A.N.: This was a bit rushed, so any typos (Thank you translate), or boring words are to be expected. Thanks for waiting though.
"A magnificent job, Lieutenant Avilov!"
"Really true to his name."
"Did you see him jump off the balcony and kill three with one shot?!"
"Timur!"
The young member of the Russian mafia roused himself, hitting twice his forehead with his palm. His partner looked at him, raising an eyebrow.
"Sleeping in the job again, eh? Luckily no one has come today."
"No, no, I was just… thinking."
The radio whispering a soft pop song brought him back slightly to reality.
"Oh yeah? Fuh, the temperature has risen too much these days ... "
In many ways. Attacks on their smaller operations centers were becoming more and more frequent. The help from the police had proven not to be much, counting the take of masked killers rumors.
Not even Petrov's cruel persuasion had found some kind of clue. For now, suspicion and mistrust dominated the business. Even the usual buyers got the cold and dirty treatment of mafia muscle.
The villa felt quieter than usual. On a normal day, some high shot would be celebrating some kind of unholy party, with all types of practices that would lead him straight to hell.
In any case, the two guards barely eyed Kelbidekov, as he left an errand for Timur at the reception desk, before swiftly going away escorted by three bodyguards, instead of the crowd of women that used to accompany him.
"Any news about the Klane building?"
"No calls to me, sleepyhead. The radio must've something, change the station."
Timur began turning the knob, until he found the well-known female voice.
"The Miami fire department had its reservations with their reports, so the law enforcement is expected to clarify this case of possible arson. In other news, today Tuesday..."
Before any comment could interrupt, the double doors to the villa opened. The son Lebedev rushed straight to the elevator, alone. The tanned member of the Russian mob, his usual companion, stood in the doorway, staying with the two guards who were still staring at the elevator shaft.
"Josef?"
"Our weapons stash..." The bald man lit a cigarette, dispelling some of the bad vibe left on the first floor. "Is gone."
"Every of them?"
"Yes, are you deaf or what? Go home and get some sleep. We need another supplier on our side. Today if possible."
"Oh. You mean us both?"
"Who else, Vlad? I didn't think a simple guard job was what you wished for when joining the brotherhood."
Timur's partner bit his lip, but nodded.
"Something else?" Timur asked from his seat, still not moving.
"No. Just make sure you're ready for the occasion."
"Got it."
Both guards put on their white jackets and headed out the door, leaving the one who gave the orders at the reception. Outside, there was an entire consort of the Russian mafia arriving. Timur didn't know most of them, but he greeted them with the slightest expression of his eyebrows.
None returned the salute as they all carried some kind of automatic firearm, ready for some kind of attack.
Timur and his work partner got into the latters' car, as the tree leaves around the mansion rustled to the cool breeze.
From time to time, Vladislav offered to take him to South Beach due to the relative proximity to Starfish Island. Neither of them hadn't even blinked during the night, but at least knowing they were so close to getting home could keep them awake for another ten minutes. Also, one of them was much of a light sleeper to fall anyway.
"First job, huh? Finally!" The driver's fingers briefly detached from the steering wheel.
"Does it really move you?" Timur looked at him strangely.
"Yes, uh, finally we can make more than the misery they pay, Tim!"
"Watch your back, Vlad. You know it's an ugly business ahead."
"I know. Good things never come for free. " His purple glasses glinted to a yellow lamp post light.
Passing most of the still flashing amber traffic lights, the car arrived in a few minutes at the building where the young member of the Russian mafia lived, parking behind a dark BMW.
"See you, then."
"Say hello to Karen for me,yes?"
"She'll ask me why her godfather is not visiting her, Timur."
"Could it be that she wishes for another expensive doll?"
"You know her well, hehe. Go get some rest."
"You too."
Timur closed the door and immediately removed his white jacket. The sky was already clearing, so there might be someone in the building awake. The most suspicious being his next door neighbor.
Trotting up the stairs two at a time, he reached his apartment and opened the door. A long Dragunov rifle held on a pair of hooks was his first and only salute every return home, beside the red star flag.
The initiation gift from him and coincidentally, the birthday one from the boss. He had a clear fondness for veterans of the war, although he hadn't shown any interest in promoting Timur from the pitiful guard duty.
None of his eventual female visitors asked about that huge weapon, or the photos, or the lack of chaos. But the ladies outdid themselves at their ephemeral job.
He left the white suit and the aquamarine shirt, stretched out on an armchair, in front of an empty television drawer, and then flopped onto his bed as soon as he got to his room.
Saving so much money for a second-hand car, just for the TV to break down. He counted on today's pay for other purposes than that.
A couple of firm knocks shook the wall behind his headboard. Timur rolled over. Every so often, his neighbor cooled his freaky anger with the innocent concrete construction, but with no results. Before he could realize it, his eyes closed on its own.
