"Welcome to the Sunshine State, where the women are gold-takers, and men are crooks."
"Dumb Florida moron."
"Don't just exist, Mark. Live! For your own sake, and for me, if I meant to you something. "
"What the fuck was in that canister, Smoke?!"
"En su mundo, mujeres, fumada y caña..."
Sleeping at work's easiness couldn't be compared to the one of his own bed. Even having already recovered certain hours so half of his face weren't taken by the biggest eye rings, the hard store counter seemed more welcoming than a pillow.
Mark didn't understand much of Spanish, but the lively vibe of salsa blended well with the atmosphere, as result from the gentle rays of the sun. Radio Espantoso had its moments, huh?
His upper body ended in a shook, trying to stimulate the blood flow in his veins. The weariness could also be caused by his recent meal, courtesy of Jordan. At least the delivery.
The sum of the diner's food marked in the ticket passed to other's hand, with Mark's raised eyebrow, and slightly tilting his head to the right.
"Don't bother. You know what's going on and those bastards are really getting on my nerves. Anyway, I don't have much time. See you around. "
"Then we can go for a drink tonight."
"What? Ah-Are you for real? You know it's been a few days since the last one, aye? "
"Yes, but I guess I can take some change once in a while. A wild Thursday. "
"Mind the phone, then. Laters. " Jordan smirked briefly, his smile vanishing as the store's door closed.
Anyway, it was already a wild day since morning. At this time of a normal Thursday he would just be getting ready to work, instead of already being in the last hours of his shift. And not seeing Alex either.
His mind had her settled as a sad girl by now, bored with life and with a slight addiction to caffeine, like him, without expecting such abrupt change.
Coffee's bitter taste had something to do with not letting the doze off. Even a bit. A little discomfort into the mouth to remain alert to the slightest vibration of the bell.
"You sure? Better try to get some rest, son. You even scare me with that looks."
Mark smiled briefly at Mike as he waved goodbye. He had been worse.
"I'll see you in the afternoon."
The calm morning went on. Few clients, the occasional Russian immigrant, an angry old man who was in a hurry for no reason, and a group of young girls whom Mark deduced they had skipped classes to go to the beach, the three of them carrying backpacks, without looking like tourists. and carrying a large watermelon.
Cliché he hadn't seen until now in all his years in Miami.
Not falling into their nonexistent attractiveness, nor their taunt inference to his sexual orientation, Mark only sold them sodas and snacks, without a single drop of alcohol due to the refusal of the IDs.
"Fun isn't a word for you. Hope your bitch dumps you, asshole. " The firstly clingy girl threw him a bunch of coins, spilling them around the counter.
Mark stayed on place, his bloodshot eyes following their steps.
Not the first, not the last. The weird part was, none of this lovely customers have been Russians. Until now that is, and of course excluding such with criminal record.
"Hey, you." The four pairs of eyes inside the store turned to a plump guy, just in the middle, pushing a cart filled with bags of chips. "Beats me if you're blind or dumbfucks, but that dude's a vet. Don't push your luck, for real. "
"What the hell do you know, creep? A simple graze and his ass'll be thrown in jail fo…"
"Enough to say that cops' re just outside. " He scratched his black T-shirt, wiping away some chips leftovers. "Daddy wouldn't be happy on his daughter bitching around and not in school, ain't him?"
A siren's loud announce resounded across the street. Of course it wasn't for them, but some legs shook inside Mike's store.
"Pay your shit or get lost, please." Mark's voice got out as harsh as it could get, startling everyone in the room.
The most shy-looking of the three, even wearing jeans and a hoodie instead of the tiny variant of shorts and tops the other two wore, put three tens on the counter.
"Keep the change. Let's scram. "
Twenty-four cents to the clerk. Hooray. He rested his eyes for two seconds, and took a sip of his coffee, as the bell ringed.
"So you aren't technically a mute. Huh. You learn something every day. "
Mark tensed his lips brevely. He didn't know the guy, only having seen him two times before, plus his looks didn't inspire trust either, judging from the creepy smile he sported.
