"Let your imagination do the talking. Enjoy the service of our very best live contacts!"
Mark wondered how parents would explain such topic to their curious children. Well, the newspaper didn't show anything not family-friendly, so maybe they just didn't need to.
"Bi-female looking for a casual partner, clean, discreet and inexperienced."
Still normal. Come now, Miami Dating Service… Hold up, a female looking for what?
"I like it all, but dominant women are especially welcome."
Hardly a surprise. The notes looking for men were almost non-existent, unless it came from other men.
"Husband will watch, participate or leave us alone."
"HOT!"
Spicy enough, Mark chose to turn the page.
After several hours of maximum attendance, usual on Saturdays at dusk, the public had decreased. The ex-soldier hid a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, just in case.
Jordan still didn't show any signs of life. He usually didn't take long, so Mark thought the police chief somehow had him chained up at the station. Understandable.
Whether he got here or not, Mark would visit a club. He needed a drink, and to try his luck in his new outfit, even if the odds were slim.
The bell rang again. With no talk, his attention turned to the door.
"Antonin Nolyshev, Male, 32 years old. Nationality: Russian. Immigrant for two years in the United States. Known occupation: None. "
Jordan snorted and reached for the bottle of water on his desk. Many hours of paperwork and casing files were driving him insane, and, to make it worse, on a sacred Saturday Night.
Chief Méndez had ordered the investigations to continue without rest, and Jordan drew the shorter stick. His colleagues, remorseless, left him on his own as soon as they could.
His relief should have arrived an hour ago. A yell right into his ear would probably speed up his pace, so Jordan dialed furiously, before getting the beeps of the busy line.
Not much progress had been made on the case. In a right state of mind, who wouldn't kill Russian mobsters? Any Miami citizen could be a potential suspect.
The fingerprint evaluation from the CSI was also fruitless. Dropped weapons didn't bear a single mark other than those of the victims themselves.
No one had seen anything. No one had heard anything. Jordan found it hard to believe, and so did Petrov, one of the mafia boss' lieutenants, whose impatience made the job even more complicated.
As he opened another criminal file, the office door opened.
"Hey! Working so hard so late, Trace?" The mocking tone annoyed his already troubled head.
Jordan raised his head, narrowed his eyes, and focused back on the file.
"Why are you here? Needed to see me before your wild solo session?"
"Wasn't it the way around? Huh, here it is." She walked to the desk and retrieved a black beanie, embroidered with a white Korean symbol.
"So, what's up with the fancy make-up? Finally grew tired of your lonely nights?" Jordan caught a glance of her lips glittering, which frowned at his words.
"And how you doing with your boyfriend? That veteran you always have lunch with."
"Pretty well, my dear. Though he might get a girlfriend today, hopefully."
"An open relationship, then? Hm, not impressed with your records."
"Yeah, yeah. Can we call this one off? I've got work."
"I heard there will be a little meeting between the Colombians and the Russians at one of the clubs in South Beach. Maybe there's some leads in there."
"No jokes on this, Grace, I warn you."
"I never joke about something capable of killing me, Jordy."
"Are you suggesting that the Colombians are the ones murdering the Russians?"
"A possibility of many. Like you said, there's no one here in Miami who would waste a chance to wipe them out, and they've got firepower."
"The Cartel can disappear with a single cough from Lebedev, I don't get you."
"Then why not apply guerrilla tactics against their business? Making them crumble bit by bit..."
Jordan flipped his eyes to the side and his right and left thumb rubbed his stubble. "I'd lie if I say I've never imagined this place like a warzone, though this..."
"Just follow me, yeah? I'll need cover if things get bad."
"Counting on me, sweets? Huh, miracles do exist." His smirk showed up again.
"You are my partner, right? You must be of some use."
"I'll be there. Just don't do anything stupid."
"The same for you. Bye."
The young Asian woman left the office. Jordan continued with the files, though he was sure he wouldn't get any worthy intel from them.
The Colombians were suspects now, because in the bar they found one among the victims, wielding a sword. An elite ninja team doing the dirty work? Perhaps.
There was nothing clear, apart from the chief's words to the press.
"Gang war's casualties."
Another cold case? Of the many already in the archive? Amen.
The store phone rang. Mark, attending to a middle-aged woman carrying several pots of milk cream, glanced at it, and ended the exchange as quickly as he could.
"Oi, Mark! I'm leaving work. How about meeting up in Scorpia?"
"Never been there. How's the bar?"
"Decent, unless you're damn picky like the old man."
"Okay."
Mark hung up the phone. The proximity to midnight had him impatient, so he did his duties leaving a bee trail behind: Washing himself up, sweeping the floor, putting on his biker gloves, and closing the store.