The closest store was two blocks away. With the recent overtiming at work, the meager free time he had wasn't enough to stock his little refrigerator, and if he started the bad habit of eating out, it was going to kick in, making it harder to cut expenses again.
His work uniform stared at him from where he had left it. Timur forced himself to look away and went back to grab a khaki jacket and brown beanie from his closet to get to the street, not forgetting the well-used wheelie bag he had kept since his arrival from Russia.
The sun couldn't light through the unusually thick clouds, though the sky was still blue.
The wind made a vain attempt to replace the artificial smoke, barely managing to shake the leaves of the long line of palm trees in the street.
A newstand marked the middle of the road. The young Russian stopped to look at the covers, most of them displaying the same.
"Burning Hell. Klane on fire. Another 'accident'?. "
"The Soon to be demolished Klane building burned down to ashes last night."
"Investigations are conducted into an arson situation."
"The police insist on no casualties caused by the fire. More information on page 4."
Timur took a little look at each newspaper.
It was probably for the best. No one other than the mob knew about that hidden cache of weapons, and they didn't need any more news of how the attacks were getting worse and more frequent.
However, another question popped up. How the hell did those bastards know where to attack? So much willing of a mad vigilante to put his life at stake?
He bought the first newspaper he looked at, and rolled it up. He wanted to see the product of a fully influenced press.
As he turned the corner, he passed a diner, whose windows allowed the reflection of anyone passing by on the sidewalk to be seen, only when its blinding neon lights didn't disturb the view.
No one who didn't know him could guess his Russian blood. He had even learned to hide his dialect from speaking, but that was the least of the problems. The scar on his eyelid, the only memory and vestige of the old soldier from Hawaii, under the command of Colonel Malyshev.
Timur wondered what happened to him. He was a good man. The disappointment in his superior's eyes to see him in the dire white suit, he didn't even wish to imagine. Quite a gopniki, still well dressed, the scum of Mother Russia. They sauntered here like nothing, proud of their power, but far from home.
He got to Mike's in a couple of minutes. The haggard and exhausted face of his neighbor greeted him, without a word, and forced an expression of welcome.
Timur waved his hand. Mark's war marks were many times more noticeable than his. Of course, everyone in the building knew of the record of the silent, and his supposed heroism on duty, deserving of respect, and fear. What was his achievement? Not dying?
Meh, better not to know. Not that he knew much anyway.
From the time he got to know him and his muteness, the only info Timur got outside the neighborhood is that he worked here.
The usual clientele did their shopping as well. Housewives of all ages strolled in and out, and he still couldn't decide what to buy. Bad idea not to use the pen and list.
"Excuse me, mister." A young woman tried to get to the fries Timur was deciding to buy.
"Excuse me, lady." Manners first, of course.
Anyway, dropping the products into the cart and regretting it later was always an option.
After a while, Timur dropped the last package of chips on the counter, while Mark was already checking the prices. Seeing the even groggier face of his neighbor, the former marksman decided to start a small talk, just to wake him up.
"Hey." Mark returned the gaze, continuing to add products to his cash register counting.
"Hey."
"How you doing with the TV?"
"I'm done with that."
"Seriously? Good, good." Timur was surprised. Last time Mark returned the fan as soon as he got it fixed, catching his pocket with just air.
There were tough weeks. Especially in those in which he sent money for his family back in the Motherland. The war had screwed up the whole place. Odd enough, that this one here, A-mu-rri-ca, despite having lost, seemed to have overcome it fast enough.
"It doesn't have a solution."
"What?"
"There isn't much I can fix. Even if I try, it will work for a few days, but just that, few days."
"Shit. Uh, so, how much do I owe you? "
"Nothing. I didn't do much."
"Oh, ok then."
"It's 48 with 72." Mark added, leaving the chips within reach of Timur.
Tonight's business was everything. Fifty dollars was nothing compared to the payoff of gaining new territory for the mob, if the salespeople were dumb enough. If not, maybe he had to go looking for another TV in garden sales.
"Here."
"Hm."
After counting the dollar and twenty eight cents in his possession, he left, rolling the heavy wheelie. If he was quick enough he could have lunch before noon, and clean any trace of rust on the old Makarova he held onto. The old reliable.
Mark closed the cash register as the last old man with a hat stepped away. He did his best to whisper thanks, but ended in a long yawn, held back for quite some time. Sleeping one of the last 48 wasn't recommended, at all, and without the routine.
"You look like shit." Alex pointed out a few hours ago before leaving, as she grabbed the cans of Mountain Dew from the counter.
He wanted to focus on her eyes as he saw her speak, but his mind took a gear wheel. Before Mark could be sure that Alex was the one whom he was talking to, and not some other mental and destructive alter ego, trying to imitate her, the little bell rang, watching her walking out the door.
Another day and a cup of coffee lost.
"Cheers." He toasted himself with the nearly empty cup of already cold espresso, the little bell ringing again.