Probably the same went on with anyone's face marked with a big scar.
"Yes." Mark's harsh voice died, replace by his dull one.
"One liners? Oh ok, got it. No probs, Mark. Here."
The counter soon got stuffed with fast-making meals, salty snacks, and various types of greasy food.
"I just wanna know one thing, though. Where did you serve, soldier? You look way too young for 'Nam."
The question instantly struck an itch on his eyelid. Anyway, with a short sigh, and knowing that following his talk would probably set his way out even quicker, Mark answered.
"Honolulu. C Company, Weapon management squad. "
"Woo, you got to see action then! Cheers for your fight, fella. Shame politicians are such pussies, but I feel something's gonna happen to the Russian scum. Those attacks, I think they mean something to all of us, y'know? "
Mark blinked. Probably turning Miami into a warfare? Yeah, how nice.
"It's twenty-three with twenty-eight."
"Mind if I take some of these nickels?" The fat man asked with a grin, his eyes on the floor, briefly changing to Mark.
The former soldier shrugged, bagging the fat's stuff. Loose money wasn't his cup of tea.
Ignoring his round shape, the man quickly retrieved four of those coins, the rest having fallen behind the counter. The amazing anticlimatic speed made Mark instinctively back up a little.
"Here's fifty aaaand… twenty-three. See ya around, soldier! "
Mark nodded, battling himself to give change or not. In any case, the bell answered for the fat guy.
Few minutes passed. The clerk swept inside the store, peacefully along the tunes of Radio Espantoso. The bad vibe somehow kept itself inside, but nothing like a firm hand and a factory new broom to brush it away.
Counting the two coins I have found behind the counter, plus his winnings... it didn't reach the dollar. Perhaps grabbing a not-really-payed cigarette hadn't been the plan for today.
As the dustpan and broom clashed, his steps gradually became one with the rhythm. His mind just didn't let her go. Dancing at a party, like old times...
Of course his clumsy dance steps would be nothing compared to hers, yet a broom made just fine as partner. As he closed his eyes just to mesmerize how to move without stepping on the broom's fictional feet, his brain abruptly ended his show.
"Hey."
Dancing in front of a glass door, terrific. Cold blood rushed to his back and thighs, as he saw a blonde and black-haired girl approaching Mike's.
"Holy crap." Mark jumped between the trash can, the bathroom and counter in the course of five seconds, just before the two arrived.
The black-haired girl entered first. She still wore the Miami Dolphins' jacket, and her hair combed, but just enough for it to not cover her face. With a simple eyebrow upping to Mark as a greet, she made her way to refreshments.
The former soldier barely payed her attention, praying to every god, that they didn't see him.
In a blink of an eye, as he made his prayers, Alex positioned herself on the other side of the counter. Mark's hands trembled a bit, so he chose to join them together, trying to lean some of his weight and tension over the hard surface, once soft as a pillow.
The blonde did the same, but leaning even more, her hands barely an inch from his. Her green eyes and lips haven't been, ever, that close. That dangerously.
Mark, with a raising heartbeat, quickly backed up, blinking. His tired eyes weren't fooling him, were they?
Her pupils followed his trail, looking him upwards now, eyelids partially closed.
"Ah, Alex?" The black-haired girl voiced. "How's your addiction to Mountain Dew?"
"The same. Take some for me, yeah?" Her face remained unfazed, examining him.
"Okay, I guess I can take one for me too. For breakfast, hm…"
The former soldier was running out of options to where to aim his sight to. Returning her penetrating gaze back would get him freezed right on the spot, and the other clear option was eyeing her cleavage. A bless and a curse.
Her greens won the fight. His browns kept steady, as he put the most serious face he could, betrayed by the sudden gather of blood on his cheeks.
Alex hardly even changed her expression of dead examination, with some puffs here and there.
Mark could just only hope no one entered the store that moment.