He drove to South Beach, looking for the disco mentioned by Jordan. A single cocktail wouldn't waste him, as he searched for the likely victim for this night.
The mask and spray can were safely hidden under the back seat, with no better place until he got home.
Vapor mist combined with neon lights ruled over the long line of busy hotels and nightclubs. Mark parked across the street, near the palm trees beside the beach.
His BMW felt way out of place next to several luxury cars, along with the attractive women accompanying its owners. Lamborghini, Ferrari, Porsche, all in a row, with one of them standing out.
A black Pontiac Firebird, with golden trims and a pair of gold painted wings on the hood. Its beautiful design left Mark watching with slightly parted lips.
Two people came out of there. The first, from the driver's side, a muscular man in a white suit and aquamarine shirt. Unlike the rest of the Russians Mark had seen, this one's sleeves were rolled up, and wore a pair of red fingerless gloves.
He shook his long black hair tied in a low ponytail, advancing toward the door, where two tall, fat, dark-skinned guards in dark suits awaited.
Getting out of the passenger seat, a blonde woman stood up. She wore a pink fur cardigan, her blonde hair tied in a carefully done bun, with two hair sticks crossed through it. On her belt she carried a sheathed sword, holding it with her right hand.
She quickly positioned herself behind the long-haired Russian, just to his left. The guards stepped aside, letting them pass.
Four Russian mobsters appeared from the car behind the Pontiac, and entered as well, covering their weapons inside their white jackets. One of them, curiously, was the same one he had seen in the cafeteria this afternoon, highlighted by his tanned skin.
The rest of the people who were about to enter hesitated. Many backed up, deciding on the other clubs nearby, until a group of young women arrived with a limousine.
They all met the requirements of desire: short, tight dresses, voluptuous curves, and supermodel-worthy legs. Mark looked around for Hugh Hefner, just to check if he was this weekend's celebrity.
Like bees to a honey pot, the male audience came back in, and in no time, no one remembered the existence of the Russians in there.
Leaning on the hood of his BMW, Mark waited for Jordan to make his appearance, smoking the first cigarette of the night.
A young girl passed by him, nearly grazing his personal space. Her intoxicating perfume managed to pass through the smoke and reach his nose, causing a subtle choke from the combination. Mark watched her, as he cleared his throat hiding his cough.
In addition to her pair of swinging braids and her jacket, similar to the one he was wearing, she wore a short skirt and a pair of heeled boots. Stockings covered her toned thighs and legs, which earned many stares.
The girl crossed the street and disappeared at the entrance.
A sudden bright light atracted Mark's attention and made him squint, partially covering his face with his left hand. A dark sedan parked on the lot behind his. He straightened on his seat, finished his cigarette, and discarded on the sidewalk.
"You finally changed your high school kid style. Woohoo."
"Yes. Let's go."
"Oh, that was colder than expected. Did something happen?"
Mark shook his head. "You?"
"Neh, the usual." Jordan shrugged. "That reminds me..."
"What?"
"Let's talk it over a drink, shall we? I'm thirsty."
"Fine."
A bouncer frisked Mark, after letting Jordan pass without a hitch. Another nice bonus of his badge.
Lots of couples crowded the dance floor, all fired up with the music and the coloured lights on a night that was still young.
The tunes suddenly changed to a hit, making people even more excited, cheering at the disc jockey booth.
Mark, out of the corner of his eye, glanced at the VIP boxes, on the exclusive second floor.
The first had middle-aged executives getting drunk on expensive alcohol and women who obviously weren't their wives, a bachelor party was celebrated in another, and the four russian mobsters patrolled the last one, away from the rest.
Despite the imminent danger, Jordan casually sauntered to the long bar, and sat on one of the small stools to the left. Mark followed him, hoping he didn't snort on any evidence material before arriving.
Two young female baristas served there, with super-fitted low-cut dresses. Their breasts begged for freedom, but somehow the clothing managed to keep them inside.
"Hey, a large beer here."
"On the way, luv."
"I'll have the same."
The barista looked back, nodded with the robotic smile permeated on her face, and went on to the massive beer keg in the middle of the bar.
"Uh, am I missing something?"
"What do you mean?" Jordan mused.
"You don't drink beer. That's what I mean."
"Ah, it's just a change of air. Don't worry, I plan to finish those kegs if possible. So? What are you on about?"
Mark bit his tongue. The red tagging and mask thing didn't seem like such a good idea right now.
"Alex returned to the store."
"Alex ... Alex?... Alex who?"
"The blonde."
"The veteran? Do you finally know her name? At last! The first round is on me."
"Did you know she was a veteran? How?"
"You told me, remember. Have you invited her for a cup of coffee yet?"
