Into It
By Harding McFadden
When the Hitter rolled with the landing on the flat roof of the building next to the one in which the chase has started, he marveled at the joviality of his prey.
Against all reason, against all basic rationality, the guy was giggling like a loon as the man who’d been paid a lot of money to kill him chased him up stairs and across rooftops and up and down fire escapes and through God only knew what else. In pure lunatic glee, the mark seemed to be really into it.
When he’d knocked on the door of the apartment, he’d figured on another quick cash grab. Drop the mark, clear out the valuables like it’d been a robbery and not something professional, and be on his way back home for some Chinese and John Wayne. But, no, things went all manner of cockeyed right from the start.
He’d knocked on the door—three times-pause-three times, just like the contract had called for, oddly enough—and instead of hearing some danged fool shuffle his way toward the door to let in his fate, he’d heard a giggle from just on the other side, and a happy voice squeaking out, “Catch me if you can.”
The Hitter had plowed through the door like it was Styrofoam, and gone for the mark as he took off out a window and up a fire escape. Of necessity, the killer was in good shape. To be sloppy in his profession was a certain way of going out early and undignified. Even so, trying to keep up with this guy was pushing him to the breaking point. His lungs burned, and he found himself hating stairs.
The client had told him that it would be a tough job. He’d never worked for the guy before, but he seemed alright, for a murderer by proxy. Not exactly tall or short, he’d had the kind of face and built to not stand out in any crowd. He’d blend in just about anywhere. He was pure vanilla. But his money was as good as anybody else’s, and he’d had lots of it. More than the Hitter had ever made on a single job, actually. Enough to set him up in style, for a few months at least.
Tough job was right. This danged jackrabbit jumped from roof to roof, and up and down stairs that made the Hitter’s knees ache like they’d never ached before, like he had springs in his legs, just laughing and laughing, and never seeming to be out of breath or energy. It was frankly frustrating. He had nothing against the mark, but he’d get some small pleasure out of taking him down.
By the fifth roof, he was just about spent, so that when he hit it, there was little grace, just a solid drop, a thunk, a swear, and heavy breathing. He couldn’t believe it. For years he’d done this job, and never once had he missed the mark. Not once. And to think, his record was about to get ruined, by this laughing nut job. He could cry.
He was lying on his back, nursing his agonized knees, when he heard the voice say, “You can’t stop now.”
Craning his head up, he saw the mark silhouetted against the beautifully full moon, on his feet, but at last breathing hard, God bless him.
“Why’re you hanging around?” he asked. “You know I’m trying to kill you, right?”
“I know,” the mark said. “But you can’t begrudge a fella for doing his job. Besides, ever think you might be doing someone a favor?”
Nodding, the Hitter clenched his eyes and rolled to kneeling. The mark crouched near the edge of the roof, letting his adversary catch his breath.
Standing on sore knees, cracking a suddenly old back, he looked at the mark and asked, “Ready?”
The mark nodded. “You?”
In reply, the Hitter started running.He’d never felt more like a lumbering oaf in his life, but at least he was moving, at least he had a chance to keep his record good.
The mark lept up and jumped for the next roof, hitting it at a roll, but stopping short when his back came up against a pipe peaking out from the tar. He shouted a little, enough to show he’d been hurt.
Sensing his chance, the Hitter gave his all in that last leap, but it wasn’t enough. He nearly missed the roof, but stopped himself with the tips of his fingers on the ledge. His knees and stomach slammed against the wall hard enough to knock the wind from him. He saw stars, and before he knew what was happening, his hands slipped free.
Before he’d fallen more than a few feet, he found himself clung to, the mark up there on the roof, his hands gripping the wrist of his killer. Confusion filled the Hitter. Who was this guy, that he’d not only enjoy the idea of a paid killer chasing him, but would also prevent that same killer from plummeting to his death? Who did that?
Taking a quick look over his shoulder, the Hitter groaned. Five stories, at least, he was too out of sorts to figure just how far he’d drop if the mark thought better of holding him up. He looked back up at his prey, that formless shadow up there making no sense at all.
“Gimme your other hand, big man,” the mark said.
Listening, the Hitter reached up and took hold of the mark’s wrist and started pulling himself up, inch by weary inch.
When he’d gotten a firm hold on the roof again, he pulled himself up on his elbows, took a hold of the mark by the front of his short, and wrenched him over the side. There was no squeak of surprise from the prey. More like a sigh of happy resignation.
Holding the mark there for a moment over the beckoning abyss, he looked into the suddenly illuminated face, and fought back shock. It was the client. The pure vanilla with the deep pockets who’d hired him for this job. What the actual…?
Smiling up into the confused face of his killer, the mark, the client, the whoever, said, “Thanks for the fun chase. It was a lot better than waiting for what else is killing me.”
He let the strange man go, and watched as he fell, giggling like a loon the whole way. When he stopped, it was sudden, harsh, and forever.
With a lot of effort, the Hitter got himself back up onto the roof, and rested there for longer than was probably wise. Right then he didn’t care.
In time he drug himself down fire escapes, and across town, to a cab stand far enough away from where he’d dropped the mark to give himself deniability. Half an hour later he was home, dropping into bed, still dressed, too tired for Chinese or John Wayne.
It had been an odd night, and while he enjoyed his life, some times, on nights like this when the crazies seem to be beating down the door, he just wasn’t that into it.
for Naomi, Eleanor, & Iris
© 2026 Harding McFadden. All rights reserved.
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Action Pulp! 
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