The Impaler parked the car in a convenient spot near a hotel that looked to be in somewhat better shape than the neighboring buildings. He and the twins exited the car and walked huddled under a large umbrella to a side street following the directions written down on a map of Roanapur. The Italian flag adorning the front of a restaurant marked their destination. A man in a crisp suit was sitting at a small table under an awning outside and looked up as the three approached.
"Buonasera," he said, one hand reaching for a lupara – a Sicilian sawed-off double barreled shotgun – under the table, just in case. "Bienvenuto a Tritera."
"Good evening."
"Do you have a reservation?"
"Yes," replied the Impaler. "I've made a reservation for three under Anton." This was one of his many aliases.
"Si, Signore Anton," said the Italian, after checking the reservations list. "Your table is ready. It's number eleven, the last one to your left."
"Thank you. Come on, kids." They entered the restaurant, which operated like a normal business in addition to being used as a place for the Mafiosi to make their shady dealings. Their table was towards the back and could not be seen from the street, even with the window shutters open. A blond man was already sitting there.
"Good evening Mr. Verrocchio," said the Impaler. "I am Anton." The other man rose and offered his hand, which 'Anton' shook.
"Please take a seat." Verrocchio waited until everyone was seated before reclaiming his own seat. "May I suggest the spaghetti and meatballs before we get down to business?"
"By all means, Mr. Verrocchio." The Romanian knew it would be an insult to refuse the Mafioso's hospitality. The Sicilian clapped his hands and a waiter appeared. Speaking in Italian, he ordered for all of them and reminded the waiter to bring something non-alcoholic for the twins to drink. The adults were going to enjoy some excellent wine.
-o-
Meanwhile, refreshed from her earlier nap, Revy was cleaning her Cutlasses at the Lagoon Company offices. Dutch and Benny had taken the car and were on their way to pick up the spares they needed for the boat after getting a call from the dealer. Rock was working on the company books. "Hey, Rock," she called.
He looked up from the paperwork. "Yes, Revy?"
"Are you done over there?"
"Almost," he replied. "Is there something you want?"
She ran a brush back and forth inside the barrel of one of her guns and held it up to the light to check the results before replying while repeating the process. "First of all, I need something cold to drink."
"That's easy," he said, finishing the last sheet. He went to the fridge and got her a can of Budweiser. "Anything else?"
"Uh-huh. Load my spare mags for me, please." She nodded towards a stack of spare magazines and a few boxes of 9mm ammunition on the table in front of her. He sat down next to her and began doing as she'd asked.
"By the way, Dutch said something about going to the Flag later. Are you in, Revy?"
"Like you have to ask," she snorted. "Of course I'm in."
"How's your back?"
"It itches more than it hurts. The fucking dressing pulls, too."
"Well, I can change it for you later, if you want."
"It can wait," she huffed. "Let's leave it until just before we head out for drinks." With that, she went back to cleaning and reassembling her guns, while Rock continued filling her magazines.
-o-
The four people sitting around table eleven at the Tritera finished their dessert and the waiters cleared the dishes before leaving them alone to discuss business.
"Did Don Emilio tell you what we want you to do?" Verrocchio asked.
"All he told us is that we are to kill the heads of a couple of your rival organizations," replied the big Romanian. "He didn't go into details."
"It's up to me then. Well, one of them is some country bumpkin Russkie bitch and the other is a chink from Hong Kong." He paused and looked at the faces of the contractors in turn. "You see, until a few years ago, the most powerful organizations operating in this city were us, the Colombians and some locals and Chinese. The Colombians were mostly concerned with importing and distributing cocaine to their Far East clients. The locals and their Chinese partners were involved in gambling, prostitution, guns and people trafficking. We, on the other hand, were focused on distributing heroin from the Golden Triangle. The Chinese Triads acted as middlemen between us and the various warlords controlling the opium poppy fields and the heroin processing facilities. With the fall of the Iron Curtain, all hell broke loose. Them damned Russkies came in, wanting a piece of the action, while the Chinese got more ambitious as well. They caught us at a bad time, since we lacked the resources to counter their moves, especially since both Italy and the US were cracking down hard on us and our associates. As a result, we lost both territory and influence here. This is unacceptable. When you kill the people we want, their outfits will be sufficiently disorganized for us to reclaim what's rightfully ours. And I will be able to go back to New York with a promotion to boot."