The afternoon fell like clouds barely opening to give way to the orange rays of the luminous star. Timur already had his Makarov polished and ready. He didn't despise this one, despite his beloved staying back in Russia military depo.
He had only used it a couple of times, when the local gangs were still rebellious to the might of the bratva. The rival mob family at that time had an Italian ex-convict or something like as the head, whom he never knew of his name, or his fate.
He just... disappeared.
A phone ringing interrupted his mind flow. Putting the gun aside, he went to answer.
"Glaz. You're ready?"
"Where do you need me?"
"The job is in Bay Harbor. Don't move, we'll go pick you up. "
"What? No, no, I-I'll go on my own. "
"You sure? It's not a good idea to hang around there, especially now. "
"I will get to the villa as quickly as I can."
"No, we are already going there, decide now."
"..."
Obviously, entering a car with mobsters in white suits as passengers and driver would not be suspicious at all. Without counting himself.
"I'll wait for you outside."
Josef was right. That area was known for the presence of the Sharks, lowlifes who had managed to survive by smuggling weapons and drugs from the coast.
Strolling in with the suit and going for a lousy end wasn't in his plans. In fact, those gangsters could be the ones screwing the mafia on a grand scale.
Perhaps, peace wasn't an option from the beginning.
After a while, a silver four-door car pulled up to the side of the building. The copilot rolled down the window, examining the man with a beanie waiting on the sidewalk.
"What the hell are you wearing, boy? And what is the backpack for? "
"I'll change inside the car." Timur muttered, looking from side to side of the street.
"You're crazy." The copilot unlocked the rear seat, letting him in, while he removed his sunglasses.
Unlike the other three, Timur was the only one wearing a dark shirt, as opposed to the trademark aquamarine. For a brief second they looked at him from the corner of their eyes, and then the vehicle started up.
"Only two of us will go in." Josef pointed out, glancing at Timur, right next to him. "You, Glaz, will come with me. Leave your weapons in the car. I'm going in as your protector, so play along, will ya?"
"Understood." Timur had stopped buttoning his new shirt to get attention.
The beanie he still wore on his head discomforted him to an extent, but at least it served its purpose. Until he hopped in the car, certainly.
"Vlad, Aleks, if something happens, you're one phone call away from sweeping the dirt out of this filthy place. I trust you."
"Yes, boss."
Passing the North Beach Mall, the colorful graffiti-covered walls greeted the four Russians from the bridge.
Timur was now ready, with the clean white mob suit shining above the daylight. He wasn't nervous, in the very least.
All he had to do was enter a taken over slum, wearing the emblem of a rival gang, and apparently unarmed. Ah, how cute.
Carrying the Makarova was totally out of focus. If he was the VIP, and they detected a weapon, he was going to fuck everything up horribly, and only at the entrance. Maybe a small penknife? Easy to hide, silent...
"It's in that beige building on the right. You know what to do."
The car screeched to zero speed. Josef was out instantly, straightening his white jacket in the process. Timur stepped onto the sidewalk on his way out, just in front of a pair of slightly faded black bars. Two gang members with Uzi submachine guns slung over their shoulders came out, raising their eyebrows at the sight of them, along with their weapons.
"What the hell are two asshole ruskies doing here? This is Shark turf, you faggots!" One wearing a red headband exclaimed.
Josef half-raised his hands, and Timur followed suit.
"Aren't the Sharks interested in doing business like civil people?" We came to talk to Big Joel."
Timur managed to spot a security camera turning, to stop where he and Josef were standing. The red light blinked.
"And you think the boss wants to talk to you, scum? We should kill them right... "
A call beep was heard from the pocket of the other guard, making him pocket inside his shark printed vest, letting see a red tank top. While the other had his sights on Timur, right between his eyes, he answered.
"You got it, boss." This was the only thing he heard him say. He opened the gate on the right enough for both of them to enter.
The one with the red headband frisked them, finding Josef's gun.
"I am a bodyguard. It's normal for me to have one."
"Whatever, but you gotta leave it here, you ass." Answered the one with the shark-printed vest. "Follow me."
The interior had seen better days. The garden was completely burned and ruined, even ignoring the garbage on top of the grass. The beige paint had smoke marks all over the walls, plus some peel on the corners, out of age
They met many more gang members with the same clothing on the way.
Everyone looked at them suspiciously or with a simpler mock, throwing and catching a nickel.
Timur wouldn't be surprised if he and Josef were walking slowly to a trap.
Reaching the stairs, they noticed a collapsed part of the building, but it was used anyway, smelling strongly of marijuana in there.
The Sharks found themselves blocking out many parts of the place with their mere presence, but not being as threatening as three guards with Tec-9s in the middle of the third-floor hallway.
"The boss is waiting for you, ruskies." The shark vest guard extended his weapon toward the double doors behind the three of them, and headed back to the stairwell.
After the three stepped aside, and a hard hit on Timur's shoulder from one of them, Josef pushed open the door. His face kept poker-like throughout the journey.
