Revy smiles at Rock. It's the same warm, inviting smile she gifted him with at the fair in Japan, and when he called her, "Captain Lee."
"Rock, I love you," she says, looking into his eyes. Her tone and the way she moves her head tell him she's serious.
He feels his breath catch in his throat.
"I have loved you for every day that I've known you. I wanna spend the rest of my life with you. I wanna eat with you. And drink with you. And sleep with you, and wake up next to you. I want you, Rock. I love you."
Rock can hardly believe his ears. She's saying everything he's hoped she would say ever since he confessed to her outside of Chang's office. He knows that she's never spoken to him this way before, but he's not wasting another second wondering how he's gotten so lucky. He reaches for her and she comes to him.
Her scent is… intoxicating.
She rounds perfectly into his arms. He places his hands on the small of her back, on the exposed skin between her tank top and cutoffs. He decides to be a bit bolder. He slips his thumb just under her top. No one else is allowed to touch her there. It's one more thing that only they share. She closes her eyes, tilts her head upwards, and offers him her lips. Her face fills his vision. She is so beautiful. Hard, and beautiful. Like a snow covered mountain top he longs to summit. He sees her coming closer and closer…
The buzzing of his cell phone jerks him out of his dream, his lips pressed passionately into the fabric of his pillow.
"Fuck," he hisses as he spits out the bitter tang the brief nap left between his teeth. He swallows. The back of his throat feels like a desert. He reaches for his phone.
"Hello?" he rasps.
"Rock!"
He starts. It's her.
"R-Revy?!" he breathes into the phone. "Wha-? Where are you?!"
As soon as she hears his voice she breathes a silent sigh of relief though her shoulders don't relax. So, the chalk outline on the floor of their apartment wasn't for him. If she didn't believe that sicko deity had ass-fucked and dumped all of humanity behind a dumpster years ago, she'd actually be thanking god right now.
"I'm at the apartment, and it looks like fucking Tarawa over here. Where the fuck are you?"
Rock rubs his face with his hand and closes an eye. He's barely conscious.
"Uh, I'm at the office," he replies.
"Bitchin'. Is the C.I.A. still after ya?"
"Yeah," he says without thinking. "But I don't understan-."
Revy clicks the cell phone shut and feels the killer within her roar to life. She'll dream up some bullshit to feed Rock later. Right now, she's got work to do.
Rock looks at the phone in surprise for a moment, then feels his shock turn to anger. Revy allowed the computer virus to compromise his security. That put Feng directly at risk. Her absence contributed to the deaths of three of his guards and nearly cost him his own life. She made a deal, and did not honor it. He calls back, but gets nothing but her rude voicemail message.
"Fuck you!" he screams in rage.
He looks frantically around the room. What was happening? Why had she called him? Where had she been all night? And why the questions now?
His eyes fall on the map of Roanapur hanging on his wall, and even in the dim light of the room he can still make out the little dot marking the location of the Ripoff Church. He feels his anger turn into a cold stone of fear and his heart begins to pound.
"No… " he breathes.
Rico dreams of holding Eda, and doing quite a bit more besides. Her long blond hair has always tempted him to break his priestly vows, and the miniskirts and halter tops she wears off duty never help. He'll pray for forgiveness for this sin in the morning, but for now he'll let his sleeping mind gorge itself on what he can't have while awake.
She leans back against the bar, legs slightly spread.
"Don't keep me waiting, big boy," she says, smiling coyly. Rico swallows. She beckons to him with her finger. "Give it to me like you mean it. Give it to your sis."
Rico's heart very nearly explodes. She's never let him call her that. Always just "sister." That formality has always kept him at arms length. But now the thing he wants more than anything on earth is coming closer and closer.
Suddenly, another patron starts pounding on the bar. Rico turns to reprimand him, but sees no one. Suddenly, he realizes the sound isn't in his dream.
He jerks awake and grits his teeth. The darkness that greets his eyes tells him it's well past the time for any Church business, religious or otherwise. He yearns for nothing more than to grab the maxim gun out of his closet and empty enough lead into the intruder to make him toxic, but that's not god's way.
He rolls out of bed. If he doesn't answer the door soon, Eda and Yolanda will be annoyed with him. As the youngest member of their team it's his job to answer the door after nightfall, among other less pleasant tasks. He reaches for his night-shirt in the closet, brushing past the dirty blue hoodie, fat suit, and hanging black aviator sunglasses he'd had to don only a few days before. He looks at the time. It's 5:34 a.m. His hand twitches for the machine gun resting against his closet wall, but he doesn't grab it. Instead the young apprentice of the Ripoff Church and CIA agent in training drags on his nightshirt and hurries to the door before scurrying out to the chapel. He crosses himself as he passes under the crucifix hanging above the altar. An advance for the sin that has consumed him all night.
The pounding on the door reverberates around the cavernous hall. Rico runs to the door as fast as he can. He prays it hasn't woken Yolanda.
"I'm coming! I'm coming!" he says in the loudest whisper he can muster, and the pounding on the door stops.
He flings open the chapel door.
"Hey! The Church is clo-."