"Want some bread too? Calories aren't that bad, Al… Uh…" The black haired girl popped out of nowhere, behind Alex. "I… didn't know."
"Know what?" The blonde put a hand under her chin, her view still fixed on Mark's eyes.
"That you and…"
"It's nothing, Corey." Alex swiftly turned to her friend. "I just wanted to check something. You got… bread?"
"I need to eat to live, I remind you. Fancy something else?"
"I'm good. Ready?"
"Yeah, I think. Wait, isn't that…?"
Alex slowly frowned as Corey crossed her arms, the latter trying to catch which lost image tickled her brains.
"Hm…" Eyes closed helped, it seemed.
The Mountain Dew cans and bread went quick enough through the cash register, though both buyers barely minded them.
"So, what did you get?" The blonde asked, Mark seeing her ponytail swing with her words.
"Nada. I think I mismatched memories. Anyways, how much is it?"
Mark showed them the ticket, his robotic moves making Alex smirk a bit, as she turned to him.
"How many guys with scars do you know, Rollie?"
"That nickname again." Corey rolled her eyes and picked two bills from her jacket's pocket. "Here."
The former robot, now made Speedy Gonzalez, exchanged it for one and some coins. He probably just gave them his "not a dollar win" but he didn't care, as sweat started to drip to his face.
"Oh, now that I remember, I need a chocolate bar. Go fetch me one, can you?"
"Can't you do it yourself?"
Alex returned her gaze to Corey, squinting at her friend out of discomfort. In the meantime, Mark crouched, grabbed a handkerchief from under the counter, and wiped his forehead, alike with Speedy's swiftness.
"Fine. Any brand on your likes?"
"Any'll do."
Mark got up, finding Alex eyeing him again. His flustered cheeks were showed in the open now, instead of hiding like always. A sigh escaped from his lips, along with a long-lived contact between eyelids.
What was into her? Examining a stalker was the first step before kicking his balls, or…? Yeah, his jitter made his grey matter think about nonsense. Fucking hormones.
"Hell, no, not now… COREY!"
A whisper, made into a desperate call? ...?!
The former soldier abruptly opened his eyes, looking for the closest weapon he could get, though nothing was out place after he quick-scanned the place in two seconds.
Just a flustered backed up Alex with a little bit of red, as well, eyed him, shyly. Her hair style made it look even better, sensually marking her hidden eye.
God, he needed to sleep, for sure. Hallucinations, business, and extreme liking didn't get along.
"Now what? Come on, I barely got here, woman!"
"G-grab whatever you got at hand, and let's fucking go, I'm late!" Her voice trembled a little, but only Mark heard the hesitation. "He-Here you go."
She threw a five-dollar bill on the counter, and with three mixed jumps and steps, the little bell ringed.
Mark, dumbstruck, just saw her bee-trail, unable to thank her. The five lying on the counter lost value every micro-second ongoing.
Corey popped out again, with two big sweet bars on her right hand. She silently left the chocolate over the counter, and puffed.
"So, since when do you know her?" She grabbed the five dollars, diverting her sight to Abe Lincoln, somehow avoiding his eyes.
"…"
"Fucking hell, I knew it. You are him."
"I am… who?" His voice barely got out, after so many causes to not work.
"No one. I guess I mixed you with someone from the green again." Her answer came instantly, cutting him off.
The seven-dollar exchange ended, and Corey waved her goodbye.
"See you around. I guess Alex wanted to say that before you got her on the run."
The bell ring left him alone, and anxious, like every time in the silent store.
Ah, the nicotine. In the early afternoon hours, quiet ruled the place, so sometimes Mark would go out of the store to light a cigarette, when he wasn't unlucky enough that just after the first drag, some opportune customer came to interrupt the clerk's brief self moment.
Maybe his hopes were going in that thin trail of smoke coming out of his lungs. How many years would go on and he still being here? Would he go through life with no purpose?
