JJSmithJr
Senior
- Jul 1, 2018
- 924
Yakiv Volk had always been a loner, as he was now, on his 32nd birthday, sitting alone at the corner of a dive bar in Donetsk, Ukraine. He had lived in Donetsk for six years now. Originally from Kyiv, his father had died when he was a boy, and his mother had hated him. Hated all men really. She was still alive in Kyiv, in some project apartment, living off of her meager state pension. Yakiv hadn't seen her in over a decade. He didn't care. They didn't care for each other. He was just one of the thousands of metallurgical workers in the Donetsk region, producing steel for the state now, he didn't care about politics either. He was here for her. Number nine in Donetsk. There had been six others in Kyiv before a brush with local law enforcement saw him move away. He had been following this one for months, and she always drove directly home from work on Thursdays. Today was her day. Only Yakiv knew it, but for now he waited. He ordered another light beer from her before moving over to a corner table. Only an hour to bar close.
The bar was mostly full of bikers and factory workers. Killing money and time before they returned to their normal and mundane lives. Clocking in and out, in and out, continuously, was no way for man to live. Men were to be hunters, and at the very least Yakiv was fulfilling his destiny.
Number nine had long blonde hair, like many Ukrainians, she was small, probably no more than three inches over five feet, and had a very slight build. She had piercing brown eyes, and she worked the bar with adequate skill. She had a round face, cute enough, with a small nose, and rather large ears for her face. Her smile revealed two large dimples. Those dimples are what had attracted Yakiv to her in the first place, and that hair. Most of his prey had blonde hair, although he didn't know why, he knew that it was true. He preferred them. He slowly nursed his beer while he watched a group of factory workers shoot pool. Not much time left. He checked his watch, thirty minutes to close.
He got up now and paid his tab leaving cash on the bar. He walked outside and pulled up his coat. He got into his car, an eastern bloc sudan, made in Romania, grey colored, parked in visual range of number nine's car. An eastern bloc van, red, from Russia. He knew her license plate, not that it mattered, if he lost her, he had her address. Tonight was the night. Yakiv knew that. He reached into his pocket for his pack of smokes and a lighter. Lighting one he waited. Simply waited for his prey. The final stalk would begin soon.
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A steady stream of patrons coming out of the bar meant it was almost time. The bar had closed, by his calculation and by his study, number nine would be in her van in roughly fifteen minutes. Yakiv started his car and moved it down the block. He knew she would come out from here. He knew he had to be careful. Mistakes had almost cost him in Kyiv. Here in Donetsk there would be no mistakes. Yakiv was sure of that.
Like clockwork number nine's van drove passed him roughly fifteen minutes later. He pulled out and followed making sure he left ample space between them to not raise suspicion. They would pass the Donetsk Police Headquarters undergoing renovation, Yakiv would smile. They had no idea what had come to their city, and if they did there was nothing for them to find, but bodies. As she turned down her quiet street his palms would begin to sweat. It was almost time. He reached into his coat pocket to make sure his knife was there. He pulled into the parking lot of her apartment and turned off his car. He got out quietly closing the door, he would quickly close the distance between their vehicles, crouching. His footfalls carefully muffled by fur coverings on his shoes.
The van door would slam shut. Number nine begin walking towards her apartment door. She would never make it. He would grab her quickly, one hand over her mouth, the other holding the knife to her throat. He would force her into the back of her own van. Before striking her with the but of the blade to knock her unconscious. Yakiv, now moving instinctively would find her keys and quickly duct tape her hands and feet together, and covering her mouth. He would start her van and pull out of the parking lot. The drive to Yakiv's abandoned lot wasn't far. Abandoned lots were common in Donetsk, this one had a half constructed apartment complex on it. The construction had halted when the Soviet Union had fallen, and was yet to be restarted. This was perfect for Yakiv. He parked the van and dragged Number nine into the abandoned lot. He would drag her into a half constructed room and here, as she began to come to from the blow to her head he would stab her over and over again in a sudden fit of rage. Coming too moments later covered in blood Yakiv would realize the extent of the damage he had done. He would start to dig a shallow grave to conceal the body. Once this was done he would change his clothes, washing with the cold water he always made sure he had with him he would take the van back to number nine's apartment. Get in his car and drive home. He had another shift at the plant in the morning.
The bar was mostly full of bikers and factory workers. Killing money and time before they returned to their normal and mundane lives. Clocking in and out, in and out, continuously, was no way for man to live. Men were to be hunters, and at the very least Yakiv was fulfilling his destiny.
Number nine had long blonde hair, like many Ukrainians, she was small, probably no more than three inches over five feet, and had a very slight build. She had piercing brown eyes, and she worked the bar with adequate skill. She had a round face, cute enough, with a small nose, and rather large ears for her face. Her smile revealed two large dimples. Those dimples are what had attracted Yakiv to her in the first place, and that hair. Most of his prey had blonde hair, although he didn't know why, he knew that it was true. He preferred them. He slowly nursed his beer while he watched a group of factory workers shoot pool. Not much time left. He checked his watch, thirty minutes to close.
He got up now and paid his tab leaving cash on the bar. He walked outside and pulled up his coat. He got into his car, an eastern bloc sudan, made in Romania, grey colored, parked in visual range of number nine's car. An eastern bloc van, red, from Russia. He knew her license plate, not that it mattered, if he lost her, he had her address. Tonight was the night. Yakiv knew that. He reached into his pocket for his pack of smokes and a lighter. Lighting one he waited. Simply waited for his prey. The final stalk would begin soon.
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A steady stream of patrons coming out of the bar meant it was almost time. The bar had closed, by his calculation and by his study, number nine would be in her van in roughly fifteen minutes. Yakiv started his car and moved it down the block. He knew she would come out from here. He knew he had to be careful. Mistakes had almost cost him in Kyiv. Here in Donetsk there would be no mistakes. Yakiv was sure of that.
Like clockwork number nine's van drove passed him roughly fifteen minutes later. He pulled out and followed making sure he left ample space between them to not raise suspicion. They would pass the Donetsk Police Headquarters undergoing renovation, Yakiv would smile. They had no idea what had come to their city, and if they did there was nothing for them to find, but bodies. As she turned down her quiet street his palms would begin to sweat. It was almost time. He reached into his coat pocket to make sure his knife was there. He pulled into the parking lot of her apartment and turned off his car. He got out quietly closing the door, he would quickly close the distance between their vehicles, crouching. His footfalls carefully muffled by fur coverings on his shoes.
The van door would slam shut. Number nine begin walking towards her apartment door. She would never make it. He would grab her quickly, one hand over her mouth, the other holding the knife to her throat. He would force her into the back of her own van. Before striking her with the but of the blade to knock her unconscious. Yakiv, now moving instinctively would find her keys and quickly duct tape her hands and feet together, and covering her mouth. He would start her van and pull out of the parking lot. The drive to Yakiv's abandoned lot wasn't far. Abandoned lots were common in Donetsk, this one had a half constructed apartment complex on it. The construction had halted when the Soviet Union had fallen, and was yet to be restarted. This was perfect for Yakiv. He parked the van and dragged Number nine into the abandoned lot. He would drag her into a half constructed room and here, as she began to come to from the blow to her head he would stab her over and over again in a sudden fit of rage. Coming too moments later covered in blood Yakiv would realize the extent of the damage he had done. He would start to dig a shallow grave to conceal the body. Once this was done he would change his clothes, washing with the cold water he always made sure he had with him he would take the van back to number nine's apartment. Get in his car and drive home. He had another shift at the plant in the morning.