Rico never finishes his sentence. A dark shape moves like shadow and points something at his chest just below his field of vision. He doesn't feel the three bullets from a custom Beretta 92 blow through his nightshirt and shatter his sternum, but he hears the sound. His last thoughts as he keels over face-first down the hard steps of the church is that he hopes Eda will be there soon.
Revy watches in smiling satisfaction as her bullets make Rico holier in death than he ever was in life. Was that poetry? A pun? Jesus, she'd been spending too much time around Rock. She needed to focus. She'd hoped it would be Eda or Yolanda answering the door, but she wasn't picky. As far as she's concerned, they all have to die. Even so, there's a good chance they've heard the gunshots.
She spits. Not out of disgust, but to get the acidic aftertaste of vomit out of her mouth. She'd puked out the window of the car before coming here. If she took any time to think, she might wonder why. She isn't nervous. She never is before a fight. But the time for thinking is over, and that's Rock's job anyway.
She moves.
She darts into the chapel low and fast. She knows that Yolanda, that old bitch, has a damned hand-cannon. But Revy hopes that she won't dare to use it within the walls of her precious Church. She scoots between the pews, heading for the dormitories. With any luck she might still catch them in bed. The sounds of running footsteps from a side door cause her to slide flat onto one of the pews. Lying on her belly, she hauls up her legs so whoever it is won't see her feet.
A side door opens. Two wanna-be holy men in black robes charge in holding AK's, looking for the source of the noise. They see the open door and rush for it. Revy lies and waits on her pew for their footsteps to pass, then she twists like a snake. Two shots in each back, two from each hand. Brilliant. She smiles as they fall.
She moves.
By the pale light of the full moon Balalaika carefully surveys the outline of Visconti Foods. It's the Italian bistro and grocery store that serves as a front for the headquarters of the Italian Mafia in Roanapur. From her rooftop vantage point on the other side of the street she recognizes the building and a few key details. It had been a little over a year since the gunships on loan from Saint Petersburg had ripped through Italian territory to clear a path for her to annihilate Chang and his 14K. Now, she and her boys have come back to finish the job.
Through binoculars in the pre-dawn hours she can see lights through the windows on the second floor. Rock's intel briefing indicated all of their force was in there, along with their leader, Ronnie the Jaws. He had been given that nickname because of the braces he wore. Killing him would mean the end of the Italian Mafia in Roanapur. The bosses in Palermo would run the numbers and most likely decide it wasn't worth the cost. He'd be the second boss they'd sent and lost here.
Balalaika smiles to herself. If she wasn't such a stickler for efficiency she might entertain herself by ripping those damn braces out of his mouth with a pair of pliers. She'd never liked him to begin with, and now he'd dared to threaten the lives of her men, among other lesser annoyances. Sadly, after this fight she'd likely not get the chance.
She scowls, shifting her focus around to other corners of the building, searching for some possible threat. Her men may have become less efficient in the year since they fought the Triads. The sheltering of their families inside headquarters had taken far longer than she'd wished. Starting at dark it had only been around 23:30 hours when the last family had scurried through the main doors with what small belongings they'd grabbed. Obstinate children have a way of distracting and delaying even the most disciplined soldier, she thinks exasperatedly. Even the early morning briefing, once a sacred ritual to kindle her men's fighting spirits before leading them to the charge, had been interrupted by one small half-Russian, half-Thai girl demanding her father pick her up. The soldier, red with embarrassment, had quickly scooped up the child and run from the room, but it had distracted her men from her usual fiery speech and broken up her rhythm.
It was also quite possible, Balalaika thinks with a touch of regret, that her men's old fighting spirit had simply diminished with time. Rock's peace had meant a greater profit and no casualties, but it also meant there were no opportunities to sharpen their skills. Controlled practice at the range and gym only got them so far. She wishes they had at least one small, solid skirmish, or a week of hard training in the desert, to remind them of their old combat effectiveness. Like it or not, a few of them may be slower than they once had been, and that could mean a few of the little girls sheltering back at headquarters would be losing their fathers tonight.
Still, Balalaika supposes that there's a silver lining to the year of peace: new motivation. The child that had interrupted her briefing may have been an annoyance, but it seemed to remind her men of what they were fighting for. Even as her company had looked away from her and the briefing maps spread across the walls, many of them had chuckled and cooed at the little girl. Even Balalaika had admitted to herself, despite her annoyance, that she was utterly adorable.
Yes, her men were family men now. Even those who had no children yet most likely had a wife or steady girlfriend waiting for them back at HQ. Balalaika could hardly blame them. No military discipline could overcome the basic human desire for love and companionship. After all, she herself bedded Chang at every opportunity.
The soldier to her right notices her smile.
"Kapitan?" he asks.
Her face snaps back to military rigidity.
"Corporal, status report!" she snaps.
"Contacts on the south and east entrances," the NCO responds. "Three on the south, two on the east."
Just as Rock's intel had warned.
"And the roof?"
"Two sentries. Both with rifles. They may also have grenades."
Balalaika trains her binoculars on the roof. Sure enough, two dark sentries are moving there with rifles in their hands. They'd have to go first. She reaches for the radio and the operator hands it to her.