"No. I didn't have a chance."
"Oh, of course you had. Don't wait too much again, eh? That girl is cute and military trained, whew, a perfect match."
"Didn't you like redheads?"
"You won't let that off so easily, will you?"
"How to forget? Did you see her again somewhere?"
"No, and she didn't 'reject' me, don't make me repeat myself."
"I was there. She brushed you off."
"Those tequila shots messed up your memories. Leave it that way."
"Eliza, Eliza... That name's tickling me for some reason."
"Hey, that's enough. How come an innocent liking can annoy you so much? I wouldn't bother telling you if I really found her attractive."
"Ha. Ha."
"And I'd never touch the only woman who makes my little friend's heart pound."
"If you say so…"
"Whatever, Mark."
"Sorry."
"Nah, it's okay. Sometimes I do forget your twisted sense of humor."
First round of beer. Mark and Jordan swigged half of the mug, quenching a nonexistent thirst. A couple of girls sat next to Jordan, but he didn't mind them.
Both were inside the common pretty standards, so Mark raised an eyebrow at Jordan, wiping the beer's foam with a napkin. The detective followed Mark's line of sight, trying to catch the gist. He smirked and shook his head in response. After a while, the two girls left.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"I told you I am. I'm just not in the mood to listen to another hollow girl's self-esteem problems barrage. You didn't hear anything, did you?"
Mark had focused more on moving his neck along the music's rhythm, so the answer went straight out.
"No."
"Better." Jordan pointed to the second floor with his left thumb. "Look."
Mark turned slowly, carrying his mug of beer, keeping his presence blended into the atmosphere.
The Russian with the tied long hair he had seen at the entrance was leaning on the railing, watching the party. His face showed a scar even bigger than Mark's, over his left vivid green eye, ending on his jaw.
Sensing the sudden gleam of the gold earring on the mobster's left ear, the ex-soldier turned around and took another sip of beer.
"What did you want me to see? Besides the big shot I can't look in the eye."
"Oh, you knew about the son Lebedev?" Jordan whispered.
"The ones with power never go unnoticed, I guess."
"Psst, look again."
Mark stretched his arms up, looking from side to side, and finally glanced.
A meter away from the Russian was the blonde in the pink cardigan. She sported an impassive expression and the perfect poise, like a bodyguard.
Suddenly, a new woman showed up. She wore the short skirt, the stockings over her legs, eyed through the glass balcony, two braids and the softest Asian face Mark had ever appreciated. Effect of tons of makeup, perhaps?
She tried to get closer to the Son, but was met by the blunt part of the sword, blocking her path. After a brief exchange of words, the blonde sheathed her weapon. The Russian, with a vague smile, accepted the asian girl as a companion, later joining three more young women, before returning to his VIP box.
"Does Uncle Harry know about the new hotel guests?" Mark asked, shaking his beer mug.
"Yeh, he assigned a maid to tend specifically their rooms."
"I hope she does the cleaning thing well. Last time it ended up with a sink broken and lots of paper in the suggestion box."
"Don't worry. She's not new."
"Alright. Just saying, maids usually get highly strung with clients of this caliber."
"Uh huh." Jordan uttered, taking a sip of the beer, reluctantly.
Mark gulped. A sting operation? What for? And what was he doing here? All he wished was to be able to pick up a girl for a casual encounter, and now he was in the middle of a possible shootout. Not that he wasn't against the idea anyway.
He opened his mouth to ask one last question, but Jordan read his mind and pointed back at the second floor. Two men with tan skin and dark suits escorted a taller guy with a flowery salmon shirt, entering the same box as the Russian.
"How long do the vips are gonna stay around?"
"Eh, not for long. They said they came just for work, though something tells me they plan enjoying Miami, thoroughly."
"Sure you can't handle it on your own? I'm not feeling well to do overtiming, and you know that."
"Don't soften on me, man!" Jordan unbuttoned a single button of his jacket, showing two handguns holstered, one on his shirt, the other on his belt. "I'd do the hard work, I promise."
"Huh." Mark turned away, sighing. "I really should cash more."
The rhythmic songs continued as the night progressed. The ex-soldier and the detective lingered on the second round of beer, barely drinking at all.
Mark hadn't targeted any living creature since he left the military, settling only for inert targets at Ammu-Nation, the shooting range in Downtown.
Before the war, that store sold guns like hotcakes, under the line of "house protection". However, their sales got severely restricted with the arrival of the coalition to the US, nearly closing down the business if it weren't for the rising fame of paintball and airsoft.
To tell the truth, if something went wrong with the girl inside the VIP box with the Colombians and the Son, they couldn't do much. A former army engineer and a detective had narrow if not zero possibilities of taking out so many cartel members, with all the possible collateral deaths. Rather, they did better like depressed cheerleaders sipping liquor at the bar.
