ECCHYMOSIS
CHAPTER TEN
Downtown Island, Tricourner Docks, The Pits
Ducking a left hook Red X dove into a roll and, planting a gloved hand firmly into the surrounding chicken wire fence, threw out a powerful kick at the legs of Qing Lu: one of Penguin's newest recruits. The toe of her shoes struck a tendon in the back of Lu's right knee: precisely focusing the force of impact on the small target. With a yelp, Lu's right leg collapsed under him and he felt to one knee. Quickly regaining her balance, Red X righted herself and snatched either side of her opponent's head; she yanked it back as her knee jerked upwards. The knee connected high on the back of Lu's neck, where his spine connected with his skull. He didn't make any noise after that.
The Penguin recruit fell backwards, forcing Red X to awkwardly stumble out of his way. The second Lu's body had struck the floor, Red X continued her assault; she wanted to be sure the jackass didn't get back up. Picking up her foot, Red X stomped down hard onto Lu's masked face in the general area of the nose and left cheekbone. Stumbling as her foot slipped off of the man's face, Red X took a sloppy step back and stomped again. Then she did it once more with all the force she could give at that angle, just for good measure.
When Red X stepped back haggard, sweaty, and bloodied, the screaming of the surrounding audience grew louder. She could make out a few threats and swearing. Others were roaring in victory, having won their gamble. While she panted, attempting to regain her breath, Red X readjusted her mask – which had shifted during her fight. After a brief look around, Red X walked to the make-shift door of the chicken wire cage. "Let me out," she called, trying to shout over the crowd. A scrawny twitchy man complied and unlocked the padlock.
Stepping down from the arena, Red X had to push her way through the crowd as they headed for either the exit or to the bookies. Before she could take more than four steps a hand clapped down on her shoulder. When Red X turned, she was unsurprised to see the hand belonged to Alberto Falcone. He owed her a couple grand for the fight. "Follow me." Red X said, shrugging his hand off. As she walked on, Red X peaked to make sure he was following. He was.
Shoving past one of the Black Mask's thugs, Red X pushed open the heavy steel door which lead to a smaller back room that had likely been an office space when the building had been in legal use. Now, it was where fighters had to store their affects. It was one of the only rules of the pits: no weapons. Chicken wire blocked of the area above a roughly made counter which stretched across the length of the room. In the center, a square porthole was cut out of the wire large enough for one person to climb through. Behind the porthole was a man, who stood before lines of automatic weapons, pistols, knives. He asked her if she wanted her effects back. Red X didn't respond beyond a sharp nod.
"So," came the impatient tone of Alberto Falcone. He was approaching forty but had the appearance and cadence of someone a decade younger. He had a tall lanky body, like he hadn't grown since his teen years. Alberto's hair was greased back and his large nose curved downward like the beak of his family's name-sake. "I hear you're working for Black Mask now?"
Red X's eyes traversed up toward the crown of her head behind closed eyelids before rolling back down to look ahead, avoiding the mob prince's gaze. Not wanting to anger him and deal with the consequences, she simply replied, "Yeah, I guess."
His hazy eyes scrolled over her figure: clad in all black. She had nice tits but Alberto took note of her toned muscle and narrow hips––unfortunate traits in his opinion. The Red X's form was decidedly too masculine for his tastes. "Well," he said finally, "in that case, you owe me ten percent."
Red X's head snapped towards the man, glaring through her mask. She argued in as controlled of a tone and voice as she could manage, "Everyone else pays 5."
His smirk revealed overly whitened teeth, "Not Black Mask's guys. You're lucky I'm letting you keep anything at all. If I were my father, you'd already be dead."
Her skepticism was obvious under her mask. Alberto Falcone was hardly the most intimidating person and she was confident that she could take him, easy. But, she reasoned, it would be such a hassle to deal with the consequences of that course of action. "Take five percent and I'll do the Carron hit for free. Ten isn't worth the trouble."
The night before, Alberto's father––Carmine Falcone––had prompted her to dispose of a security guard at Arkham Asylum, named Richard Carron. Carron refused to accept a bribe from Falcone, who for all intents and purposes controlled the asylum. Falcone didn't legally own Arkham but he was paying off more than half the staff.
Initially, Red X had refused the offer, telling Falcone that the price wasn't high enough––which was true. Red X only killed the corrupt, only killed the bad guys, and any price on an innocent's head wasn't high enough. But if she could convince Carron to leave town––fake his death––then the five percent of her winnings would be worth the trouble.
Alberto rose an eyebrow, condescending. "Actually, I've got another guy taking care of that as we speak. Real good too." Alberto's tone was starting to grate on her nerves. "So it's still ten percent."
Red X's jaw worked in her mouth. Beyond the guilt she felt at the death of an innocent she might have otherwise saved, she felt a large amount of irritation that Falcone had other men to do a job if she didn't want it. It made logical sense but the fact that she wasn't their only option in this line of work was irritating.
As far as she knew, there was no other mercenary in the city with her particular skill set, which is most likely why she was usually asked first to these sorts of jobs. She had a reputation as an expert thief back before her Red X days. Her transition from thief to hired killer had been so seamless it was almost elegant. In just over a month, she was working with some of the biggest names in Gotham's underground.
She'd worked damned hard for that but had never fully considered there would be others to replace her. Gritting her teeth in annoyance, Red X huffed, "I'll give you eight percent but I want information in return."
"Nine."
Red X sneered. "Eight."
A shit-eating grin spread across Alberto's face as he looked her dead in the face. "Alright. What information?"
"I want to talk to someone in the GCPD. Internal Affairs, if you can manage," She posed her demand as a challenge.
A beat of silence. Alberto raised his eyebrow, "Why?"
The hard roll of her eyes left her with the beginnings of a migraine. "I need information for another job." Obviously.
"For Black Mask?" He inquired. Red X couldn't help but be amused when she realized that he was nosey and had a large nose. He was like a Saturday morning cartoon.
"No," she admitted before falling into a lie. "And before you ask: I don't know who the client is so I couldn't tell you even if I knew."
"That's vague." He tisked. Clicking his tongue at her, Alberto smirked. "Yeah, alright. I'll get you in touch with Corrigan. He's just a cop but I think you'll find he knows a lot for a guy in his position. You know what I mean? I'll tell him I owe you one favor. Just the one. Deal?"
"Yeah. Deal." She agreed, happy to accept the money she could get. After they counted the money, Alberto watched her as she stuck the envelope of cash in her pant leg.
After sending her a text with the contact information he owed her, Alberto left. The obnoxious sounds of thugs grew louder as the door opened and then they were muffled again when it closed. After a minute of silence the man behind the chicken wire gathered and brought her things, laying them in a pile. Wrapped in her armored jacket were her supplies: cell phone, kneepads, Berretta 92FS, and twin hunting knives.
"That everything?" asked the man as she put on her jacket. Red X glanced at him but didn't answer as she gathered her things back into their holsters. When her phone buzzed, Red X casually pulled up the touch screen to her face before pausing in surprise. She cursed, nearly impressed, ignoring the questioning look from the man behind the porthole. When she examined the picture more closely, disgust churned her stomach. An unknown number had sent her a picture:
A black male in his mid-forties/early-fifties hung upside down by a thick cable strung to his ankle. He was nude, covered in lacerations of varying depth. His other leg hung limply to the side and his neck sported a rather messy Columbian necktie, as if he'd been alive and struggled. Beneath him was a substantial dark puddle. He'd died of blood loss. Slowly.
The picture was accompanied by a short message:
This used to be Dick Carron. Can you do better?
\~/
End Chapter Ten