It is all over remarkably fast. There is the fast click-click as you chamber a round in the shotgun and then an explosion of fire and thunder into the big, brutish chest of one of the men and then the other is running, tearing away like a ragged breath of air or a scream caught in the wind. Click-click. It doesn't take long to track him with one eye sighting down the barrel of the gun, leading on him just before he rounds a corner and pulling the trigger with a simple twitch of your index finger. The recoil sends the butt of the gun back into your shoulder and you know that you will have a black-and-blue badge of honour there in the morning, the only reminder of your transgressions save for the gunpowder residue on your gloved hands and your nondescript clothing.
You have been smart about it, keeping your face hidden beneath the expansive shadows of a black hood and using a gun that cannot be traced back to you or your people. It only takes a few minutes to locate and collect the discarded casings and clean off any stray prints, before you toss the gun into a dumpster near the bodies and slip off into the darkness.
But you are not alone. They follow you, those two men. Their souls are ripped from their corpses with every step that takes you farther away and so they trail after you, fingers outstretched, dripping gore and terror and confusion. You rip the leather gloves from your hands and wipe your clammy palms against your jeans, choking down one lungful of stale air and then another.
When you set out tonight you told yourself that those two men had something to do with your father's death. You told yourself that it would be justified. It is only now that the deed is done that you can admit to yourself that you did not know or care, one way or the other. Your hands may be trembling as you exit the building and hail a cab, but you are glad that they're dead.
Fighting against the bile that rises in your throat, you reach into your jacket and pull out a silver flask that spills over with a sharp, sour drink and pour it into your gullet, where it only fuels the flame. You are glad. You are glad, and they deserved it. As you climb into the back of the cab and give the address of your loft, you do not spare a backwards glance.