Mark uneasily moved his mouth from side to side. He had done more in less time, it was just a matter of...
A bright flash blinded Mark entirely, and heard three continued silenced pistol shots right beside him. Alcohol stench gradually filled his nose.
Two forced blinks got his eyes recovered. The scene almost panicked him.
The bottles shown on the wooden shelves were broken, with many bullet holes on the wall behind. All people on the dance floor had disappeared, but three with dark suits, whose shot down corpses lay below the coloured lights, on their own blood pools.
Jordan was nowhere to be seen, a lone beretta taking up his place. Mark didn't hesitate taking and racking the gun.
The DJ suddenly changed the song to a slow paced one, with an eerie bass. Mark looked to his booth, where the psychedelic glasses guy headbanged like nothing happened.
He slid his way behind the bar, finding the two baristas cowering on the floor. They looked unconscious, but he tapped one's back just in case.
The woman answered with a loud sob, startling Mark. He backed up instantly, stilling as he heard voices.
"Did you hear that?"
"Probably Gabriela and Denise. Get them out of here before this gets more fucked up."
The ex-soldier took a peek of the situation. A dark suited tan skinned man pushed the double glass doors and stepped towards the bar, wielding a silenced pistol.
"Girls? Get u..." His voice got dryly cut by a gunshot.
A huff escaped through Mark's lips. The cartel member dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, trying to cover his neck with a deep red hand, choking on his blood.
The lights around flashed in purple, before going on with its never ending loop.
Mark raised on his feet and got out of the bar. Pistol muzzle forward, frosty at any step and ready.
As soon as he saw a shining black shoe on the opposite side of the dance floor, he hopped to the low wall, between the bar and the illuminated tiles. The first body was in plain sight, so he prepared to fire back.
"It's only one mere cop! Imma kill Torres for having such petty security in this club, man."
"Yeah. Wait, what? Isn't that...? Hey!"
He heard many steps hurrying through the dance floor to his location.
"Center... of mass. Don't fuck up!"
Mark leaned to his left and pulled the trigger twice. The first launched the first mobster backwards, dropping a penknife in the process, his shirt acquiring the red tinge. The second reached the other mobster's abdomen, but that didn't stop him.
Remembering instantly how to handle fat enemies in Honolulu, he backed up as the thug tried to lunge him. The adrenaline didn't let Mark aim, firing eight bullets right on the chest, deepening and deepening the wound. The thug, having endured that much punishment, clenched his teeth before collapsing on his back.
Judging from the beretta's weight, three or four bullets were left in the chamber. Mark sensed more cartel members patrolling nearby, and they eventually would notice their missing people, now drown in blood pools.
He dropped his current weapon and retrieved the silenced one beside his first victim, and dashed back to cover by a potted plant, beside the glass doors.
The entrance's group of mobsters were still oblivious of his presence, though he didn't understand why. His gunshots weren't that subtle, even if the music had gotten even louder now.
Taking a peek through the blur of the double doors, three mobsters guarded the area, a thug between them. Before Mark could even breathe to give himself courage, footsteps approached.
"Where's Paulo? Shame of a first day he's having."
"Leave him be. Maybe he's consoling the ladies."
"Very funny, man."
Their voices got louder and weaker as they spoke. Mark stood still for half a minute, noticing they patrolled in circles, with the remaining one talking on the phone, with no signs of end.
The ex-soldier pushed the closest glass door, as he heard the voices a bit afar. The first shot easily scored the head, the second and third the heart and lung, and the fourth and the fifth didn't hit anything.
The one at the phone, as soon he noticed the bullet going straight for his neck, ducked along with the sword on his belt. The dodging posture, the technique... It was Hawaii all over again.
"Keep your knives at hand, ladies! They are not for just opening MREs!"
That one mobster approached dodging every following shot, barely flinching when doing it, like he could predict its travel direction. He didn't run though, maintaining his right hand on the sword's grip, ready for the swing.
Mark strafed backwards again, searching for the penknife on the dance floor. Tightly grasping the little sharp weapon, he rushed toward the swordsman, and won the speed contest.
The evasive mobster fell to the ground, his neck holed up, bleeding over the collar of his purple shirt. Mark pounced over him and slit the wound open, snuffing his life out.
He looked at his gloved hand, snickering over it. Much blood from... Who were they? People serving the reds, nothing more. They needed to be dead.
The rest of the first floor got cleared with the useful Uzi found between the bodies of the entrance.
His recoil control wasn't the best at the time, but a single bullet piercing the skin did the job. Even when reaching a thigh or an arm, its victim couldn't move again, rendering the skull vulnerable for a double tap, or a neck snap when the chamber ran dry.
