Free Resurrecting Midnight by Eric Jerome Dickey

confused.
    Medianoche didn’t believe him.
    Next to his target was what had been weighing him down. A black briefcase. It was the briefcase their client wanted. A briefcase their client had paid plenty of money to obtain by the next sunrise. The man from Uruguay yelled, said the package would do them no good, said there were two parts to the package, and one part was no good without the other.
    Medianoche didn’t give a fuck. The mission was to retrieve the package.
    He picked up the briefcase. Mission accomplished.
    Then he grunted and reached for the Uruguayan, told the bastard to come with him.
    The man was terrified.
    The man from Uruguay got his wind and leaped at him. Medianoche was caught off guard. The man punched him in the face, the blow intended for his good eye.
    Medianoche took the blow and frowned. He had seen battles in many lands, hand gone hand to hand with many men, had taken blows that could put a rampaging bull into a permanent sleep. Had survived being shot in his head. Not even Death had succeeded at claiming him.
    Being hit like that was an insult. Like being slapped by a teenaged girl.
    Medianoche cursed in English and dropped the briefcase, then reached his scarred and veined hands out and grabbed the target. He slipped on the metal stairs, lost his grip on the man from Uruguay, and struggled for his balance, but the momentum was too great. Gravity pulled, yanked him downward. He and the man from Uruguay tumbled. Medianoche pulled the malnourished target underneath him, rode the thin man down the flight of stairs, the ride bumpy and ugly. When the ride was over, Medianoche saw that they were both near the briefcase. Medianoche threw his elbow into the man’s face, hit him over and over, then pushed him down another flight of stairs, sent him headfirst, let him ragdoll down to the next level. Medianoche picked up the briefcase and walked down the stairs, put the briefcase down again, within arm’s reach, and went through the man’s pockets, found his cell phone and put that inside his own pocket.
    The man from Uruguay was unarmed. He was not a threat.
    But he had information.
    Medianoche grabbed the man by his collar and picked up the briefcase, headed down the stairs, dragging the man from Uruguay, his prisoner battered and bruised, in agony, yelling that his employers would kill him, would murder his family, would slaughter his friends for losing the briefcase. Medianoche didn’t give a fuck, not his problem. He didn’t have a family to lose. The man from Uruguay tugged, slipped out of his coat, then hit Medianoche with his fist. It was like a child striking an adult. Medianoche cursed, put the briefcase down, then grabbed the man and lifted his two hundred pounds up over his head.
    The man from Uruguay kicked and clawed.
    Medianoche grunted and held the man from Uruguay over his head, the task taking more energy and effort than it did ten years ago. Cloaked by darkness, the target’s scream was muffled by rain and thunder. The man from Uruguay was slammed back onto the metal stairs, his body turning, once again flailing, his long legs moving like he was trying to run on the molecules that made up air.
    The man from Uruguay made it to his feet, his face revealing his severe pain.
    Medianoche reached for his gun, pulled it out with a quick, snapping motion.
    But the man from Uruguay ran and jumped into the air, sprang up on the rail, did that with amazing agility, his bloodied face the epitome of fear, and without saying another word, lunged into the blackness, leapt like he was a bird about to take flight. His flight had grace and style, took him headfirst, his trajectory sending him out beyond the edges of the café, beyond the trees, into the streets. Didn’t flap his arms like he had changed his mind. He just fell through darkness into the lights on the streets below.
    The man almost landed on top of a city bus on the street in front of Torcisco Café.
    Almost.
    He splattered right in