"We have a common interest in succeeding," 'Anton' said. "However, I need specifics on the targets."
Verrocchio passed him a thin envelope. "You'll find their addresses and photographs in there."
The assassins' master browsed the contents of the envelope and looked up sharply. "That's it?"
"What else a master of the art like you would need?"
He took an instant dislike at the Italian's cavalier attitude towards such serious business. Even Hansel and Gretel, to whom he had passed the envelope, looked uncomfortable. With such ineptitude, it was no surprise that the Italian Mafia had been reduced to the role of a second-rate player in Roanapur. He decided to be polite, though. "Mr. Verrocchio, we are the best because we are careful and meticulous. I need a lot more than the information you have provided. I have to know the marks' routines, what protection they have and when they are most vulnerable. I also want to know about their people; how capable they are, how many they are and how heavily they are armed. Then, there is the question of getting as much intelligence as I can on their usual haunts, since it is most likely to hit them there, where they feel safe. When our plans have been made as foolproof as possible, we strike and strike hard. Not a second before."
Verrocchio narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.
"Looks like we will have to do all of the preliminary work ourselves," the Impaler said finally. "Of course, it means that both jobs will take much longer to complete."
The mobster weighed his options. His orders were clear. Since they were going to war against both the Russians and the Chinese Triad, he had to be absolutely sure of success. Otherwise, his prospects would be extremely dim. If his rivals didn't kill him, his bosses would make sure he joined the rest of the bodies at the bottom of the harbor wearing cement shoes. "Fine," he said dismissively. "Handle it any way you see fit, but don't wait until I'm old enough for a pension."
"Excellent. I see we understand each other now, Mr. Verrocchio. We'll start preparing tomorrow morning."
"Good." He passed his contractor a card. "If you need anything, call this number. Also, take these for your initial expenses." He handed over a couple of bundles of cash.
"Thank you. We'll talk again as soon as we have something concrete to report." Both men got up, followed by the twins. A round of handshakes later, the three were on the way back to their car.
-o-
The Yellow Flag was open for business despite the fact that some reconstruction work was still ongoing in the aftermath of its destruction during the epic fight between Roberta and the Manisarera cartel. Bao shot a dirty look at Revy as she ambled in with the rest of the Lagoon crew, but she ignored him as usual and took a seat at the bar. Rock, Dutch and Benny claimed the stools to her left. She held up two fingers and gestured between Rock and herself. Bao nodded and placed two glasses and a bottle of Bacardi in front of them.
"Just don't get smashed," Dutch told them as Bao slid a glass of whiskey over to him. "Rock's going to Balalaika's tomorrow morning and you will have some errands to run with Benny."
"Fuck, Dutch, can't you find someone else to go on your goddamn errands?"
"Sorry Revy, I'll be working on the boat all day and Benny will need someone to go with him."
"It still sucks majorly, especially with the shitty weather we're having," she grumbled and downed her glass of rum.
"Don't be so grumpy," Rock said after taking a sip from his own glass. She gave him a murderous glare and opened her mouth to tear a strip off of him, but he continued undaunted. "If it's still raining tomorrow, ignore it. Look at it as a day out in the town. Who knows, you may even find something you like. We got paid well for the last jobs, so just buy something nice while you're at it."
"Hrmph."
"And if Benny tells me you've been a good girl, I'll even buy you some ice cream."
The empty glass in her left hand slammed down on the countertop and her right hand twitched towards one of her holstered guns. "Rock, if you keep talking shit like this, I fucking swear I'll shoot you where it's gonna really hurt, pea-brain."
"Come on, Revy! Besides, didn't you promise to buy me some cotton candy back in the Philippines? I intend to hold you to that promise."
"Sometimes I wonder if Rock is a masochist or just plain suicidal," Benny whispered to Dutch. "It's like watching someone poke a tiger with a stick."
"Well, that's one way of putting it," Dutch whispered back. "He's still alive and in one piece though, isn't he?" Secretly, he was enjoying his employees' antics, as long as no one got hurt.
Revy was trying hard to keep the urge to really hurt Rock in check, so, instead of drawing her gun and shooting him or cracking his skull open, she just refilled her glass. Maybe the booze would help tune it all out. Shrugging, she took a nice long sip of rum.