Grabbing a curious submachine gun he had never seen before, Mark climbed upstairs, searching for the cop mentioned many times by the cartel, probably being Jordan. Right after the last step, a white suited mobster rushed towards him with a large baseball bat in his hands.
The ex-soldier barely pressed the trigger and a barrage of shots filled the Russian's upper body. Pink pitch took over the bright lights.
Two mobsters patrolled inside every VIP box, which had a brass pole and platform in the middle. Maybe the escorts weren't just escorts.
The smg ammo didn't last, as much as he tried going for a slow rate of fire. He ended up throwing it to a shotgun mobster, before punching another right on the nose.
Mark focused on not firing that specific weapon and comitting auditive suicide in such closed space, so he just bashed their necks with the gun's butt.
One box remaining.
The ex-soldier stationed himself outside, unable to hear anything from inside. Pushing the door slightly, he tried peeking inside. A carefully pink nailed hand grabbed him from the collar and dragged him to the box, with such strength he tripped in the middle and dropped his weapon retrieved from the last mobster. A black heeled boot kicked it away, before stepping on his right wrist, as he turned his face up on the ground.
The room had pretty dim lights, allowing him to barely see through.
Two women showed themselves to his eyes. The first was the Russian bodyguard, now with a visible blue sports bra inside her pink cardigan. She acquired a battle stance like the swordsman on the previous floor, though she awaited for an order, intently breathing but not moving.
The second one, on his right, was the girl with the braids. Instead of the black beanie, she donned a white animal mask with long downed ears, like a weird bunny with canines instead of incisives.
She got on one knee, putting all her weight on her left foot and stepped on his right wrist, causing Mark to let out a painful grunt. He tried defending himself with his free arm, but the sight of the blonde had it immobilized. She wouldn't mind cutting off both's heads.
As he tried biting his lip to overcome fear, like he did way before in the jungle, his left wrist got stepped on this time, but way lighter than the other. A man with a dark suit and blue shirt was on one knee, causing pain as well, but less than the braided girl.
The mysterious man dressed like Jordan looked at him, using goggles and his face covered up to his nose with bandages, similar to ones he had over his hands.
"Shouldn't you be away from here? This isn't a dream of yours." A male's distorted voice spoke.
The man on the left didn't move his face bandages, so Mark glanced at the bodyguard. She nodded to an order from the darkness, stepping aside and keeping the posture.
"Or is it?" The white suited boss appeared in front. His black hair was now short, and his scar came across the right cheek, instead of the left.
Suddenly the two restraining him let go and turned around, the man with goggles drawing a pistol from his belt, and the masked girl a knife up a sleeve. Both instantly received a headshot and a plain cut over the chest, respectively, getting launched backwards.
"Russian motherf..." The masked girl got interrupted by a bullet, right into the middle of her mask's eyeholes.
The version of himself wearing the Russian mafia attire started bleeding from his cheek, as it aimed a revolver at the real one's face.
"Glad to see myself again." It muttered with a sad smile, before firing, getting Mark flashed again.
"Having a good time, guys?" A barista suddenly approached, seeing they were both quiet, staring at nothing.
"Much better now, honey. How you doin'?"
"Fine, you know, working my ass off. How about getting you something stronger? It's on the house."
"Oh, okay. Do you want something?" Jordan looked at Mark, who just shook his head.
"Then it'd be just for me."
"Anything specific?"
"Are you available?"
"Maybe. The bar has everything sir could wish for."
"It's Jordan. I'd like a vodka. "
"Coming right up."
Mark hid a slight burp. He thought they were controlling the booze with simple beers.
"I spot Angel Dust and coke from miles away, chill." The detective let out a low chuckle, as the barista walked away.
Was their cover blown? How? Mark looked around. Only a single cartel guard looked at him, briefly raising his chin.
"I don't have time to cover your shift, man." The ex-soldier barely eyed his companion.
"Come on! For good ol' times!" Jordan suddenly pushed himself closer to Mark's ear. "Sheesh, I almost forgot, I set up a girl for you tonight. That'd sweeten the deal."
"You mean the maid?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
The texan just dismissed the danger from the operation. Mark finished what was left of the beer and ordered the third, with a shot of Jäger.
More movement began to flow on the second floor, in addition to the women passing by.
The furthest VIP box's door opened and the four Russian mobsters on duty approached their boss, who marked distance with the furious expression on his face.
He was yelling to the phone in his ear. Strangely, the blonde woman with the cardigan suddenly covered his shoulder with her hand, breaking her distant appearance. Her shades didn't let a feeling free past her eyes, but her little moisten of lips showed more than enough. Unless worried and downed mouths were the result of thirsty bodyguards.
