Chapter 10: A Stray Wolf

There were candles around her as she prayed, kneeling on the cold concrete. She was in the catacombs below Roanapur, that much she could tell already. What did not seem to strike her as odd immediately was the fact that she was no longer maimed like she had been. Now, Roberta was in perfect condition, as though she had never sustained any injury against the Americans she tried so viciously to wipe out. Her eyes were closed, her two gentle hands clasped together as she murmured her religious mantra under her breath. When she finished, she opened her eyes. In front of her upon the small porcelain sink, were several items she recognised.

The first, a gun that had been used to take many lives, a weapon she no longer possessed. Beside it was a small bottle of pills, meds she had been taking after she came out of retirement for revenge. And lastly, to the right, she spotted the picture of the man who haunted her relentlessly, a man she killed without mercy or remorse, a man who claimed she had tormented him by tearing up a picture of his family in front of him before ending his life without so much as flinching. She wanted to forget all of this, to erase it from her mind and live in peace with her family. But it was too late for that now. She had no control over her own body, doomed to remain kneeling as the voice from behind her spoke its poisonous words.

"You've already lost, Rosarita," he told her, his gravelly voice unyielding in its intent to break her spirit. It was the man from the Cuban Navy Special Forces, the one who had bested her in combat after leading a unit of F.A.R.C. troops into Roanapur to hunt her down. "You went after those men and what good did it do you? The boy never wanted revenge. He didn't ask you to kill the Foxes, did he? So who was it all for?"

"The Young Master had his father taken from him," Roberta told him adamantly. "They took him from this world…those Foxes! I believed…"

"You believed they needed to die so Garcia could live in peace." The second voice was calmer, more pleasant. But it, too, sought only to torment Roberta. It was the Japanese man whose picture sat in front of the maid. "But that wasn't the case. He told you himself he didn't want that. He never did."

"You were just being selfish," the first man said. "You wanted to kill those men, Rosarita. It's who you are. You were a bloodhound, the Bloodhound. But now you're just a stray wolf. That's all you'll ever be."

"Shut up…" Roberta wheezed weakly.

"And what did your selfishness get you?" the Japanese man asked, taking a seat on the bed behind the first speaker. "In the end, Garcia was forced to pull the trigger just so he could save you. 'The sin is mine', that's what he said. Your actions led to that moment. You know the weight of your sins better than anyone. How must it feel for someone so young to be forced to shoulder that weight on your behalf, too?"

"SHUT UP!" Roberta screamed. Regaining control over her body, she grabbed the gun from the sink and turned it on the two men, firing at them blindly. None of the shots hit them, despite being perfectly on target. As well as this, the clip of the gun never seemed to end. Once she realised her attacks were futile, she lowered the weapon and hung her head in shame. "Who are you to presume to tell me of my sins?!"

"Don't you remember?" asked the nameless Japanese man. "Have you already forgotten me?"

"I remember you," Roberta groaned. "I've tried atoning for my sins. I did everything I could. And still you haunt me, day and night! What must I do to be allowed to live in peace?!"

"You're so blinded by your own defiance that you can't even see the error of your ways," the man from Havana said, grabbing her attention. "The Wolf is out there right now. You've doomed him to repeat your mistakes. Only he isn't swallowing those pills, is he?" Roberta gritted her teeth, but she had no energy to act upon the emotions erupting inside her.

"He deserved to know," the maid answered, defiant until the end. She knew her words hadn't had the desired effect. She knew the assassin was out there right now on a vendetta of his own, fuelled by revenge or the search for answers. Or both. "It would have been worse if I lied to him."

"Would it? He had put all of that behind him. You learned the truth about his old masters. You knew the memories of his Pack were buried. But you just couldn't help yourself. You had to go and dig them back up again."

"Your actions caused a lot of pain," the second man chimed in. "You only barely survived your encounter with the Americans. How will you feel when the Wolf returns to Roanapur in a coffin?" Roberta clutched the sides of her head.

"Leave me alone!" she roared at the men. "What have I done to deserve so much torment?! Haven't I paid for my sins? Don't I deserve to be at peace?!"

"You forfeited that right a long time ago," the first man informed her callously. "When the day finally comes that your 'Young Master' pays the price for your actions, you'll finally know the pain you've caused. And we will be there to remind you who to blame." Roberta was content to listen no longer. She turned the gun on the two men again in a futile attempt to banish them. Again, that elicited the same result. They remained, only now they were smiling openly at her distress as tears formed in her eyes and started to stream down her face. Left with no other options, she planted the side of the gun against her own head.