The room looked entirely in contrast to the rest of the house. The paint seemed fresh, mint-condition couches, and a tiger rug, not really fitting, along with decoration and weirdly, bookcases. Timur didn't believe any of them would even read.
A set of tvs with blue images stood on the right of the room, showing the house hallways, and the entrance. It even had a couple of women besides the boss. adorning the room more earnestly.
Timur discretely raised an eyebrow. Until now, 'Big' stereotype had always been sturdy and fat, but this time it got broken. A man as big as the ones below waited for them behind a dark wooden table.
'Big Joel', would have gone unnoticed without the several gold rings on his hands, along with a necklace of silver chains, ending with a dollar. He could even merge with his subordinates.
"And what can a pair of unnamed Russians bring to my land that can peek my eye to?"
"We are interested in your weapons. We take it that you are still in control of the smuggling on this island."
"Oh? And you know we have buyers all over the country, right?"
"We can pay twice as much as any offer they can make."
"Oh, can you? I've heard you've lost a lot these last few days. "
"We wouldn't come here to speak bullshit, Big Joel." Josef briefly lost his nerves. "We came to negotiate. "
Timur watched everything distantly. The place felt smaller and cramped each second there. Instead of two Uzis, it was several Ak rifles that kept them on check at the time.
"So what else can you get me? I already have money."
"Truce. Or any position you want in the brotherhood. "
"Me? Inside your mafia? You're selling crap, Russian. Give me something I can use."
"What do you want?"
"What if you let me have my dust business in peace? For years those baldies have been a pain in the ass, not counting how many of my sellers got clocked without any remorse."
"Consider it done."
"Good, good! We're getting somewhere. But I almost forgot." Big Joel pulled a revolver from his drawer, pointing it at Josef instantly. "You guys killed my boys. I want your lives too."
"Eye for..." The revolver fell and crashed to the dark mahogany table, while the leader of the Sharks tried to remove a knife inserted in his throat, preventing him from breathing.
Josef automatically turned around, shoving one of the three gangsters guarding the door. The other two tried to shoot him, but only one succeeded, missing by several inches, before being hit by an astonishing forceful fist, removing a pair of teeth in the way.
The one left alone, with the jammed weapon, tried in vain to fight, ending up with the back of his head broken by Josef, after he jumped on top of him on the ground.
"I didn't expect it from you, but well done."
Timur nodded to him, just then to watch in horror how Josef destroyed the other two's skulls with a kick, one by one. He felt his head spin, leaning against a nearby wall to get his mind oxygenated again.
"I'm not up for this, Glaz, hurry!"
In less than a blink, he saw Josef walk out the door, one of the rifles in his hands. He didn't estimate how long he was dizzy there, but the gunshots were heard both distant and inches close at the same time. Again, the fight had started.
His consciousness got lost for a moment. One of his knees cushioned his total fall, despite the total disconnection of his muscle nerves. The air in his lungs no longer smelled of the drug vestiges that got used by now, but something else. Gunpowder.
Still not getting up, Timur eyed the three gang members. Blood was the least strange thing that came out of his corpses. He looked away when he reached the one with the cracked skull.
He couldn't imagine Josef's anger to get him to do that. Or maybe the adrenaline had hit him in an alarming way.
The two women who were with Big Joel had passed out next to him. They were unharmed.
"What in the fucking hell is going on?"
"Haven't you heard the bullets from Big Joel's office? Someone's onto us!"
Two pairs of footsteps were getting closer and closer to the room.
Timur was still empty-handed. The time between reaching any loose weapon, and receiving an unwanted visit differed greatly. Before making the confrontation possible, the Russian pushed through the double doors, with the force of training in his rookie days in the Spetsnaz.
Both gang members were thrown backwards, with one of them leaving a red trail in the air as he fell. Timur took a small jump to the one that had only received a weak blow, as he recovered almost instantly.
A couple of punches did the trick, knocking the gangster out. His knuckles hardened, his arms taking over his own impulses. With a third unnecessary blow and nose break, Timur sighed and forced himself to stand up. A Tec-9 lay nearby, scarred enough to be considered reliable.
However, he didn't want to risk it. With a little of the old knowledge from the rookie days, he detached the weapon from the magazine, dropping the small 9mm bullets to the ground, then tossing one part away from the other.
The gang member close nearby blinked, as he covered the bleeding from his mouth, and seeing the one in the white suit, standing up from his fallen partner, he reached for the pistol he carried a few seconds ago.
The weapon slid a couple of meters into the passage, with a painful gasp accompanying the sound. Timur tried to splash the red liquid waste off his knuckles, but it wasn't helpful at all. Perhaps that was why he never got to see a soldier fight empty-handed.
A well-placed bullet could make the job easier and neat.
The pistol was light and comfortable to the touch. Rather than disarming it, he kept it close, moving through the mixed sensations.
