Some Pointless Trivia AKA Author's Notes: Irony of Fate is the name of a popular Russian/Soviet cult movie (romantic comedy). Good stuff.
Spokoinoi Nochi Malishi (Good Night, Little Kids) is a Russian children's TV show, immensely popular and very long running(over 30 years).
Irony of Fate
There's nothing like having your head properly slammed into a table to remind you that you're still alive.
Too bad they weren't doing it properly.
I wasn't even seeing stars yet.
"Where is it?" Ryan spoke slowly, articulating every word as if he was speaking to a retarded child.
"Let me give you a hint," I mimicked his speech pattern, "It's not on me."
The soldier-boy who was restraining me from behind pulled me up, making it easier for Ryan to direct a punch to my stomach. That hurt. But I'd had worse. Much worse.
"You should work on your interrogation technique, Ryan. I'm not terribly impressed."
He awarded me with another slug for the comment, connecting with my jaw this time.
Some people just didn't take well to constructive criticism.
"Better?" he turned on an ugly smirk. Smirking was an art, and he was no artist.
Grinning widely, I replied, "I would say you hit like a girl, but it's such a cliché," fury was beginning to ignite in his eyes. Good. Playing with fire was a specialty of mine. "You hit like a gay sailor who hadn't been properly fucked in years," I amended. Soldier-boy number 2, leaning against the table, suppressed a snort.
The next hit was harder. It'd been a while since I'd sported a black eye, but it was like riding a bicycle.
I bit on my lip to keep from showing pain. It would've worked if it wasn't bleeding excessively already. I barely managed to turn my wince into a smirk, "What's the matter, your army buddies aren't putting out anymore?"
"Shut... the fuck... up," following the breathtakingly original statement, Ryan went into a full blown boxer mode, with me as the punching bag. I considered employing the old trick of crawling into a dark spot in my mind and forgetting things like pain even existed. But I needed the pain. It was fuel.
He stopped after a minute or so. His face was glowing red, rage radiating off him in unsteady waves.
I had to draw a few hard breaths before speaking again. "Sexual frustration is never healthy, you know. I'm sure you could find a better way of expressing it if you only tried."
He almost growled. A miniature miscalculation was all I needed, and he was just about ready to offer it to me on a silver plate. With ridiculous predictability, he went in for yet another strike, aiming at my face again.
Strike three, you're out. I sharply pulled to the right. I didn't have the strength to tear away, but it was enough to shift the balance. Ryan's fist connected with the lackey's face instead of mine.
Said lackey stumbled to the floor, and, being somewhat choice deficient at the moment, I went down with him. I threw my head backwards with as much force I could manage. The crunching sound of his nose breaking was immensely satisfying. He gave a muted cry, losing his grip on me. With my now free hand, I pried the gun from his loosened fingers. A Beretta 92F, not my personal favorite, but at least the silencer was thrown in for free.
I quickly rolled away, taking cover behind the couch. Not quickly enough. A bullet, probably courtesy of soldier-boy number two, had pierced my shoulder, though I only noticed this unfortunate occurrence a moment later, as the pain registered. Pure Adrenaline, however, was what I operated on now, and it kept the pain at bay.
I still held the element of surprise to a certain degree, and I was the only one with certain cover. This was a piece of cake. Shooting blind, I aiming for the spots where they'd been. A memory game.
There was a dull thud as a body hit the carpet. I sighed. It was a good, expensive carpet, and I hated having to ruin it.
I emerged from behind the couch. Ryan was the only one left standing. I rapidly corrected that with a bullet to the stomach. The ensured route to a slow, painful death. He went down like a fly.
I surveyed the scene. Soldier-boy number one had three bullet holes in his chest on top of the broken nose. One hole was more than enough for soldier-boy number two, and it glared at me from his cheek.
I fixed my stare on Ryan, leveling the gun to his head.
"No! Don't kill me!" he squirmed, clutching his hand over the fresh wound, "please!"