The music dropped subtly in volume, as if the disc jockey had noticed the situation.
The Son hung up, and the six formed a compact square and went downstairs. Despite the DJ queuing another hit and turning up the volume, the group grabbed the customers' attention, like they did on the entrance.
Mark got caught in the middle of his trip to the bathroom, which happened to be next to the stairs. For a few seconds, he stared at the Son's face, examining his scar.
"Out of my way." His left eye didn't finish the blink, only his lower eyelid moving.
His green eyes sparkled in fury, even with the blonde trying to appease him. Perhaps Mark was exaggerating, he didn't know bodyguard procedures.
After a few seconds, one of the mobsters in front advanced towards the ex-soldier, cracking his knuckles. As an immediate reflex, the latter stepped aside, colliding with an empty table.
The group of mobsters in white suits, back to the square again, marched to the exit, disappearing from sight. Mark sprinted to the bathroom, barely making it in time.
While he washed his face, his sight got blurry and forced a blink. The darkness flashed in purple and pink, ignoring the bright lights over his head.
Could he have taken out the six by himself? The woman seemed to be the most dangerous, until he exchanged glances with the Son.
He opened his eyes, and refreshed himself again.
Since when his life had so little value? Bare-handed, he couldn't have done more than steal oxygen from the boss, before a single sword swing chopped his head off.
Mark left the sink and headed to the same stool next to Jordan, noticing from afar it was now occupied by the Asian girl with braids.
When the ex-soldier reached the other free seat nearby, the barista appeared with a large glass of cuba libre, the lemon wedge and the straw, and placed it in front of the girl.
"Thanks." She took a few sips of the cocktail, then turned to Jordan.
Before she could even open her mouth, the detective raised a hand, straightening up in his seat.
"Mark, this is Grace Nam, the maid I talked to you about. Grace, this is War Vet Mark Chandar." He pointed to each other, using the space he had just cleared.
Grace greeted him with a smirk. Mark raised his neck briefly along with his eyebrows. If she was tonight's chosen girl, at least her first impression hadn't been the bad side of his face.
"Any prob with the vips today?" Jordan leaned his elbows back on the bar, his eyes fixed on the intact glass of vodka.
"Nope. An impeccable luggage, and excellent treatment."
"The tips went well, I reckon."
"A couple of twenties from the nicer one. The other one surely forgot, because he left without warning. From what I heard, one of their eight burger shops got a rat infestation or something."
"What? Isn't that seven-end-up?"
"Yup, ending up with seven. Nice maths, partner." Grace contrasted Jordan's reaction, taking more sips of the dark liquid.
"Fuck." the detective stated simply.
Mark scratched his chin. Following the dialogue in code was difficult if he wasn't the one addressed.
Jordan's phone rang, its sound barely noticeable against the loud beats, but enough for the ex-soldier to hear.
"Trace speaking."
Jordan looked down, darkening his expression.
"Where?"
His index and middle fingers tapped on the bar, relentlessly.
"10-4." He closed the large phone and put it in his pocket.
Grace and Mark watched him closely.
"Are you coming with me or you going by yourself?" Jordan suddenly drank the shot of vodka, and searched for his wallet.
"Say what? I'm not the one being called, partner."
"Suit yourself. Think for a good excuse for Méndez, can you?" The detective left a twenty bill next to his glass, and stood up, adjusting his suit.
Grace shrugged and returned her attention to the straw, waving her hand.
"See you around, Mark. Duty calls."
"All good?" the ex-soldier followed Jordan's path with his eyes.
"All good. You know how it is. Uh, get along, you know, don't be too harsh, Grace."
"I already said goodbye, Jordy."
Jordan frowned and walked away, careful not to collide with other customers passing by.
Despite they both exchanged glances repeatedly, neither made the move for quite a while, until a random guy sat in the middle and started talking to the Asian girl.
Mark smiled. It was always the same. On the bright side, at least it didn't happen with Alex, Ash just being her brother.
The cuba libre glass now in front of him was half full.
Her silhouette invaded his mind, again. With this one it would be six today, not counting the diner, and after his first crime.
"Sorry, officer."
"Get off, creep."
The random between Grace and him stood up and took another seat, away from her. Taking advantage of the situation, she pushed her glass to the right and sat on the unoccupied stool.
"You don't talk much, do you?"
Mark shook his head, before taking another sip of his drink.
"But I've seen you so chatty with Jordan, are you afraid of women or what?"
"Only of the pretty ones." The ex-soldier curled the corner of his mouth.
"Curious way of telling me I'm not."
"Bad habit. Um, How long have you been working with Trace?"