The silence in the environment got interrupted by an exchange of bullets on the lower floor. Timur instinctively took cover next to an armchair, which was free next to an empty glass table.
Beneath him, he still had an ally. Yet.
"Go! We must defend our crib from those sons of bitches! "
Three gang members emerged from a room near the stairwell, which was at the end of the passage. The former marksman stepped out of cover, raised the tiny sight of the small pistol to his shoulder, and fired twice without even shaking.
He would have managed to get the three under the Hawaiian sun.
The remaining gangster, the last of the row, returned fire with his wielding uzi chaotically, heading back to the room he came from.
Timur pushed open the nearest door, seeking shelter, his senses not detecting anyone inside. A single misdirected bullet and his mission down the drain.
Before he could even react, a weapon raised upon his face. One that trembled. Timur blinked twice.
Two unconscious gang members with red stains on their clothing were on the ground, and behind them a woman leaned against the wall, covering her bare chest with an arm.
Her makeup seemed from several days ago, and her eyes were almost entirely red, judging by the smell of the environment, and the syringes scattered on the floor.
His decision depended on microseconds. Some more, betting that the woman wasn't an easy trigger. Raising his hands could kill him. Attempting to shoot could kill him. Moving forward would kill him for sure. Backing up was not an option. He overheard rapid footsteps outside, diminished by the continued shooting downstairs.
"I am not going to hurt you." He moved slightly to the right, not approaching, as the weapon moved slightly with the woman's spasms of fear.
"Human beings, in fear, are like wild animals."
"Then get the fuck out, motherfucker! One more... "
The footsteps had already gotten close enough. Do or die.
"NOOOOOOOOO..."
Timur flopped to the side, just before a hail of bullets ripped through the wooden door. The woman fell to the side, her blood spilling all over the carpet.
The Russian blinked. He felt nothing but a vague pain in his left shoulder, but it meant he was still alive. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the door was full of holes, but he still couldn't see through it well.
Strangely, a couple of engine rattles didn't go unnoticed for his ear.
His pistol fire rate would be too slow to match an uzi, but he had another option at hand. A loose pipe.
"Do you think we got him?"
"Yeh, no one would survive that."
"Chuck, check if it's done."
At the first squeak of the door hinge, Timur kicked it open. One gang member flew off on contact, and the second one received a full blow to the head, breaking it on the spot. The third glared at him from a meter away.
He wore a dark hood, and with a maniacal grin, tightened the grip of the chainsaw in his hands, thundering the engine.
Timur, somewhat incredulous, but without losing momentum, advanced towards him. A pipe weighed much less than a chainsaw, by far.
The blow was so strong he could hear the hooded's neck break before he fell to the ground.
Before he could forget, the Russian backtracked to the first gang member, almost burying the pipe in his skull.
"No." he whispered.
He puffed, discarding the metal weapon, and, bending down, punched him in the face, knocking him unconscious. Faced with so much hustle, he didn't notice that the shootout downstairs had already ended.
With some faith, Josef had won the fight. Timur disarmed the weapons as fast as he could, immediately to take cover again.
There were still enemies on the floor. Maybe scared to go out, or totally drugged, judging by the turns they were taking around the rooms, but leaving them alive on their own was too risky.
Footsteps could be heard from the room where the uzi guy had been hiding. Well, just a couple. However, two voices were heard.
"Are you going to stand there until it's all over?"
"Didn't you see what he did to our guys?"
"And you can't sort shit out by yourself?"
"I came here to have fun, not to..."
"Fuck you. If you manage to get through this, I will kill you myself, remember that."
An obese gang member suddenly stormed out of the room and was instantly met by the Russian. Before giving him the opportunity to react, and aim with the Tec-9 in his hand, Timur already had his weapon ready.
The body fell heavily to the ground, tiny bleeding drops leaking from its forehead.
A small grunt of pain escaped the former marksman's lips, aiming with his gun again when he saw another leaving the room.
"Don't shoot! I give up." The gang member raised both hands, half a meter away from the fat corpse. His voice almost broke with a high pitch.
He had to be such an idiot to give himself at the mercy of a killer. Timur narrowed his eyes, and took aim. A pistol flew from the white suit to the red bandana. The lone gangster staggered, taking a few random steps and tripping over the nearby body.
Timur approached slowly, picked up his ground from the ground, and knocked him out with a blow of the handle.
Before going down, another barrage of shots was heard, this time from the first floor. A ray of hope. The pistol was still heavy enough to be considered loaded, enough to deal with possible survivors.
Only one dead gang member decorated the stairs. His eyes and mouth were still open, surprised to see four bullets heading to his demise.
Various bodies laid on the second floor. A tempest through, with the memory of an old Red Star soldier on the trail, deathly silence as a consequence.
Not. Two loud cracks knocked the floor from the room in the middle of the hall. It served as a kind of kitchen, although he had no doubts that white dust took part in its ingredients.
Both doors were open, the room being too large to have just one.