Sleeping, eating, seeing Alex, the store, smoking, a drink with Jordan… Ah, seeing Alex blush was worth every second not sleeping this morning. And that felt even with such tired eyes.
He felt calm here, and wouldn't change that for nothing. Not even for a doomed but successful business bringing so much money, always with stress packed along. Plus, the wicked Russian Mob on his back... No, thanks.
Tomorrow was Friday. Again.
Why had they really lost? Why didn't they have the resources? Why weren't there more people trained? Why only one of the many elite teams managed to return from their few missions?
He shook off the ashes from the end, letting the wind carry them through.
"Because we did all the work, ain't we?"
Mark forced a blink, and shook his head. Probably his brain ran out of oxygen.
Opening his eyes, he looked at the cigar. It's butt was about to start burning, feeling his lips unusually hot. Yes, that was it.
As he stepped on what was left of the fire, a dark-skinned bald man in a green suit approached the store, searching for something, diverting his head from side to side.
Mark leaped forward, to leave nothing uncovered, but by the time he reached the counter, the man's silhouette had disappeared.
The salsa briefly lost its signal, so the former soldier, with a small turn, returned it to Nightride, letting a flat beat fill the void ofsilence. Getting carried away a bit by the calmness, he openly yawned, stretching his arms. Long live the even extra oxygen to the brain.
Already in the distance he could hear the voices of the avalanche of children approaching for ice cream, so he prepared himself with a quick wash of his face in the bathroom, starting the rest of the afternoon.
Mike couldn't be long, could he?
"Go home, Mark. And get some rest, for God's sake. Some'll later blame me for labor exploiting."
"You were lingering, Mike. Don't blame me if a bit of coffee went missing. "
"Yeah, yeah. As I said, rest. What's more, what about you take a day off tomorrow? I need your eyes not to look like someone's on drugs."
"Thanks, sir."
The last gulp of caffeine would kept him wary until his bed was at reach. Driving didn't turn difficult, although his peripheral vision had been cut almost in half, unable to see more than the dimmed neon signs and green lights to go home.
Upon arrival, Mark found his neighbor searching his pockets with one hand, instead of using both, as anyone on alert of having lost something would have done. Even trying to look fine, his arm seemed to be injured, due to the low mobility he performed.
Dark clothes covered him, instead of the strange combinations he used to wear, always with an impeccably white piece between them.
As Mark took out his own keys, he quickly turned to his left.
"Hey, Mark."
Nothing a vague nod couldn't fix. It wasn't Mark's business to ask if he was okay or not. They hardly knew each other.
"Hello."
Leaving his neighbor outside with his problem, the bloodshot man started walking like a zombie to his bed, but got distracted by a flashing red light, coming from his telephone.
"You got TWO new messages."
*beep*
"Marky! It's Jordan. Let's meet up at Paddie's later tonight, a'ight? I'm not in the mood for some disco shit, so that'll do. Ten-eleven, whatever's good for you. Just don't leave me hanging, you rat. See ya. "
*click*
A turn down wasn't in his plans. A promise is a promise, and also he had tomorrow's free. He could even raise his ruled blood alcohol level even higher than normal, just because.
"A wild Thursday."
"You got ONE new message"
*beep*
"Hey dude. It's Ritchie, from Depo & Repo. A reminder that we have planned a surprise party for the boss at nine! Put on your fanciest outfit, some pretty gals are assured! The address is NW 34th Street in case you forgot. Don't be such a party pooper and be discreet! "
*click*
"..."
Mark played the message again. Address, fake name, and "decent clothes." His lieutenant speaking to him on the radio, one more time.
They had already threatened the store once. He couldn't let anything happen. The insomnia was little that he was willing to put up with as long as things didn't change.
He even he had been able to see Alex flustered. No one was going to do anything if he could stop it.
"Perhaps you do the right thing this time."
A slight punch attacked his head, to go away within the second. With four hours to sleep, he set his alarm clock, just in case.
The address was a little easier to find than the previous one. He saw two white suits enter into some kind of warehouse, leaving the door half-closed, as if waiting for more to come.