"About five months. I'm surprised you haven't seen me yet."
"Perhaps I did, but I only remember your voice. I mean, you look different from how you normally do."
"Oh? You mean these? " From the pocket of her black jacket she retrieved a pair of round glasses.
"Yes." Monosyllables killed any conversation, and Mark knew it well, but couldn't think of saying more.
Grace put the glasses on and pushed it up her nose with her middle finger. Raising her eyes from his chest, until they connected with his pupils, as she approached, very smoothly.
The ex-soldier instinctively backed away, with a sad smile. His flirty first girlfriend popped up on his memory.
"You look better like this." Mark put his hand on his chin, tilting his head to the side.
"Heh. If you're trying to hit on me, I'm afraid you're going for a bad end."
"No way."
"If so, then I can tell you look rather manly tonight. Good shot on changing those baggy clothes you always wear."
"Have you been spying on me?"
"No! I just... figured out. The times I've seen you at Mike's you always look the same."
"Whoa, a stalker. Help, officer." Even when trying to be funny, Mark's voice came out nearly toneless. Yet, it was still better than nothing.
"Haha, don't get cocky. I was looking forward to meet Jordan's handsome boyfriend, and got to know you instead."
"Oh, really?" Mark snorted.
"Yep." She took a large sip of her drink, and her small eyes widened as she returned her attention to him. " Gosh! I love your gloves! Where did you get them?"
"Gash. Though I'm not a biker myself, surely you can teach me sometime." Mark replied, with a tiny smile.
"Ho? You knew I had a bike? Superb! But are you confident enough? Many gave up on my riding way before they learned something..." She smirked at him, whom glazed eyes conflicted with his seductive upped eyebrows.
"I'll take the challenge." Mark broke eye contact and concentrated on his drink. Grace too, her glass already running dry.
The ex-soldier blew some cold air over his face, his cheeks feeling an unusual burning blush. Craving to know Alex's name for such big long ass time, and now he felt flat into another girl's sugary inuendo. Great.
"You are pretty normal for a veteran. It's just... weird. No offense." The asian woman stared at the ice cubes of her vase.
"I've been told that before. None taken." Mark pushed his glass to both sides, hoping she didn't go from talking in a sexy way to about his memories in the war. Muteness walked by the hand with that.
"I also wanted to be a soldier when I was little. Mom didn't let me."
"Such a loss. You're a pretty good maid, doing your part for this decaying country."
"... It's not so easy with the vips in between."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes. Keep it up. No one I know could do what you did."
"You don't know many people, do you?"
"That matters?"
"No." Grace looked at him, forming a coy smile. "Heh, you are flattering me, and here I thought it was one-sided."
"Cheers."
Mark examined again his glass, just in case, and no, nothing was dissolving in it. His PTSD absent, and a flirty and extremely attractive woman beside.
"Hooray for the coincidences?"
His cocktail straw bubbled. Even drinking so fast, its effect was still minimal.
"Hey, Grace."
"Hm?"
"Wanna go and dance?"
"You know how to hit the floor?"
She toyed with her glass, attentive to Mark's response. However, the ring of a mobile phone interrupted her.
"Nam here. I'm busy." Her eyes narrowed even more from the boredom of the call.
Mark returned to his starting position. He supposed it was Jordan, calling her out.
"Trace, if Pardo is there, you'll have to put up with him. I'm not…"Grace squeezed the phone and bit her lip. "Chief Méndez."
"..."
"On my way."
The Asian girl pulled a purple wallet out of her jacket, and mimicked her partner's escape.
"Did something happen?" Mark spoke, watching her quicken her pace.
"Multiple 1-8-7s. See you another day."
"Bye." He waved a hand, answering her goodbye.
Mark finally linked up with the hamburger shop sentence.
"Wait, what? Isn't 1-8-7 homicide? Multiple? Where?"
Mark arrived home, with loneliness as his loyal companion. He spent the last hour appreciating the waves on the beach though, so the night didn't go to waste.
Leaving his car, he remembered the mask and the spray can, so he retrieved them and quickly hid them inside his jacket, which had at least attracted one female in the club.
At that time, he could only find himself wandering the halls for a night walk. The rest of his neighbors made the most of their resting hours, even oversleeping when not on holidays.
A package waited for him at his door. It was a hot pink booklet with contrasting bold lettering and a clipping on top, all wrapped in a transparent bag.
"Thank you for subscribing to our newsletter. We appreciate your interest in our cause. America is a tune. It must be sung together. -50 Blessings."
About time. He hadn't heard from them since his visit to its HQs on Tuesday.
Mark walked into his apartment. It didn't look as gloomy as it did hours ago, or maybe because he didn't have anywhere else to go.