Upon entering, the walls showed the marks of the victims. Josef didn't make out who he was murdering. Two women, no longer breathing, and wide-eyed, perhaps appreciating a future they had never been destined for.
Next to the refrigerator, the unpleasant show began. An obese gang member had his entire abdomen destroyed, with the contents falling outwards. A shotgun was nearby, innocently resting on the dining room table.
"Ugh ..." A gang member coughed, Timur automatically raising the gun towards the noise.
Three holes in his chest and two in his abdomen. Doom.
"So you are the ones, right? The Russian mafia. At least I was lucky enough to see my killer right in the eyes."
"I didn't shoot you."
"Still. You could finish it. "
"I am not."
"And, augh, and do you think that makes you less of a scum? You're still a bastard."
"..."
"What are you waiting for?" A slight movement was heard behind him.
Timur diverted his gun and took aim at a suddenly moving body, pulling the trigger. A post-death spasm escaped from his leg after the clean shot to the head.
The Russian returned his gaze to the bleeding gang member. He let out a smile, both corners dropping red stains, before taking one last breath.
The bullets had stopped again. Time wasn't a resource to lose, so he hurried to the first floor. Steps in there were too much to calculate, just from hearing without any focus.
He couldn't ignore the risk, so peeking out of the question, he waited in place to spot any careless enemy.
"Weren't they two?"
"We've only seen one, the other guys must've wasted the other."
"And the shots above are nothing? Go and check out the stairs! " Timur heard an inhale. "YOU WILL NOT LEAVE HERE, YOU SONS OF BITCHES! YOU HEARD ME?"
Two pairs of steps approached the stairwell. Because of their speed, they weren't ready for Timur's location. Peace really was never an option.
The first shot went straight to the head, the second dropped to the other's chest. The huge red tinge on the Russian's white suit had already started to hurt. Gritting his teeth, he raised the gun again, pushing the second Shark with a forehead shot, as his legs still had strength to stand.
Both bodies ended up rolling to the first floor.
Silence, broken by in and outs of oxygen. Timur leaned against the wall, trying to hear something, even the least intel gathering.
Four gang members muttered, along the heavy breaths on the way out. They weren't walking, so it was possible that they were crouched, waiting for some movement. Maybe that has locked up Josef, who was still alive.
"Shit! They hit Steve! "
"He's dead! Don't go!"
"Down!"
A burst of five shots passed in milliseconds from one end of the corridor to the other, finding nothing but concrete and wood. Timur, without understanding much, stayed in his place. He couldn't get out anyway.
Again, after a few seconds, another burst flew.
"Watch out!"
The third time, he remembered what suppressing fire was. Crossing from one side of the passage to the other, he pushed another room open, encountering two gang members with knife and uzi, respectively.
Both, not ready for the confrontation, fell before even trying to up their weapons.
"I'll go get him. Don't let the other get away. " The engine of a chainsaw rattled.
Timur assumed that he would enter through the other door of the room, being identical to the one on the second floor, but he didn't expect him to do it so boldly, knowing that he wielded a gun.
The hood was the same. His posture was the same, but he didn't expect him to dodge the direct shot to the head with a simple crouch, and stand up almost immediately with such a blade in possession.
He dashed his way through the decadent mini-bar and lounge, ignoring most of the obstacles, until he reached the pool table, where Timur waited. At a close range, the Russian tried again, expending three more bullets.
Not a single scratch, with the exception of the parquet floor caused by the three exaggerated dodges. With each form of death evaded, his maniacal grin increased further, taking away his victim's options.
The white suit was slightly losing patience. He had no idea how to kill this enemy, having accidentally done it upstairs. A pipe, did he need a longer gun?
He needed to think of something else. His death was approaching like a karma kick if he didn't find a different solution. His pupils ended up in several bottles on the bar.
The gang member noticed his intentions and blocked the ways to it with his mere presence. Timur wasn't going to be able to get by without getting a clean cut. The two of them looked at each other from a distance, one on either side of the pool table, ready to react to the other's action.
The russian decided to move towards the lounge, raising his gun. The hooded man was now ready to crouch down, so he slightly released his grip on the chainsaw. The Russian squeezed the handle of his gun, and started firing one-handed, madly, passing right beside him.
Until the click of the unloaded weapon sounded, the white suit was already some distance from him, reaching the bar first. The hooded man, realizing that nothing stopped him now, sprinted towards the Russian, who already had a bottle with a broken base.
Twenty pounds to a few grams. The same goal. Only one winner.
The chainsaw dropped flat to the ground, jamming to the wooden floor. The hooded gang member tried to cover the bleeding in his throat with his hands, unsuccessfully and pointlessly.
The Russian breathed, looking down at himself. His white suit, splattered red and black with dirt, was still on him. Representing the mafia. The bottle was still in his right hand, with an iron grip. His entire right sleeve was already red. A simple washing machine wouldn't fix that.