I hated it when they begged. And it was disappointing to see Ryan's true colors emerging under the gaze of my gun. Besides, he was dead already.
"Why not?" I asked casually. I seriously doubted he had a reason I gave the slightest bit of a damn about, but I was curious.
"I can give you information."
That couldn't hurt. "Go ahead," I urged.
"W-" his Adam's apple bobbed, "What do you want to know?"
Why does the sun go on shining? Why does the sea rush to shore?
"Where does Thorn hang out these days?"
"The Fort. He barely leaves it."
"And how's the security there?"
"Tight. Uh-," he paused, giving the gun a nervous glance. I lowered it. This was embarrassing enough without him wetting his pants.
"How many guards?"
"A... A few platoons, some secret service, too." Great. And I thought my mood couldn't get any worse. "He's paranoid."
"With good reason. Anything else you feel like sharing?"
"There's a spy."
"There always is," I pointed out, "who?"
"We don't know yet. Definitely someone high up."
"That's it?" I was getting impatient.
He nodded frantically.
"Thanks for the information. You've been very helpful," I raised the gun, "really."
"No! Please! I, I didn't," he stammered futilely. It was truly pathetic to witness. "Please, it wasn't personal-"
I cut him off, sparing him further degradation, "pure business, I know," it was my line, you miserable bastard. I pulled the trigger, hoping a bullet between the eyes would be enough to shut him up, "no hard feelings."
I took a moment to relish the newfound silence, then wiped the sweat from my brow. There was quite a bit of it gathered there already.
"Fuck," I muttered to no one in particular.
So much for Plan A, then. And it'd been such a nice, simple plan, too. The real shame was that there was no Plan B. Yet. I'd always had a knack for improvisation. But how the hell do you improvise your way through 'a few platoons and some secret service' with manpower you can count on your fingers?
I slumped onto the chair by the table. Now that the Adrenaline was mostly out of my system, the pain from my shoulder wound felt free to manifest itself, mainly through nagging, pulsating surges.
A glass stood on the table. I studied it. Its full half told me I was fucked. The empty half insisted I was a dead man walking. Only without the walking.
Unless...
An idea began to take shape in my head. It was insane. Beyond insane.
Probably just insane enough to work.
I pulled out my mobile phone and dialed up HQ. After several seconds of inane beeping, a cheerful voice answered.
"Molotov Pizza, how can I help you?" it was Kostya, clearly drunk. The background noise suggested they were having a wild party in there. My brain gave a dejected groan, but I decided to save the lecture for a more appropriate time.
"Get me Max's address."
"Max? Who-" his initial confusion was replaced by uneasy shock as he uttered the name, "...Payne?" Kostya had shared a brief but poignant encounter with Max, and had the scars to show for it.
I grinned to myself, "The one and only."
There was a long pause on the other end. "Sure thing, boss."
I hanged up and set the phone on the table.
At least Ryan had gone through the trouble of obtaining quality Vodka for our meeting. I appreciated that, if nothing else.
I poured a shot and gulped it down immediately. The first shot was intended to clear my mind, crystallize my thoughts. The second was to dim the pain. A few more were needed to prepare me for the execution of the newly formed plan. Liquid courage or whatnot. The rest were simply because it was bad luck to put good Vodka to waste. And luck was the name of the game.
The phone came to life then, emitting the Godfather theme music. I let it play for a bit. I could never get enough of it. Eventually, I answered.
"Got you two addresses, boss. One is, uh," short pause, "'Payne Investigations'."
"I need the home address."
He gave me a Bronx address.
"Thanks, Kost', good job," organized crime always lacked in positive reinforcement, and I felt obligated to fill the gap, "now wrap the party up, it's past your bedtime."
'Payne Investigations'? I wasn't the only one who'd ended up falling far from grace, then.
I got up, reluctantly. It was time to clean up and be on my merry way.
Grabbing a tissue, I used it to wipe my fingerprints off the glass, the bottle, the gun and anything else I might have come into contact with. It was more out of habit than anything else. Police attention was by far the last thing I had to worry about.