His BMW, hidden in plain sight, parked right in front of the place. His mask, along with the spray can, in the box he hadn't touched since that day.
The breeze outside was utterly different from the edge of the beach, once again in the not so pretty area of Downtown. Drugs, tobacco, alcohol, maybe chemicals...
The door dictated the in and out. Maybe he wasn't coming back from this one. At last.
His cotton sweatshirt wasn't going to stop a bullet to the chest, not even close to cover a wound.
"Live for nothing." Putting on the mask removed all doubts instantly.
Forming the strongest fist he could, he kicked at the door, pushing the first Russian right behind, while the other could only see the raccoon head for half a second, before his nose forcefully got offed its place with an insane strength from two firm knuckles.
The first dropped a long metal tube. Mark caught it by flexing his knees nimbly, and the blood began to spread throughout the entrance, more with each finishing blow.
His peripheral view seemed to have tripled, and he could feel the movements on the walls. Even the tiny reactions of the mobster with blood in his nostrils, on the slightest attempt to stand to retrieve the knife he had lost in the fall, Mark threw the pipe at his face, causing him to fall backwards, leaning against the wall.
The raccoon grabbed the piece again, and with one accurate blow broke his neck, his body dropping to the side by gravity.
His little emotional sensitivity got reduced by each crunch of broken bone, giving way to hear the proximity of voices in Russian in the next room. However, he was able to detect strange, small steps that went four at a time.
Without waiting for them to circle the uneven figure in the room, Mark pushed open the door, still covering himself with the wall.
One bullet narrowly ended his story abruptly. The premonition with which he waited for it looked like a deja-vu.
He threw the metal rod again, right at the mobster's center of mass with the silenced pistol. A peculiar gasp and bark, accompanied the vague groan of pain, so before going through, Mark grabbed the loose knife from the previous room.
A doberman, with gleaming white teeth, jumped on top of him as soon as he crossed the doorframe, only finding a forearm in his jaws, and the edge of the knife piercing its heart.
The small moans of the dying animal gradually silenced, as his blood, and the Russian with the silenced pistol combined on the ground, as sharpness found skin a second time.
Boxes on top of more boxes, separated by platforms on the long shelves, along with the smell of freshly bagged angel dust, dimmed the ferrous smell in the circle pools.
"Eh-eeghh?!" Neither the first, nor the second shot to another person after so many years was going to hit the head, not even for the most random stroke of luck, but the neck could serve as well.
The raccoon had already used his luck for today, right? A-Al...
"Be afraid of dying."
The mobster was alone and unarmed, talking on the phone, but it didn't matter. No one needed him alive.
A forklift engine rattled, distracting his amplified senses. However, from before he already knew his locations. One was standing still, staring at the boxes, and another was patrolling randomly.
Another person was in the vehicle whose engine was dying, switching between off and on in a matter of seconds.
The weight of his pistol was no more than three rounds. Maybe the previous guy hadn't filled it in from the start, but the tiny mag of the weapon was another clue he had ignored.
When Mark tried to two-hand the 9mm, just so he could be efficient with his aim, his eyesight got nearly halved. Not even a bit of confidence gave him to carry that kind of risk, in addition to the pain of the small wounds that the microsecond of the dog's teeth had left on his skin.
"Reckless can be rewarding."
Mark came out of from hiding, firing the three bullets on insane speed, passing to the other side of cover between the long shelves. One of the bullets managed to reach one's chest, immobilizing him on the spot, while the other managed to land on other's arm, but that just made him flinch, soon after firing the shotgun on his hands, breaking several of the boxes, a cloud of white dust blurring their view.
Hiding his breath, the raccoon waited a couple of seconds, before seeing the Russian again, deflect the burning barrel of the shotgun, a knee to the groin, and then the elbow to the back, the weapon flying to the side.
Face down, the Russian tried to move, no longer feeling his skull being shattered by a strong foot stomp. The materials on Mark's shoe felt sticky, but nothing to worry about.