"Sniper team one, sniper team two: we have two contacts on the roof. Do you confirm?"
"Affirmative," both snipers voices cackle over the radio.
"Team one, take the sentry on the south side. Team two, the north. Confirm commands."
"Confirmed," they both answer.
"Standby," she orders. She presses the receiver into her chest so as not to confuse them.
"Corporal, status of the assault teams," she commands the NCO next to her.
"All teams in position and ready to move on your mark," he reports.
Balalaika wishes, for at least the hundredth time since his passing, that Boris was there. Her old sergeant brought more than combat effectiveness to their operations. He'd been the friend that pulled her out of her post-Afghanistan depression. Even after all this time, Balalaika misses him dearly. But there's no use in bemoaning dead comrades now. She brings the receiver back to her mouth.
"All teams, commence operation!" she barks.
At that signal the sounds of multiple silenced sniper rifles all go off at once. RPG's fire a combination of frag and smoke grenades through the second story windows of their objective. Balalaika watches with a thrill of delight as several of the Italian sentries go down, and the building shakes with explosions. She sees two squads of her Black Guard emerge from the adjoining alleyways and charge the doors that are in her view. They flatten themselves against the wall. The lead man on the group she's watching pulls the pin on a grenade and tosses it in through a window. At that moment a big Italian barrels out, shotgun in hand, screaming obscenities at attackers he can't see. Balalaika watches with pride as her man sprays the idiot in the back before the grenade goes off and they all surge in.
She smiles.
"Still good soldiers after all this time," she thinks in satisfaction. Boris would be proud.
The convoy of black sedans pulls up in front of the warehouse detailed in Rock's briefing. No one would have been able to tell by looking from the outside, but this is the headquarters of the Colombian Cartel in Roanapur.
Chang lights a fresh cigarette and steps out of the center car. The rest of the Triad elite converge around him. His white scarf flutters like a flag in the early morning breeze. It'll be their battle standard during this fight. After today, he'll never have to set foot outside of his tower without it again.
He gazes up at the dark building before him. The Colombians, no doubt counting on discretion, have opted not to place sentries outside, but Rock's intel suggests there should be a few awake just inside the door. Rock also gave a few other details. Chang knows that this warehouse doesn't have a central hall, but is divided into dozens of different rooms and hallways. He and his men went over the sketches and pictures Rock provided before coming here. They all know, almost down to each step, which side rooms and hallways each of them will clear. Chang almost wishes for the days he delegated this sort of job to Two-Hands, but he doesn't mind stepping into the field every now and again. Besides, it might impress Fry-Face.
"Dai Lo," his lieutenant whispers next to him. "We've just received word from the other team. They're ready to move on your mark."
Chang takes one last deep draft of his cigarette and lets it fall to the ground. He draws his custom .22s. The clinking sounds of metal and plastic announce that the rest of the Triad have also prepped their weapons.
He smiles.
"Go."
He sprints for the front door, takes a running start, and kicks it in.
The two Columbian sentries look up stunned from their card game. The momentum of Chang's kick carries him into the building. He rolls, rights himself, and aims his guns at both of them. A headshot from each hand announces who the real winner here is. He ducks behind a support column as the rest of his forces stream in, spraying into the dim light. From the other side of the warehouse Chang hears an explosion that makes the whole building shake. It announces his second team have come to fuck the Columbians in the ass while he fucks them in the mouth.
He smiles and wheels down a side corridor. The inside of the warehouse is lit with lamps hanging from the ceiling. Chang hears a "ping" and sees a grenade bouncing towards him.
"Tap. Tap. Tap."
He smiles.
"Too easy," he thinks.
He strides patiently towards the grenade bouncing towards him, judging the distance carefully. At exactly the right moment he catches the grenade between the floor and his foot and kicks it back towards its owners. It gets around ten feet away from him before the Columbian sees it and shrieks. The weapon explodes in a deafening bang, and the man goes quiet forever.
He advances.
His arms are extended, wielding his ornate pistols. Any Columbians stupid or panicked enough to run into the hall are met with a Heavenly end. The rest of the Triad covers his back. As he advances from one open door to the next down the hall the Triads behind him enter the siderooms and snuff out any that might shoot him in the back.
He advances.
Some Colombian soldiers try the same stupid grenade trick again, and Chang pulls the same tactic. It's only too satisfying to turn their own weapons against them. Saves on his own ammo costs.
He advances.
A slightly smarter Columbian sticks his weapon out a side door. Chang ducks into a side room himself to avoid the gunfire. The Triads behind him unleash a hailstorm of bullets. The single Columbian can't match their firepower. After a few haphazard shots he draws back. Chang decides to clear this room himself, since he's already here.
He advances.
The Columbians are in disarray. There's automatic weapon fire and explosions everywhere in the building. The ones with the authority to give orders have no idea what's going on and the ones who've started to clue in are fighting for their lives. And then there's the dead, growing quickly in number. And every one that dies is one less who can fight back.
He advances.
