are the ones who do the fucking. Father too, of course.
We got close enough to see the back door of the house when we got hit. In the span of ten seconds, Frasier, Whitecrow, and Remington had been thrown into trees, and Suicidelle and I were knocked flat on our asses. Remington was the first up and the first one back on the ground. I got to my feet just in time to get a glimpse of the bastard.
He was wearing a fucking suit, minus the coat. Vest, slacks, tie; he was dressed like he was on his way to fucking prom, and he was handing our asses to us. I didn't get a good look at his face right then; he'd spun to take Remington down with a hell of a kick to the face. Remington should've been more resilient than that, but he went down like he'd just taken his own shotgun to the dick.
Anyways, Frasier started to run back towards the van, but the bastard snapped his fingers. The noise was loud and clear for some reason, almost like it was amplified by a microphone or something. Frasier collapsed on the spot, and hasn't been awake since. Suicidelle rushed him with one of her knives, but he simply grabbed her by the wrist and knocked her on her ass again.
At this point, Whitecrow stood up, and I swear time just fucking stopped while they stared each other down. This time I was able to see that the suit was wearing a mask, just like us. It was just a smooth black surface with two round eye-holes cut into it, but it was intimidating enough. What Whitecrow said helped me figure out what was going on, and just how far over our heads this really was.
"He's come for me."
The Knight, fucking obvious who it was by now, just nodded. Then 'crow was gone. Faded. Vanished. Like he'd never been there to begin with. Suicidelle was already on the run, jumping over Frasier on her way back to the van. Would've been a great idea if she'd remembered Whitecrow had the keys. Remington picked up his little boomstick and aimed, but the Knight was faster. Two steps and he'd crossed the distance between them, disarmed Remi, and put his palm to Remi's forehead. I heard his mask break (made one hell of noise), and then he just fell. I could see blood coming out of his nose from where I was, and his eyes were wide open. He was dead. Very dead.
I stood and stared him down, waiting for him to end me too, but he didn't. Bastard stayed where he was, held my gaze; I clearly wasn't a threat to him, and we both knew it. I took a step back, and he nodded. I took another and another; he watched me retreat, and made no motion to stop me from lifting Frasier's fat ass off the ground. Suicidelle was waiting for me at the van. Apparently she'd never learned how to hotwire a car, so I had to do all the work to get us back to Whitecrow's little den.
All of our work was undone in less than an hour, and all by one man. Whitecrow, wherever the fuck you are, I hope you're fucking happy for bringing this on us. Good luck dealing with it, too. I'm fucking done.