He automatically picked up the shotgun, expecting movement in the next row of boxes, but they had barely moved. As if they hadn't heard the shot that luckily hadn't made Mark deaf by the metal echo.
The forklift driver looked at the raccoon, gun in hand. Trembling, he tried to point it menacingly, just to receive several pellets to the head. The noise wasn't canceled at all, but the sudden flash of colors around him distracted his eardrums, like a slight anesthetic.
The steps in the next row were alerted now, yes. Mark turned to where they came from as he pulled the pump on the shotgun.
The first, who only carried a baseball bat, didn't hesitate to advance quickly towards him, quickly thrown backwards, with a hole in the abdomen, spreading blood in its flying path.
As Mark approached, a second stepped out of the corner, firing a lot of stray shots from an AK, as his arm dematerialized into red liquid. The mobster managed to cry out in pain, before he was silenced by another shot square to the face.
One last shell on his weapon, enough for the last steps.
The third didn't let him react. With a sword swing he managed to make the raccoon fall, having blocked the blow with the shotgun, without releasing it. With no time to get up, since the black-suited mobster had taken a second breath, Mark pulled the trigger with the last bullet, causing him to duck. His expression was blank, with all his movements.
Again, as the elite squad of the Russians, with the dualies tactics.
He spun on his feet for breathing space, virtually unarmed, even with the gun fully loaded. A few steps away, the dust and stained red baseball bat could fix the problem, but it needed time.
Having dodged twelve pellets like nothing, a quarter-speed thrown shotgun would be a piece of eaten cake for the black suit. Although, when he managed to straighten up again, a box flew straight into his face.
With no seconds to dodge it, the mobster sliced it in half, filling the entire room with dust.
The breathing of his technique wasn't fast enough. A baseball bat swung through the white cloud, straight to his neck, turning off the lights forever.
Flash of colors again, with a rhythm and pleasing to the eye. He waved the bat to avoid dripping his way, trying to focus again to detect the presence of more, the ones who hadn't heard such a noise even though they were so close.
Two more rooms. Four pairs of steps in one, and five pairs with the strange four-by-four sound in the other. With a few taps of the bat to the ground, dropping the last drops of blood, he kicked out the next door, red always following his moves.
Grace had lost sight of Mark's car on Starfish Island, following him just out of curiosity. Her own phone got her distracted, sure that Méndez had only called her for just annoyance.
She liked technology, though she would live happily without that square thing, as it only gave bad news.
Her first time off after several days, following the massive carnage on Belle Island. She had no idea why, or how the police covered EVERY entrance while the Russians quietly claimed the place in possession, with Petrov and the Lebedev son himself, subjugating the few remaining lieutenants of the Sharks.
A couple had been captured, but handpicked they managed to get out, perhaps by some deal that she in a thousand years wasn't going to understand.
The mafia sickened the city with cancer, and the police were not an exempt at all.
Benson tried to face Méndez and Petrov with police procedure, trying to organize a raid on the well-known mafia villa in Downtown, being killed in front of his family, in front of his house.
Even justice itself wouldn't answer for the sergeant's life. Neither is the Miami Beach Police Station. Not even Jordan, who used to go out for drinks with him from time to time.
"Idiot. Even to do the right thing you're still an idiot. "
He silenced his own words, as he called Grace to continue on work, after making their presence at the funeral.
Grace's rear wheel screeched briefly at the red light. Without much else to do besides wait, she examined the shocking pink pamphlet that had been left under her door, whose name was already written there, only the signature was missing.
"America is a tune; it must be sung together."
A red motorcycle pulled up next to her. The biker on it, with an extremely light blue helmet and pink vest glanced at her, leaning backwards to "see" her better. Before he could continue, she saw her middle finger reflexed, just before the red changed to green.
She looked away briefly, before accelerating, still searching the pamphlet for the address: Northwest 27th Avenue.