Finally, he comes to the room that is his target. The swarm of Cartel soldiers outside it confirm this is where their leader, Abrego, sleeps. One of them shrieks in Spanish when they see him.
"Patron! Chang!"
Chang smiles and quickly pumps out multiple shots before they've even leveled their weapons. He ducks into another side room to avoid their retaliation. He quickly checks the corners and behind the door, but sees no one. From inside the doorway he trades shots with them for a few clips, before the rest of his forces catch up and begin raining hell on them with their autos.
Chang can hear Abrego screaming orders to his terrified men.
"¡Disparales! ¡Disparales!"
Chang smirks. He waits for a break in the fire, then lunges out of the room. He jumps just across the hallway to another room on the other side. In that brief window he empties both clips of his .22s at the Columbians. With the reflexes of an absolute master, he aims at their heads, eyes, and exposed hands. It's almost too easy.
Multiple screams. Abrego yells orders. His men empty their own guns in the direction of their enemies. Chang smiles at the thought of how he and Balalaika are going to celebrate when this is over. He probably won't be able to walk for a night.
Reloading his guns, he hears an opening and breaks for it. Advancing down the hallway. He fires his weapons with the controlled grace of a sniper and the rapidity of a machine gun.
Finally, he reaches the room. It's dark inside, but something is moving on the floor. Looking more closely, he sees Abrego. He checks the corners. Bodies on the floor, against the walls. He pumps single shots into each of them to make sure they're dead. When they don't move, he advances.
Abrego looks up at him one last time. He normally wears sunglasses at their meetings, so Chang doesn't usually see his eyes. But he can see them now, and they're terrified.
"Ple…" Abrego starts to rasp.
One shot and he goes quiet forever.
The engines of the Lagoon grumble to life as Dutch presses the button to wake them up. He supposes he can't blame them for their reluctance. It's been nearly a week since their last use and some grumbling is to be expected. He doesn't resent them. Hell, this boat's by far the most reliable business partner he's ever had.
He takes a deep draft of his cigarette and lets out a cloud of smoke. It's nice to be taking her out for a spin. He pulls slowly out of the dock and checks his instruments. Everything is running perfectly, even after a week. He can't help but feel a measure of pride.
He scans the horizon and finds his target: a large Junk anchored in the harbor. No mistaking it. All the regular fishermen have long since docked for the night and no tourist trips have started yet. It's the only ship in the harbor, apart from his own. There's no question in Dutch's mind that it is the base of the E.O. company specified in Rock's report.
There are other signs too, signs that wouldn't be noticed unless people were actually looking for them. The ship is entirely dark. No lights whatsoever. No fisherman would do that. If they were working, they'd have lights, and if they were resting, they'd be in port. Most likely there are sentries on watch, but they're using night vision goggles. Maintain perfect visibility without the need for visible lights. Moreover, it's clearly an old Junk. Dutch can see small rips in the sails. But now that he looks he sees modern inflatable motor boats at it's sides. Perfect vehicles for small teams to get into and out of town unnoticed.
Dutch takes another draft of his cigarette and turns the Lagoon out to sea. He'll get about a quarter mile out, then turn towards the Junk to start his run. Most likely their watches will be looking towards the city. Dutch would prefer a swig of Heiniken to calm his nerves, but he needs complete focus right now. If this shot misses, it may head towards the docks. Apart from the safety concerns, this one torpedo is costing Rock $20,000.
As he draws abreast of the giant rock containing the smiling Buddah, Dutch makes his move. He turns the Lagoon hard to port. A few seconds later and the dark outline of the Junk is cast perfectly against the lights of the city. It's long, starboard side is facing right at him. There's next to no chance that he'll miss.
He checks his radar.
400 yards. By now the Lagoon's engines are running like a dream. No movement from the Junk.
300 yards. He'll treat himself to that nice bottle of whiskey Rock gave him after this. A perfect celebration for this little job.
200 yards. The Junk is getting larger and larger in his window.
100 yards.
"Fire number three!" He barks to no one.
He pulls the necessary lever and feels the boat's center of gravity shift beneath his feet. The torpedo explodes out of its tube and towards the enemy ship. He turns hard to starboard. Then he sets the autopilot, swivels left in his chair, and pulls out his binoculars to watch the results.
There's the Junk, magnified about ten times. After a few seconds a massive column of water erupts out of the sea.
"BOOM!"
Dutch watches as the Junk breaks in half and bursts into flames. He disengages the autopilot and turns the Lagoon closer to the now flaming wreck. When he's about 20 meters from the debris field he cuts the engines. He clambers out of his seat and goes up on deck with some night vision goggles to check for survivors.
He gazes impassively at his handiwork. A flaming wreckage in the middle of the harbor. They're lucky it's so deep, otherwise other boats would have to avoid the wreck. There may be valuable weapons and other equipment to salvage. Maybe that'll be his and Revy's first job when she gets back from watching Rock.
As he scans the water he takes a moment to think. Maybe he'll invite Rock, Benny, and Revy to join him in that bottle of whiskey. It seems right somehow. After all, Rock first joined up with them after he helped them beat the E.O. company before, and in a strikingly similar way. Besides, he misses the days they'd drink to their successful jobs at the Flag.