"Master Garcia…forgive me…" She pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot rang in her ears as she launched upwards from the couch she had been sleeping on. She placed her hand on her forehead, her only remaining hand. The dream was far more vivid than others she usually had during her restless nights. That was due in no small part to the guilt she felt for sending Wolf on his hunt. She had not intended to do so, of course, but when she awoke the morning after, she was alone and the assassin had not returned. That was four days ago, now. Roberta was in no condition to go anywhere, nor did she want to risk being spotted by someone who recognised her. The last thing she needed was for it to get back to Hotel Moscow or the Triad that she was back in Roanapur. She could have gone to Garcia and voiced her concerns, but she did not wish to involve him in this if it could be avoided. This was her burden to bear.

She steadied her breath and glanced across the room. Wolf's aviator jacket was hanging by the door. The rest of his clothes were scattered around the apartment. His weapons, however, had been taken with him. There was no doubt in Roberta's mind that he was gone to find Ashur. She wiped her brow and dragged herself to her feet. She needed to find him, no matter the risk that stayed her hand before now. He had been missing for too long. She was not content to leave him out there, especially not after what happened to her during her rampage in the city. She could not live with the added guilt of knowing she would be responsible for the assassin being maimed, or worse, killed. It was up to her to bring him back before it was too late.

(*)

The man across the street went by the name Ishmael. He was a smuggler, one of the lesser known criminals in this city. He got away with operating under the noses of the cartels and ruling factions by sneaking his merchandise onto shipments belonging to other, more reputable players coming into the city. He primarily dealt in small, concealable weapons for prostitutes and gamblers to hide on their person while they went about their business, but every so often he'd try his hand at smuggling something more impressive into the city. Lucky for him, nobody seemed to have caught on yet. That, or his actions weren't having a big enough ripple effect to even register on the radar of anyone important enough to pose a threat to him.

He was a short, greasy Taiwanese man with a dirty yellow checked shirt and denim dungarees. A straw hat covered his head and a pipe seemed to permanently protrude from his mouth. There was also a Colt Python Snubnose holstered at his hip. Right now, he was at the street corner, speaking to a blonde woman dressed in a plunging red dress. The area they were in was deserted. There were no street lights, no cars, nothing. It was the perfect spot for them to meet. During the entirety of the conversation, he leaned his hand on the wall and invaded her personal space by getting far too close to her. She looked none too pleased to be dealing with him. That did not matter, however. As soon as they were finished speaking, it would be time. The Wolf just needed the prostitute to leave and he could make his move.

He stood on the other side of the street, his form concealed by the darkness. Despite the fact that there were plenty of people who knew him in this city, he was unrecognisable right now. He wore black military boots on his feet, camouflage combat trousers, a cream-coloured sweatshirt with its three buttons undone and fingerless woollen black gloves covering his hands. Around his neck was a scarf that matched his trousers and covering his torso he wore a black leather biker jacket. The collar had been turned up as if to emphasise that his intentions were far from noble here. The woman hid an envelope that clearly contained a very small firearm in her dress and then turned to leave. Ishmael slapped her on the ass before she took off in the other direction. That was Wolf's window. He walked out into the street and headed straight for the man.

"You lost, Cowboy?" Ishmael croaked confrontationally. "You better keep walking unless you want to end up in a garbage can." Wolf did not hesitate for even a second. He locked eyes with Ishmael and reached out his arms as he prepared to pin the smuggler to the wall. The Taiwanese man took the Python is his right hand but he was too slow. Wolf grabbed the arm and pointed the gun into the sky before smacking the smuggler against the concrete wall behind him. "What's the meaning of this?! Do you know who I am?!"

"Yes I do," Wolf answered him. His words were slow and concise as if to annunciate his points. "I know all about you, Ishmael. And I know about the man you met with three days ago in this exact spot. The outsider, the lost puppy. Ashur. I know he contacted you. I want you to-" Wolf's words were cut off by a sound to his left. He maintained eye contact with Ishmael for a few seconds before slowly turning his head to see what it was. There was a dog there in the street, a hound with drool hanging from its mouth. Its ribs were visible. It was obviously hungry, but it was growling openly at the two men. Wolf locked eyes with the beast. His gaze did not waver when the dog started barking. It seemed like the animal was fit to go on the attack for the briefest of moments before Wolf's gaze became more intense. After that, the noise stopped. There was no growling, no barking. Just silence. That was followed by the poor beast putting its tail between its legs and whining softly, lowering its head as though in submission. With a toothy smile, Wolf turned back to Ishmael. If the man hadn't been scared before, he definitely was now, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

"You better go away and leave me to my business now while I give you the chance," he spat. That was ballsy. "Unless you want me to put a bullet in your brain." Wolf did not flinch. No, he chuckled, a little too much if Ishmael's expression was anything to go by.

"If you think threats like that scare me, you haven't been paying attention," the assassin told him. "I've had the barrel of a gun in my mouth for years now, that's just how it is. But the fucked up thing? I'm starting to love the taste of metal." With that, he leaned over, stuck out his tongue, and licked the full length of the Python's barrel. Then he returned his maniacal gaze to the smuggler. He could almost smell the urine as Ishmael emptied his bladder right there in the street.