Marked by the large green metal door in the middle of the avenue, Grace turned off the bike and removed her helmet, her braids dancing in the night breeze. At the entrance, she was met by a dark-skinned man in a dark green suit, who looked at her with the corner of his eyes, then made a random comment.
"Good evening, officer."
"Uh..." She was wearing civilian clothes. "What the...?"
Without giving her a chance to ask questions, the man advanced toward a blue car that was two spaces from Grace's motorcycle, and drove off.
Turning toward the metal door, a blond man with glasses and a serious expression waited, his fake smile growing as Grace walked towards him, the pamphlet in her hands.
Water could always be a weapon. It could drown, it could crush, it could burn.
The screams of a Russian mobster when he felt his skin melt distracted the rest, giving the raccoon time to smash the pot with the face of another, recovering the second mobster's weapon in the air, firing almost the entire magazine at the other two, destroying a lot of papers in the office.
One bullet was enough to knock down the white suit and the dog, but the black suit was followed by twenty-two. Even if he had already fainted, double tap never hurt, especially such burly enemies.
Luckily this ones didn't have a deadly PP-91.
There was only one left, locked in the bathroom. He seemed to have heard nothing, or had simply barricaded himself there.
"You won't leave any loose ends, will you?"
Mark pushed open the door, being greeted by a bullet trajectory, making a hole in the wood. Shifting between covers, he threw a recovered knife, the handle falling on the mobster's head. Within two jumps, the raccoon retrieved the weapon and cut a throat from side to side, splattering blood all over the white tiles, and himself, his black gloves strangely shiny.
Suddenly his vision dropped to normal. He didn't feel so fast anymore. His coordination was lost from one second to the next, dropping the knife.
"78 800 points"
"Points? It's just a number..."
Mark breathing slowed down to anxiety combined with adrenaline. And now?
"It's done."
He slowly got out of the bathroom. Three bodies, each in the same position as they had been, pain or surprise in expression, and the thousand colors that could match red on the walls and carpets.
The dog had died instantly, hopefully. Step on them or not, he was already a murderer. Again.
"Go to car."
Of all the voices, this one seemed correct.
"Did you miss this? Lie and tell yourself not. "
The mobster's red and blistered face, frowning and full of pain, before unconsciousness. Although Mark's strength had been reduced, there was still work to be done.
"80 800 points."
The trail of a storm, hidden in a raccoon mask, leaving traces of blood from the right shoe.
Instead of feeling the sounds of footsteps and breaths, static began to dominate his senses. All, except for the eye. Even touching the walls seemed to be a different universe. The complete crimson paradise diverted him from reality.
He had to get out.
"Go to car."
He couldn't help kicking a body. Even his legs lagged to the brain's command.
"GO TO CAR!"
The brown door, the first, was nearly closed, out of the hard push made in the beginning. He opened it, letting the night air in through his eyeholes, the lights more blurred than being affected by astigmatism.
His heart wouldn't stop beating a thousand times in a second, even opening the car door, which handle seemed smaller than usual. He barely started the car, and sped away, wanting to get home as soon as possible.
The first breath of air felt like coming back to life. He discarded the bloodstained mask onto the passenger seat, only to realize that his sleeves and part of the torso of his sweatshirt were brightly red too.
Taking it off at a traffic light, he was left with a black polo shirt and his black gloves, which also had marks. The seconds seemed to pass extremely slowly, while the sight of his dilated pupils took for granted the infinitely passing of the palm trees, with the darkness of the night in the direction of Miami Beach.
"Hey, Mark. What are you doing here?"
Restless, but less than ten minutes earlier, the former soldier put his right index and middle finger in front of his mouth, simulating a cigarette.
"Ah. It's seven fifty, you know. " Mike answered, sitting back behind the counter. "Are you well? You seem more fidgety than usual."
Mark nodded and quickly left the store, shaking, but the effect was minimal.
"If it's a girl you can always ask, grasshopper. It's all it takes." He heard the old man say before the bell rang.