Presently, he sees movement in the water. Two men are struggling in white foam. They start swimming towards his boat. Dutch draws his revolver and checks the ammo. He doesn't get Whitman fever like Revy, but he can only take one prisoner.
The forces of Hotel Moscow tear through the Italians like butter. The Mafia doesn't stand a chance. They're thugs and criminals, not soldiers. Some of them fight desperately, others try to surrender, or flee. Their fates are all the same. Hopefully, all that time in Church actually bought them a nice spot in heaven, but Balalaika has her doubts.
Within the space of fifteen minutes, it's over. She hears the last shots, then it's all quiet.
Her radio crackles to life.
"Kapitan!" the voice comes through.
She brings the receiver to her lips.
"Report," she orders.
"All quiet, awaiting your inspection."
"Casualties?"
She holds her breath.
"Two injured. No dead."
She breathes again.
"Sweep the building. Find the boss. We're coming down."
She hangs up.
She and her guard cross to the stairwell and descend to street level. They cross the road and enter the bistro. One of her men salutes as she approaches.
"Kapitan."
She returns the gesture.
Dead bodies litter the hallways. Telltale battle signs she knows all too well. Blood stains on the walls, pools on the floor. There are bullet holes and shell casings everywhere. Several doors hang off their hinges. She draws her weapon as a precaution, but doesn't expect it will be needed.
A corporal runs up and salutes her.
"Kapitan. The boss is upstairs."
Balalaika salutes back and nods. Her man leads the way. They climb a staircase and when they reach the top Balalaika sees another of her men standing beside an open doorway. Two dead mafiosi lie on either side of the floor. Through the door, Balalaika can see the walls of an ornately furnished room.
She enters.
Ronnie the Jaws is lying on his bed, a pistol limp in his hand. His eyes are rolled back into his skull, his mouth open. Balalaika can see the braces he's known for reflecting the light of his bed lamp. She approaches with her pistol on him. When she's about three feet away she sees it. The pillow under his head is soaked in blood and there's red splatter on his headboard. It doesn't take a genius to realize what happened. Ronnie woke up too late to do anything meaningful, so he took the easy way out.
Balalaika takes his gun and checks for a pulse. Ronnie might be a coward but he wasn't stupid. She was going to make sure there was no chance he was still alive. She feels the blood vessels in his neck. Nothing.
She draws back her hand and looks in disgust. She has no sympathy for a coward who would abandon his people. She turns to her men.
"Call the Cleaner," she orders. "Tell her we have a large order to fill."
After visiting her wounded she steps outside to allow herself a celebratory cigar. She can still hear distant gunfire elsewhere in the city. It's only now she allows herself to wonder how Chang is doing.
Chang checks the corners of another side room with his handguns, moving them independently, ready to bring death upon his enemies. It's been a few minutes since Abrego died. Now the Triads are engaged in that mundane task that follows the orgasm of victory: mopping up.
The room is some sort of barracks. Army-like bunk beds are arranged in rows with cabinets along the walls. Suddenly, movement. A cabinet door clicks shut. It had barely been open. If Chang hadn't been watching for any sign of movement he would've missed it. Too bad for whoever's trying to hide.
He levels his guns and pumps four shots of hot lead into the cabinet. He advances to the door. He means to ensure there's no wounded Columbian in there waiting to plug him or one of his boys in the back. Using the barrel of his gun, he pries and flings the door open, the other gun leveled at chest height. He sees nothing, but after a second he hears a slight gasp and whimper. He looks down.
There's a child there.
A ragged, filthy looking thing curled up into a ball. His dirty white shirt is stretched over his legs the way children sometimes do.
Chang catches his breath and points his gun skyward. No threat here. He turns to the Blue Lantern soldier behind him.
"You!" he barks. "Take this kid outside. See if he's… "
"Ping."
The sound makes Chang's heart stop. He knows that sound too well, and this time it was close. For a split second he searches the ground frantically, but sees nothing. Where could it be? Where did it come from? Where is it going? Is there someone else in the room who could have thrown it? With every passing second he knows what's coming, but he still can't see it.
"Tap… tap… tap… "
The sound and movement of the cabinet door slamming shut. Chang looks down in time to see the fresh grenade, sans pin, bump gently against his foot at least three seconds after the ping.
Sister Yolanda first learned the sounds of guns in Warsaw. There were lots of different kinds. The quick "Ratatatatat!" of a machine gun. The intermittent, "Pap! Pap! Pap!" of a rifle. The heavy "BOOM!" of artillery. The deceptively small "Pop. Pop. Pop." of pistols.
It was the last kind that took out her eye. She'd brought bread and wine for papa and his unit. The priest Philip thanked her, and they all had a little mass together in that cramped basement. She wasn't particularly religious then. Being an exotic dancer and sometimes more she'd had to compromise on some of her family's morals.
But she was a patriot to the core.