The bullets could no longer be heard outside. Instead, the door where he entered opened gently. He readied up to throw the bottle, but saw an allied white suit going by. Strangely, his color was intact, except for his shoes.
"Seems like the boss wasn't wrong about you."
Timur dropped the bottle, and sat on a nearby stool, holding his left arm, trying to comfort the pain that had already spread throughout his limb.
"We aren't done yet." Josef handed Timur a pistol, identical to the one he already had, but empty.
"I could use a drink."
"The boss will be happy to share one with us if we can get out of here."
"Did the boss know this would happen?"
"It would be foolish to think not. That is why he sent us. Remember, for our Great Motherland."
Timur leaned on his good arm, and took the gun. His left arm was no longer available, but a bullet to his chest could do the same job as one to the head.
"You have to expect the unexpected." Timur commented almost in a whisper. "Do you remember Malyshev?"
"Huh. It has been so long."
They both laughed. Three years seemed to have consumed decades of the soldiers' faces. Without taking much reminiscence, they both left the bar, reaching the door. The shots were heard clearly on the street.
"We finish this, now." Timur saw Josef come out, listening to the uzi as soon as the daylight shone on his bald head.
Barely controlling the pain stab with a bite to his lip, he yanked on the gun's slide and followed his white-suit companion, hoping to get it all done for good.
The afternoon wasn't looking great, like the Miami cliche sold out. Mark had just left the store to Mike, and he had no plans, neither the beach with so many clouds covering the sun. The pink effect looked beautiful in the haze though, without the need for artificial neon.
Sleeping was out of his mind, for the simple fact that it was useless to try.
"Maybe you need female contact to help you. Hey, hey, don't trip, it's just an idea."
Jordan might have a point, but paying for it was still off limits.
He couldn't deny that he tried, but certain consequences of it terrified him.
However, perhaps those ladies were used to dealing with people even worse than him, knowing some and unaware by a lot of the limitlessness of human psychology on the streets.
Mark thanked the waitress of the diner for the coffee, and went out with the hot cup to the street. The breeze greeted him by gently blowing his hair and sleeves, with a simple way to cool off the coffee.
A driver of a gleamy pickup truck next to his car listened to the news radio, with high volume, if not maxed out. Reaching the hood of his car, Mark sat, smelling the coffee, hoping the voice would continue to report on the Miami Dolphins and their one-point loss to the Chicago Bears.
"Wha ...? Ok, we got some breaking news from our first responder team, led by Kyle Brenner. You're on Kyle."
"Thank you, Eddie. I am at the bridge leading to Bay Harbor Islands, where a shootout between gangs had just occurred. This, being the third within the past weeks, confirms that we are in the middle of a war for criminal power. Many casualties were witnessed by the bystanders, who are still being evacuated from their homes inside the isle. For our listeners, we advise you take any alternative routes from Broad Causeway, as police had lined up the entire place.
Miami's been the hornet nest of gangs' bloodshed for the past weeks, being this the worst until now. Take care when going out, this row of violence has no signs of ending. This is Kyle Brenner, FBC news."
Mark frowned at the memory he was trying to suppress. He hadn't been wise to hear what he didn't want to, even though he wasn't guilty this time. Close to causing a first degree burn on his tongue, he sipped half the coffee, just to wake up and shake off the headache that he had come up with at random. Or just relocate it.
"Kinda fucks the mood to hear pure bad news, right? I'd better change it."
The driver's little chuckle made him open Mark's eyes briefly, before he switched to another station, started the car, and drove off, vibing to the rock.
The world was still busy around him. Nobody seemed to react to everything that happened. The bitterness in his mouth subtly reminded him of the explosions and gunshots.
Being attentive at all times wasn't their thing.
"They don't just wait for you with cups of milk and cookies."
Waking up and breathing the first wave of oxygen, hoping to go back to sleep in one piece that night. If sleeping was available.
Mark looked at his coffee. The luck of dying and wanting to do so were only granted to some.
At least he wasn't like Jordan, that certainly was. Mark might not sleep, but he could do whatever he wanted. Instead, Jordan had to help on that case in Bay Harbor, maybe even as a field agent. Detectives were still cops after all.
Mark sipped what was left of the caffeine, and hopped to discard the cup in a nearby trash can. Thinking of many things, his avoid instinct reacted belatedly, briefly bumping into a girl in a green sweatshirt.
Far from her being weak, she felt like hitting a wall, contrasting her thin build. He could barely keep his balance.
"Hey, watch where you're going." Her low voice went well with her long black hair, and her white complexion with a blank expression. Similar to Alex's.
The ex-soldier stepped aside from her and she passed by, letting out a slight snort of boredom as she adjusted the heavy backpack on her back.
Mark narrowed his eyes, suspecting that he had understood another pattern of finding other veterans. Without much thought, since that had caused him to crash in the first place, he discarded the cup and returned to the car.