I needed to conceal the gunshot wound.
Ryan's flight jacket lay on the chair, neatly folded. It was painful to even look at. Desperate times called for desperate measures, though. I put it on.
"Where's your fashion sense?" I gave Ryan's body a kick as I passed by it. It offered no response. Oh well.
Before making my exit, I paused for a moment and looked at the framed photographs hanging on the wall. A younger Ryan with his 'band of brothers'. Ryan showing off his brand new M-16. Ryan receiving a medal for 'heroics on the battlefield'. I glanced back at the body. How the mighty had fallen. People changed all the time, but, apparently, never for the better.
Another picture was of Ryan with his ex-wife and the kids. A framed little American Dream. I smirked. The American Dream was a topic Max and I had discussed a few times. It was one of those subjects we had agreed to disagree on.
I took a closer look at the kids – the boy, a lanky redhead, was grinning wildly while the older girl just stared intensely into the camera, as if trying to figure out how it operated. I sighed. They were better off without him.
I left the apartment and made my way to the street. A chilly greeting from the winter air helped me obtain temporary focus. The car was waiting for me.
I slid into the front seat, receiving a startled stare from Mike, "shit boss, what happened?"
"The negotiation went a little..." I gestured with my thumb sideways, adding a whistle as a soundtrack.
"Do we drive back?"
"No," I gave him the address Kostya had provided instead.
"Are you sure you don't need-"
"Positive," I left little room for argument in my tone.
He knew better than to argue, anyway, or ask too many questions. Mike was an efficient little lieutenant. Keeping silent, he started that car.
I let the world become a blur as the song from Spokoinoi Nochi Malishi wriggled its way into my dazed mind, slowly playing an ancient, scratched record long buried under layers of dust and blood. Nostalgia. Tired toys, sleeping book, blankets and pillows, even the fairy tale goes to bed, close your eyes...
"Boss?" it took me some time to realized it was Mike talking to me, and not the voices in my head, "Boss? We're here."
Well, that was quick. Just like in the movies. Fade to black, wasn't that what they called it?
I shook my head, achieving only partial awakening. "Get the boys together," I ordered. Mike nodded, all business. I exited the car, fighting off the feeling of vertigo that the simple action prompted. Leaning on the car door, I looked down at Mike. I could see some concern slipping through to his face. "I'll be back tomorrow," I assured him. Closing the door, I tried to shrug. Bad idea. I formed a smirk instead, "or never."
Mike didn't hear the last part. I watched the car drive off, then turned and stumbled towards the building where Max lived. It was a dump, but I wasn't really in the position to judge.
Somehow, I managed to find the place without bumping into too many walls in the process.
I rested my forehead against the wooden door, catching my breath. I could hear the muffled sound of the radio from inside the apartment, playing a song Mike would surely have appreciated.
I tried to contemplate exactly how crazy an idea this was, on a scale of 1 to 10. But I couldn't quite recall what came after 8. 100, maybe? My pulse was speeding up, and it wasn't just the whole blood shortage issue. For the first time in years, I actually felt nervous. And something else. I couldn't tell what.
Sometimes you have no choice but surrender to fate and see where it drags you.
I straightened up and knocked on the door.
For a short while, no sound emerged from inside. Then I heard unhurried footsteps. The door opened.
If Max experienced the least bit of surprise, he was doing a good job of keeping that fact to himself. He was wearing his customary expression, only it was even more jaded and bitterly cynical than usual. It was good to know some things in life could be relied on, in a world that was nothing but rampant chaos.
Same old Max.
My hero.
Max wasn't hard to read, and I couldn't detect anything resembling hatred in his eyes. Not even anger. He wasn't showing signs of going for his gun, either. Interesting.
It still wouldn't be easy, of course, but...
Easy was no fun.
He was watching me in that still, intent manner of his, waiting for me to make the first move. Who was I to keep him waiting?
"Max, my friend!" his expression turned even sourer. I grinned. It was hard not to. "How good to see you."
Oddly enough, it really was.