A wink and a smile could get a German officer in her bed for the night, and thirty minutes of drunken fumbling could give her everything he had. Maps, reports, letters, and any other documents were often worth many times their weight in gold, plus whatever she could hear from him. It was how they'd avoided the German searches and patrols, and occasionally how they procured guns, bullets, and other things they needed. Mama wasn't thrilled about her choice of career, but she could appreciate what it provided for their cause.
The real fight would begin tomorrow.
She ate the bread and drank the wine. It was nice. Ever since the Germans had invaded, food could be harder to find than bullets, even with what they took from the Jews. Now, with the Russians bearing down on them, the Germans were fighting for their lives and could hardly be bothered about the Poles. That gave them their chance.
Father Philip finished mass and Papa stood up. He'd fought the Germans for the Russians before, before Poland even existed. Now, he was leading his daughter into battle with his men. He said a lot of things, but she'd never forget his last words.
"Comrades!" he bellowed. "Tomorrow we take back our country!"
They all cheered, Yolanda included. For the first time in years, they were proud to be Poles.
Only, they didn't take back the county.
Things started out well enough at first. They took the Germans by surprise and killed a fair few of them. With the captured guns and bullets they killed a few more. But then the Germans started fighting back.
"It's ok," Papa told her after she helped him patch a man with a bullet in his shoulder. "Soon the Russians will come. They'll have airplanes and tanks. And then we'll kill the Germans together!" He said, smiling through broken teeth.
Only, the Russians never came.
They fought hard. Yolanda remembered bringing lots of bullets and bandages and desperate messages in those last few days, but the Russians never came, just more Germans. And then they came with machine guns, and artillery.
The big guns didn't care what they hit. They just fired and fired and fired.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Entire buildings and city blocks were reduced to ruins, and still there were no Russians. They fought on.
"Boom!"
Finally, on the last day, she delivered what she could to Papa. He was exhausted and dirty, but he smiled at her all the same.
"Thank you, Yolanda!" he panted as he took a swig of the canteen she brought him. "I could not ask for better help!"
She would never forget it, not ever.
But on the way back, she rounded a corner and ran into a German patrol. An officer in a peaked cap and swastika armband recognized her from an earlier tryst. In an instant, Yolanda realized that he knew what she was. He screamed in rage and raised his pistol. She remembered the black pinprick of his barrel.
"Pop!"
And then, everything went dark.
When she came to, she couldn't open her right eye. A lot of fluid was coming out of it. Blood and some other stuff she didn't recognize. With the one she had left she looked for Papa, or Mama, or anyone from Papa's unit. But she couldn't find them. Their house was a pile of sawdust and rubble, so was the whole block. She joined a group of nuns getting out of the city. They gave her a scrap of cloth and told her to cover the right side of her face. Her last view of her home was through her only remaining eye, but there wasn't much left to see.
She became a nun after that.
"pop. pop. pop."
She yawns and rolls over in her bed. She wishes the Germans would stop shooting. The war is over after all.
"Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!"
Yolanda's left eye flies open.
That was no luger she heard.
She rolls out of bed as fast as she can. She's over seventy, but she can still fight. Without even bothering to put on her eyepatch she grabs her golden Desert Eagle with the explosive rounds and flings herself out the door.
A dark shape in the hallway heading to the chapel.
"POP!"
Revy smiles as Yolanda goes down. Somehow, that little pink cloud where the nun's head used to be looks like a halo. Damn it! More fucking poetry?! Well, maybe she's earned it. One more bitch and her job is done. A door opens further down the hallway.
She moves.
She ducks right just in time. A two bullets whizz through the exact spot her head had just been and she recognizes the sound of a Glock 17L. Revy flattens herself against the wall just outside the hallway and laughs.
"That you Eda? Ya limp-wristed bitch?!"
Eda doesn't bother responding. From the darkness of her room she silently pulls the pin on a grenade and cooks it for a second.
"Give up and I'll make it easy on ya!" Revy taunts.
Somehow, the prospect of killing Eda invigorates Revy more than usual. Maybe it was the level of skill she knew Eda to have, or maybe it was just that she felt her betrayal extremely personally.
"Tap... Tap… Tap… "
Revy stiffens. She knows that sound. Does she try Chang's trick, or jump back?
"Tap… Tap… "
Thinking gets you killed, so Revy doesn't think. She jumps back, away from the entrance to the hallway and takes cover behind a pew. The grenade appears in the entrance way.
"BANG!"
Shrapnel, wood splinters, and dust. The pews closest to the hallway are scarred but are strong enough to absorb the hits. Revy swears.
Eda darts out of her room, her gun at the ready. She knows the score. Her extraction protocol can get her out of the city, but she has to take out Revy first. Near the entrance to the hallway Eda flattens herself against the wall. Counting on the near-darkness for cover she peeks into the chapel, looking for her target. Revy levels her two guns and pumps off a few shots. Eda responds in kind.
"Shame Romeo ain't here to see you die, Two-Hands!" Eda taunts.
Revy peeks over her pew, sees a flicker of the Nun's habit, and fires.
They trade shots between ducking and weaving, using the pews for cover. Normally, Revy was able to use her two guns to her advantage, but Eda has her number. Every time Revy thinks she has her nailed, Eda charges, or fires well enough to force Revy to give ground or dodge.