His peculiar excitement wouldn't let him be at home at peace. There had to be another, another way. Like a certain girl in a gym on the Malibu's route.
He had never sped this fast since his arrival in town, or forced his BMW so much, even if it didn't disappoint. With some luck, he wasn't going to find any police making rounds around there.
The open jewelry stores continued to grace the small street before the route, overshadowing the gym, but Mark already knew what he was looking for. And he found it.
With a small view of her, resting against a wall, with a few clients still in the gym, being relatively late for attention.
As his blurry view tried to focus in her, the figure doubled, interchanging between the blonde figure with tight clothes, and a brunette with a summer dress. Gloom and a smile. Tireness and hope. Now and before.
Confused, Mark finally felt the first cigar drag, that was already halfway through. His nerves were extinguished, the full relaxation at last dominating his muscles.
However, it fought with every bad feeling, the hardest being the most recent. Anyways, he wasn't going to let her see him like that, so he managed to push it as soon as he could. Without even considering where her green eyes were pointing at that precise moment.
The shower at home felt incredibly refreshing. Four cigarettes on a row, unfortunately putting out the fifth to get into the shower. Apparently nicotine and water didn't get along.
He left the stained clothes piled up in a corner, before putting them in the box where his mask had been sent, also in the same place. Not been able to decide to throw it away or wash it, somehow.
The phone had rung while he cleaned the crimson. With no intention of getting his wood floor wet, Mark let the answering machine jump.
*beep*
"Hey, it's Jordan. Seems the usual shit happened, and I am completely burned out to do something here. Surely Grace can handle it, so eleven o'clock it is, okay? I'd do what it can to get earlier, but with Méndez is gonna be tough, that for sure. See you."
*click*
Mark froze. He maybe had forgotten a certain detail when going on his adventure today. The one that made his shower to stop, and light another cigarette, ignoring the coughing it caused.
"One more time, those fuckers want us to know they're hunting us, Pardo! This is no coincidence! "
"And how am I going to know who gives the information if everything is within your connections, Petrov?"
"Only the lieutenants knew about this meeting, and none are tainted to do such a stupid thing."
"Maybe you should be careful who you trust."
The white suit and the detective were in the middle of the depo, with various members of the CSI going back and forth among the bodies.
"I've already told you that you shouldn't be here. Come back when you get the call for Lebedev's merchandise."
"That Méndez will do. If you really want our alliance to continue, you'd better do one hundred and ten percent, Pardo. "
"Thanks for the threat, pal." The blond detective shrugged, leaving where Johnson stood, next to the mobster with the sword.
"So the big shots were coming here?" Johnson asked, stopping the pen on his tiny notepad.
"Yes, apparently. I can't even imagine how anxious they must be right now. "
"Any clue how many there were?"
"It's only one."
"Figures, all bodies go in one direction. There is no possibility of teamwork. "
"Exactly. I can't rule out military training. I don't think an ordinary psychopath with a lot of drugs on him can do this. "
"Paradise, don't you think?"
"Trace's bad jokes are getting to you too?"
"No. By the way, where's he? "
"With the Rookie Wonders, in the kitchen. I doubt they can get anything out of there besides the shell casings. "
"Every lead counts, I guess. Well, I'll go start with the paperwork. This shitty week doesn't have any signs of ending. "
"Uh huh."
Johnson started making notes on his little notepad again, while Pardo headed for the exit, careful not to step on anything. It was hard to tell if the floor wasn't being painted red from the beginning. Jordan Trace was there at the entrance, also exiting.
"Don't need you more data for the paperwork, Trace?"
"And you, Pardo? Your little friend Petrov is still there meddling with police work?"
"I guess being on two teams is smarter than trying to screw both of them."
Jordan shrugged and walked out, revealing police sirens on the street. Pardo, with a slight smile of victory, followed him seconds later.
Satin - like I never left / DEADLIFE - Deviant / Simon Viklund - Evil Eye (Stealth portion)