-o-
The headquarters of the Bougainvillea Trade Company, the front for Hotel Moscow's operations, was located in one of the more affluent areas of the city. By coincidence, a four star hotel was located nearby. The twin assassins' master already knew about it when he drove down the street in a rental car – a red Toyota sedan and not the black Mercedes given to him by the Italians. He had the driver's side window rolled down a bit and a map in one hand, looking like any newcomer to the city trying to get to his intended destination. He parked in front of the hotel and walked in, after retrieving a briefcase and a suitcase from the trunk. The receptionist on duty looked at him as he went through the revolving door at the entrance and marked him as a businessman, judging by his lightweight summer suit and the high-end luggage he was carrying.
Even though he didn't have a reservation, the hotel did have rooms available, so he checked in under his Anton alias. His expertly forged Austrian passport had all the correct stamps and visas and didn't raise any red flags with the hotel staff. Even his accent had a Germanic ring to it. As a bellhop put it, Herr Anton sounded kind of like Arnold Schwarzenegger, albeit rather raspier. He was planning on using the room as a forward observation post, relaying information on the target to Hansel and Gretel either in person or over the phone. The twins were to stay at the apartment provided by the mobsters, unseen and unheard until the time came for them to execute their part of the mission. Not to mention that checking into the hotel with two children in tow might attract the wrong kind of attention to them.
Once in the room, he wasted no time setting up his gear. Since he wasn't far from the target, he simply set up a compact high power telescope on a short tripod, placing it on the small low table by the window, using the curtain to conceal it. The torrential rain didn't exactly help, but after a mere two hours of watching he knew that the Italians wanted to bite off more than they could chew. Still, a contract was a contract. He reached into a pocket of his discarded suit jacket, retrieved a Nokia cell phone and dialed a number from memory.
"Hello?" It was Hansel's voice that answered the call.
"It's me."
"Have you got news for us, sir?"
"Yes, and not of the good kind, either," he said. "I trust you can relay everything I'm going to tell you now to your sister, right?"
"Of course, sir. That goes without saying."
"Good. The mobsters' incompetence screwed us. These are not mere thugs we'll be going up against. From what I can see, most all of them are ex-military, well trained and disciplined."
"I agree; that complicates things, sir," said Hansel.
"For now, I'll stay here and try to find out more about their routines. We'll meet in person again tomorrow morning at nine o'clock sharp. You two sit tight at the meantime. Don't go out unless you absolutely have to, you understand?"
"Yes sir." Hansel hung up in time to see Gretel emerge from the kitchen.
"Dinner is ready, fratele meu," she announced. "Was it the Master on the phone?"
Hansel nodded. "Yes, sora mea, it was. I'll tell you everything over dinner."
"He didn't have good news for us, did he?"
"No," he said, shaking his head. "Looks like we were right to be worried after all. This is going to get ugly." He followed his sister to the kitchen and relayed what their master had told him over a light dinner. When their talk ended, each of them secretly entertained the thought of cutting and running now that they were all alone, but in the end good sense prevailed. They had no money, their master had their (fake) passports with him, they didn't know the city and finally they didn't have an escape route prepared. If they tried and failed, their punishment would be severe to say the least.
-o-
Surprisingly, Revy had decided to follow Rock's advice for once. The rain had stopped some time before dawn and the errands Dutch had had her and Benny run hadn't taken that much time, so she left the blond man at the office and took off on her own, aimlessly wandering around the city. As she did, something in the window of a small shop caught her eye. She went in and emerged a few minutes later, carrying a bag with a few carefully wrapped packages inside. Rock had been right. She was feeling better. Pausing to light a cigarette, she looked around, shrugged dismissively and turned in the direction of the office.
Meanwhile, Rock was elbow-deep in paperwork. He and Balalaika were going through each document carefully, taking just one break for some strong Russian tea and warm blintzes – bliny with jam or fruit filling. As they worked, he found the Russian woman to be a demanding, yet considerate, respectful and generous boss, a lot like Dutch in many respects. These two were nothing like the bosses he had suffered under while working for Asahi Industries back in Japan. No, he didn't miss his old life a bit. This was much better.