"Hey! Maybe you should email Romeo for help. He checks it pretty often, doesn't he?" Eda taunts.
Revy's temper flares.
"Shut up!" she yells.
They trade shots again. Revy tries not to let it get to her, but Eda keeps taunting her between reloads.
"Aww, don't be like that, Two-Hands. I'm kinda impressed you managed to last so long with him. I'da bet on you blowing his brains out years ago, just like ya did your old man!"
"Fuck you!" Revy roars, and fires again.
Eda laughs and ducks behind her pew.
"What'd your pops do wrong? You never mentioned at the orphanage. Did he pass ya 'round to his friends?!
"Fuck you!" Revy shrieks, her voice cracking from going so high. She's so angry she can't even think of a witty retort.
Eda laughs again, and Revy sees red.
Self-control was never one of her virtues.
And as the cunt of a nun rakes her over the coals, everything comes rushing back. The smell of burning gunpowder, the coppery taste of her old man's blood in the air.
The secret she'd kept buried, revealed for the world to see, laid bare.
Rebecca Lee wasn't used to being vulnerable.
And now Edith Blackwater was going to pay for that vulnerability in blood.
Thudding footsteps, and the memories fade, leaving only the gunfighter in their wake.
The bitch is moving.
They trade fire again. Eda tries to get to the body of one of the fallen priests. She could use his AK. But at the last second Revy realizes what she's doing. She leans out and fires, raking and savaging the bodies of her fallen victims, but they aren't her target. The AK she can see sparks and skitters across the floor under her bullets, the receiver dented and useless. Eda sees the damage done and snarls at her lost opportunity.
Then, she smiles again.
"Ya know what we did while you were gone? Bitch?" Eda bellows. "We sent some of our boys to his place. Yeah, that nice little apartment. We killed a bunch of his people and we almost got him. Now, how are you going to explain that, babysitter?"
Revy doesn't bother responding. She doesn't have an answer, just a depthless pool of anger. She does what she does best, bouncing rounds off of every solid surface, winging them wildly at this ruthless whore who's seconds left on this earth are numbered in the single digits.
The incoming starts again, muzzle flashes that may as well be spotlights burn away the dim light from the full moon that streams in through the stained-glass. The Church is alive with a symphony of gunshots.
Revy would have hated to admit it, but Eda was getting under her skin. Everything the nun was saying smashed her over the head like a baseball bat. Revy knew that Eda was just trying to make her mad, to make her sloppy, but she couldn't help herself. Her next wild shot might shut the bitch up for good.
Besides that, Eda fights with a discipline that Revy simply lacks. Whereas Revy sprays bullets whenever she sees the nun's habit, Eda is careful. She lines up her shots well, and often death misses Revy by a fraction of an inch. It's only Revy's instinct, honed with years of experience, that keeps her alive right now. Still, the combination of Eda's mind games and her prowess has Revy on edge. She has never wanted anyone dead as badly as she wants Eda, but part of her feels like it would be justice if she meets her end here as well.
They were friends, after all.
An empty mag hits the marble floor, a new one slides home, and she never breaks fire. Using the remaining three rounds in her partial to keep the bitch's head down, she works her reload like an artist. No-frills, just brutal efficiency as her freshly reloaded Beretta keeps the good work up.
Slide lock.
Mag out.
Mag in.
Slide forward.
Back in the game.
But she's running low.
Better kill the bitch quick then.
Suddenly, a few thumping steps from the entrance. For a brief moment Revy fears it might be reinforcements. More of the Nun's lackeys to finally finish the job…
But Rock comes skidding across the floor, firing a handgun in the direction of the imperious voice in the darkness, really laying on the trigger. All of her jabs about finding your rhythm and trigger reset must've stuck because the shots blend into one another so fast they might as well be one long ripping BANG!
Marble shatters, glass explodes, and he comes for her, firing the whole way even as he slides into cover.
"Rock!" Revy yells. Eda takes a shot but Rock ducks behind a heavy pew just in time. Revy unleashes a suppressing fire.
Eda laughs.
"Speak of the devil! We were just talking about you, Romeo! Hey! How's she fuck? Somethin' tells me she likes you on top!"
Revy's temper flares again.
"Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!"
Rock's shooting again. But while he may be smart, he's no gunslinger. He's firing blind in her general direction and his shots are flying wild. Still, Revy supposes it might help keep her head down.
She wheels and fires too.
"On the level, I'm so glad you could make it, Romeo!" Eda calls after a few more rounds. "Did you get our email?!"
Revy clenches her teeth and fires again.
"Heart goes where it wants, Rocky boy! I get that!" Eda yells again. "Tell me one thing though, god's own truth, in all that time you spent writing that nice letter, did she ever mention that she murdered her old man?!"
The nun's biting remark, the searing revelation, leaves the quiet between the three of them heavy. Revy feels her arms turn to creamed wheat in sausage casings. Her stomach feels like it's fallen through the floor. Now, Rock knew that she'd shown his letter to people who might use it against him. More importantly though, he'd know the worst thing she'd ever done.