He got changed at his own pace, leaving his black jacket carefully hanging in the closet. Wearing it everyday wasn't much of a nuisance, as he wanted Alex to see it.
The raccoon mask and spray bottle were left in the box they came in. The ones sending them had bothered too much for a simple job, whoever they were.
With one last yawn, he flopped into the bed, with the thought of sleeping in as much as Sunday let him. Unless a wild nightmare intruded.
*East 7th Street*
"Six victims, detective, white suits. Has the drunken bum said something relevant?"
"If you consider repeating the face of a chicken full of blood over and over again, I guess so. Hm, a clean cut to the neck. Another execution?"
The victim's white suit collar, next to CSI member Nate, had already taken on a certain unnatural red color. Both hands trying to cover a wound that condemned him to death.
"Looks like one, sir. Your partner? Chief Méndez ordered us to not move anything until you arrived."
"She'll get here. Where is the rest?"
"Two in the door on the left, and three down that hall." He pointed to the door past the apartment's small kitchen.
Jordan walked through the door on the left, following two trails of dried blood drips.
Where the one on the right ended, he found another CSI member was taking notes, near a body leaning on a sofa, with minimal blood splatters.
"Hm... that's the killer's weapon, issn't it?"
"A penknife, sir, but how is this possible? They knew what was coming, and couldn't even react."
"Drugs help any madman. And this here? " the detective pointed to a pistol lying on the ground, surrounded by white chalk.
"Loaded, but not fired. I didn't find any trace of gunpowder here."
Jordan leaned down to get a better view of the body. A perfect throw to the forehead. Apparently the victim had slipped to where he was now.
"Ring me if you find something else, yeah?"
"Understood."
"By the way, where's Pardo?"
"With Johnson, next to the shot down victim."
"Good, thanks."
The third body was found with the skull done shreds. The bed covers around were stained in deep red, and the blood pool formed had spread out under them. From here started the other trail of blood, leading to the kitchen, where the first body was.
The fourth body was in the middle of the corridor, its neck broken, in the same way as the Brickell Station attack. A double-barreled shotgun lied near the end of the hall, with the corresponding white chalk.
"Whoever fired that shotgun must be nuts, sir. The noise caused would destroy anyone's eardrums."
"Who knows. I'll go help with the interrogation. The neighbors must know something else."
Jordan and Pardo crossed each other at the door to the last room. The first paused to let the other pass, earning a cold look as the latter left.
The fifth body was face down, with a head wound, notable for being the only hairless mobster on site. A brick lay nearby, one side redder than the rest.
"A brick right to the neck, sir."
"A pitcher killer,eh?"
"I don't know, detective. Nice thought, I suppose."
"You don't have sense of humor, do you Johnson?"
"Not in this situation, no."
"Ah, never mind."
A shotgun shell casing was beside the door, surrounded by white chalk. From this point of view diagonal to the wall across, there were two bullet holes, where the last victim was located.
The body had no left arm, and the face displayed no other expression than pain.
"Something does not fit. Brickell and this one's share too many signs, even there's the red circle out there."
"The bar doesn't. Does it mean more than one group is hunting them Russians?"
"Could be. But this... we are in the middle of everywhere, and the killers knew this hideout. This must be an inside job."
"The bratva getting betrayed? No, that's too far-fetched, Trace."
"Yeah, I know, only thinking out loud. Hm, this last shot seems kinda unnecessary, like a call out for the rest of the building."
"So they wanted us here?"
"Probably wanted THEM to know, partner."
"Ah, murdering psycho thoughts always give me the creeps."
"The rookie wonders is on her way with more, don't worry."
"Wonderful." Johnson answered, clenching his teeth.
Jordan's cell phone rang.
"Trace here... Ah, on my way." The Texan frowned, then shook his head.
"The Mob?"
"Sadly. Petrov arrived faster than I expected. "
"Uh..."
"Not for you, relax. I doubt they even know you exist... Ah, crap, we have nothing but a hobo's word about a wicked chicken man."
"Maybe it's for real. I mean, he's the only witness in three different hits. "
"You said it, 'maybe'. As always, give me a call if you find something. "
"Roger. Good luck, detective."
Jordan went down to the first floor, where Chief Méndez was waiting, talking face to face with the bald-headed Petrov, having two other Russian mobsters behind him.
He had no doubt they all had a tarnished criminal record and could somehow be arrested, but the judges all over Miami were bought off, or dead, so it would be useless, and moreover, counterproductive.
With a deep breath, he prepared to give the most ridiculous speech he could come up with, involving a killer in a chicken mask, and hopefully, this time, find an answer.
Too much hope.
White Bat Audio - Grave Encounters / Shadow Voices - SelloRekt / LA Dreams