With the Nightride beats, an idea came up. Since he came to Miami, he had never had the pleasure of going to the Bloodring, at Hyman Memorial Stadium.
Although the idea of going alone wasn't the best, just as he'd rather went to the VHS Palace than going to the movies. There was no point in going to those places alone. Or at least for him. His first girlfriend left him traumatized for the rest of life, apparently.
However, he was already on his way Downtown, so something had to come up with him. Taking a few turns, and getting back? That was what he did every day.
Reaching the long line of palm trees from Starfish Island, he turned right. Many people, busy or unemployed, moody or happy in life, on a march for an uncertain destiny.
Without going too far, he made a U-turn and parked outside a pharmacy, neighboring a garage of the Pay 'n' Spray line, famous for using secret maintenance techniques for the modest price of $ 1000, and making almost instantaneous fixes for any kind of car.
Another mechanic workshop was next door, but empty and with several car bodywork parts as a showcase to attract customers.
Ambulances came and went, disrupting traffic, right in the direction of Bay Harbor. Mark stepped out of his car and walked to buy his pills prescribed by the doctor, despite the fact that he only took them every time he remembered.
He noticed his scar being judged for the umpteenth time. Unexplored place before, so it was to be expected. As he paid the bearded man the exact coins, he heard the screeching of tires against the asphalt.
A silver car, with several dents and holes in the paint, after making a reckless skid, entered through the small garage of the Pay 'n' Spray. It would not be surprising if a headlight had broken as the door slowly closed.
Mark and the pharmacy clerk looked at each other, until the latter only shrugged. The ex-soldier took his pills and left.
Curious, inside the BMW, he stared at the garage doors, waiting for them to come out.
Ten minutes later, a light blue colored car pulled out, with the driver and three passengers inside. No scratches, nor anything that could point it for being used as an escape vehicle. Without much hurry, it stopped at a red light, and then turned, at moderate speed, to Starfish Island.
One of the passengers looked familiar to him, but as he leaned against the nearest window, Mark couldn't get him well, and all the sight ended up on the bald man with the tan complexion. Hee had crossed paths with him several times in these few days.
Unintentionally witnessing another illegal operation in Miami.
Mark started the car, and drove to Ammu-nation. Another place worthy of being accompanied, but less mandatory than the others. Distant sirens denoted closeness to the crime scene.
Shoot for a hundred points. Shoot to kill someone. Different somewhere? Maybe.
A couple laughed two booths away from him. Would Alex like to shoot? Maybe instead of coffee he could bring her here. Even a scarred man could dream.
His aim could be sharpened even more. It had never been his job to do it anyway, but necessary, yes, it had been.
The hour and the bullet cases flew by like fun and dopamine flowing through his body. Mark left the beretta in the booth, removed his headphones, and went out, where the clerk in the red jacket smiled at him.
"Come again soon!" A big black R with a star stood out on his chest.
He wasn't used to being smiled at random, so he stopped, and nodded before leaving.
The way back home went as normal as possible. The yellow lights of the lampposts, plus the slow dance of the palm trees with the afternoon breeze falling into the night ensured a nice view.
With traffic stopped on one side, Starfish Island got crowded in no time, so going over the Normandy Shores Bridge seemed like the most convenient thing to do. He was wrong. A long line of cars, and just a blue Corolla behind him, doomed him to wait.
Half an hour later, he managed to get off the bridge, finally reaching the red light before Malibu club block, the most exclusive and elite nightlife venue in all of Miami Beach.
Unable to do anything else, he resigned himself to looking at the surrounding establishments. Jewelry stores, fairly secured, marked the place, followed by a two-story gymnasium.
His eyes traced little sparkles in a circular shape, as he saw what he wanted to see.
Alex watched over a couple of old ladies trying to bench-press. Her impassive face didn't break in this situation, briefly changing to false concern when one of the women couldn't lift the weight off herself.
Mark blinked. She looked totally different with clothes so tight. Her biceps formed in a spectacular way when she helped the lady, then returned to their slim status when she left the dumbbell in its place.
The ponytail had a different style than usual, without covering her face. The dark circles below her eyes were still noticeable, but nothing worrisome, like Mark himself. Her chest and derriere, generously marked, attracted every bit of attention from his sight.
Out of sudden, she tensed her shoulders and turned, facing the gym entrance. Mark didn't even try to avoid her gaze, and just blinked again.
In that short span of time, another girl got in the way. She wore the green Miami Dolphins jacket and her hands were in her pockets, pulling one of hers out to wave in greeting. Almost off centering his seat, Mark moved in his limited space to get a better view.
"Don't worry, I'll wait. And get washed, you stink." The black haired girl voiced.
He could see nothing but blonde hair agitating as it approached, before a high-pitched honk cut him off. Shifting to second, and swapping between looking to the left and forward, his exhausted eyes managed to see directly into her greens.
Without still being able to ask for the damn coffee yet, he returned home and tried to rest.
Arbour - Pine / DataDrive - Hellrider