In spite of every combat skill and instinct she possesses, Revy turns to look at her sometimes lover. Their eyes meet. Rock says nothing.
And then the fucking guy smiles.
Smiles!
It's that wonderful, warm, kind, loving smile that Revy wants to squeeze out of him with everything she has and keep it for herself, alone. He could just be playing the room, keeping her on the good foot to survive the fight. Or, maybe, just maybe things between them really are okay…
Hurried footsteps cut through the silence, snapping her out of her apprehension and back to the real world. She leans out and fires at a silhouette that grabs the other discarded AK and rolls into cover.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
The same AK pops over the pew and sprays heavy 7.62 rounds into their cover.
"Ratatatat!"
Thundering impacts chip wood and spark off hidden metal. They keep their heads down. Out of the corner of her eye he snaps the empty mag out of his piece, seats another one smoothly, and sends the slide home.
The rifle fire recedes and is quickly replaced by the tinier sound of a 9mm. Revy's finely tuned ear hears the slide locking back and the clatter of an empty mag.
They trade fire again for several seconds that feel to Rock like an eternity. He and Revy duck and weave between pews until they're backs are against the same one.
"You ok?" Rock pants.
"Yeah!" Revy answers. "Stay low and aim for what moves."
Rock nods. She leans out to fire…and hears the loudest click on earth. It registers but she's already moving. She drops the Cutlass and reaches for Rock to find the 1911 already held out, butt-first. He knows, of course he does, but those butterflies in her chest will have to wait.
She snatches the weapon, some small part of her is a little giddy at the warmth of the grip where his hand had been only a second earlier.
The big .45 echoes off the walls, heavy 230-grain rounds spark off Eda's cover.
And it hits Revy like a ton of bricks.
Every moment of levity, every game of cards, every late night where some infinitely small part of her might've called the nun a friend. It was all for this, to kill her and take what meant everything to her, even if she'd been too blind to see it at the time. New rage layers on the simmering hatred, turning the blaze into an inferno.
Click!
The .45 ran dry without fanfare, it simply was. Nevermind that it had killed them both.
"Shit!" she spits.
Rock's eyes go wide at the sound, and wider, before his hand dips and pulls out his wallet. Revy snarls. His bankroll was no good to them now. Then, he pulls something from the depths that glints dully in the low light.
It was the bullet. The same bullet he'd kept in his wallet as a good luck charm for years. The same one she'd given him.
Salvation… But so much more than that…
She snatches the Beretta from where it landed as he tosses the silver bullet across the gap. Her deft fingers pluck it from the air and slide it into the chamber. The slide snaps forward and she shoots Rock a look. Both guns in hand out of sheer habit.
"Wait!" he hisses.
He takes the other pistol from her hand, the one that's empty. It surprises Revy that she lets him take it so easily. He holds it over the pew in roughly Eda's direction, and clicks the trigger several times, firing nothing.
On the other side of the Chapel, Eda laughs and throws away the bullet-hole ridden habit. She knew Revy too well. Of course the bitch would be stupid enough to waste her bullets on that trick, especially after Eda got her all hot and bothered. Now, she could send both Revy and her annoying bitch-ass boyfriend straight to hell. The higher-ups would be thrilled.
She chucks away the empty AK and charges towards their pew. Revy doesn't shoot back. That's all the confirmation Eda needs. With a thrill that only impending victory can provide she leaps around the pew to face her opponents.
She sees the darkness of three pistol barrels staring back at her. For a split-second, she wonders where she should aim, and that's all the time that Revy needs.
"Pop! Pop!"
Two shots. Revy watches Eda's head jerk skyward. Her lurid pink sunglasses fall off of her face and clatter to the floor. They've been severed in two. Where they used to connect over the bridge of her nose a fresh bullet hole gapes wide open. Once again that nice pink cloud halos her head. Revy can see her piercing blue eyes staring up into the darkness, her mouth slightly open.
Then she crumples to the floor in a pool of black and white robes, jerks a few times, and lays quite still.
They were alive. Somehow, they were alive. Revy tries to breathe a sigh of relief, but it hurts to breathe. She looks down, and can see a small hole in her tank-top just over her right breast. As she looks, she sees a little trickle of red starting to flow. It darkens her already black top.
"Revy!"
Rock's voice sounds of panic. That panic annoys her. Doesn't he know she's already dead? She's been dead for years. So's he. It's one of the thing's he's just never learned about her, in all the years of knowing her. She grits her teeth in that annoyance. She leans back onto the ground, just like the corpse she's always been, and Rock helps her. Gently, he lays her flat on her back on the church floor and puts his hand on her wound.
"Just stay calm!" he pleads, desperation in his eyes.
Tons of footsteps, hurrying. Sirens and flashing lights outside. Roanapur's finest, just in time to be too late. They fan out around the Church with their guns drawn. But Revy only has eyes for him. She wishes he would smile again, just one last time. But he keeps yelling at her instead.
"Stay with me!" He yells. "Revy! Please stay with me!"
Revy smiles as darkness starts to obscure her vision. He actually gave a shit if she lived or died?
Ho-ly shit.
He's… just… so… fucking… cute…