1986.
While some hated the July heat, Mark didn't mind it. After all, three months after his discharge, his mind waved between the fresh echoes of the boiling islands.
Friday the fourth looked more lively than other days, as ever. Compared to the previous days since the end of the war, definitely. Uncle Sam barely made his appearance around, probably because people still blamed the army for the hard defeat.
Still, the little flags waving around outside the buildings made up for the dull patriotic feeling. Even the store had its own, having one inside too, quietly standing on the counter.
The recent former soldier sighed to the long way to end afternoon and night. Free days didn't exist on Mike's vocabulary, though double payment sure did.
Why did he need it? Well, a little box with coiled cables inside for a TV wasn't in his plans when started living on his own. Even more when his apartment, the shore and the store meant his place to be at any time, at any day.
Most people enjoyed the beaches that summer anyway, so day life went on, moody but steady.
Mark rested beside the ice-cream short glassed freezer. Lots of customers came for that only, and the trip to the counter every time could be avoided. Plus, an open window beats by far a tiny fan in terms of coolness.
Last week, the news had been filled with info about the Cherry Pop Ice-cream company. Apart from the funny name crime, someone unknown presented charges against them, assuring the innocent sweet had drugs inside.
Curiosity took over the young vet, having ever tasted that brand, sticking to flavors he knew back at his young ages. With a spoonful of white grabbed, Mark tasted just a bit. The saccharine was kind of normal, though his nerves got to the top in no time.
The guilty pleasure swarmed his muscles, as he didn't make the least try to resist taking it all.
"Just this once." He muttered to himself, after cracking his joints, just to speed up the process.
However, it ended pretty quick. Such an outstanding marketing technique.
Kids coming and going, Mark casually didn't serve the right recipient of vanilla ice cream, unless some childless grown-up asked for it. The new policy of service.
The radio kept tuning up his mood, making him vibe. Lively words coming around, others being dull like him, and a curious toddler asking what a scar was.
Mark, barely saying one-liners, or an empty answer, having the prices written on the glass just in case. That piece of skin badly shown all his cramped suicidal thoughts.
But it wasn't something the customers would care about. Chips, freezing drink, ice cream again, popsicles, and the afternoon's orange passing into the dark.
"This is Nightride FM, with you on this fine July 4th ! This is Rick, and I am thrilled of having you on the tune, wishing you a happy holiday! Now, as a public request, goes the anthem. God bless America."
A Russo-American Coalition, sharing the news with the smoke and mirrors, the drugs inside the ice cream made. The carnage ended, just for the two to shrug off the dead and shake hands with a beaming smirk?
Or maybe just one, the other driven into a corner.
Mark watched a silver four-door pull up right beside his recently bought BMW, a white suit getting out, the driver staying inside. He had seen them before, few nights after he got to Miami.
The young vet froze in place, his mind rolling on many ways of dismembering the lowlife before he entered the store.
"Uh, hello?" the foreign voice startled Mark, unconsciously forming a fist. Yet he calmly covered his clench with just a shiver, and an uneasy nod.
"I want two ice creams. You got the Cherry Pop thing?"
Mark nodded again, a bit dubious on letting his guard down. The white suit behaved like any other junkie.
"One ball each. How much is it?"
The sign was right there, so sleepy eyes answered, pointing to the price.
"Here." The blond white suit handed him two bills. "Thanks, and tell your boss to be careful."
The little bell rang, as the clerk watched the car until it got lost in the street. No time to ask why he should warn Mike, another client came up, going for the coldest beverage the store had.
"…"
"I'm talking to you, asshole! You're trying to make fun of me?"
"So sorry, I'm no good… s-sorry…?"
"Sorry about what, idiot? You better get lost and never come back here!"
"You the manager here?" An outsider woman paying her stuff asked, turning backwards to see the other two and then Mark.
The latter shook his head. He didn't plan on jumping on the brawl, unless his ordered shelves were touched.
"Well, I think you should…"
"Motherfucking Russian!"
Lively enough, the taller and muscle guy grabbed the way tinier bald youngster.
"Get-the-fuck-lost, you understand?"
"Y-yes!"
The foreigner shouldn't be older than twenty, sprinting away, the little bell almost going up flying.
"Man, watch the hell out of whoever finds the catch and enter your store." The muscle guy faced Mark. "You better than anyone know what those bastards can do."
The woman left with no other word, keeping watch of the thug from time to time, until the door closed and ran off with her bags.
Words completed on the crossword later, the muscle returned with a six pack beer to the counter.
"Seems you barely changed. Life's treating you good?"
Mark blinked twice. His memory… didn't remember anything from Hawaii.
"Army brothers, dude!" The bearded thug downed the collar of his shirt, letting a weird gray tattoo with three lines across free to the sight. He showed his dog tags and hid them again.
A nod for an answer. A pained throb.
"Don't give me such a hard vibe, Chandar! I didn't get to do what you did, but I'm sure I'm making my efforts. Thanks for your service to the great America."
The veteran thug hung a fist over the counter. Mark passed the six beers at godspeed, and pushed it to him.
Bump. Just to make him go away.
"You'll hear from us, soldier. See you around."
As soon as the ring did the tingle, Mark rushed to wash his face in the tiny bathroom. His fresh scars looked redder and swollen, yet the harsh water splash over didn't wait.
He didn't remember… he didn't… It was just islands taken over, he was better taking cover… Deep cover…
"Mark?" His name sounded from outside, the ring bell fading.
A last cold over red, the former soldier went outside. His boss was right there, waiting.
"Whoa. Are you okay, bud?" Mike backed up a bit, widening his eyes.
"Mike. " A whisper, deep voice.
Dragging his feet, Mark returned to his counter. Tense face, tensed muscles, he tried focusing on his crossword, not getting who in the world was Van Gogh.
"Have any plans for today?"
"No."
"Wanna come over? Got a good ol' brandy and dinner."
Mark gazed at his boss. What was going on? After one month of treating him like a supposed thief, followed by other two on the cool side, and now inviting him over?
"…"
"Don't give me that! Look, I can be a pain, I know, but those are my years in business, son. You can never be too careful." Mike pointed at Mark, out of habit.
Another single nod given.
"Let's stay here a bit more, and close in a half an hour or so. Cooking isn't my best suit, but I can do with some help not burning the stove, yeah?"
A tiny curve formed in Mark's face.
"You need anything?"
"If I did, I'll just grab anything from here, lad. Like more booze, if you're up to the challenge."
"Sure. "
The effort would harm his throat if he kept this up. So staying silent was the better choice.
Luckily, after half an hour with Mike on the counter, and Mark resting beside, and running around helping the two old ladies with her bags. That didn't need an exchange of words.
"You ready?" The old man closed the cash register, ending the count for the day.
Mark finished his last clean sweep on the freezer corner, and trotted with his broom and dustpan back to its place. Downing his two rolled up sleeves, he returned to his boss, both locking the store.
A starry but moonless night crawled to their senses, adding the warmth given off by the sea. Even the palm trees tend to avoid sleeping, moving to their own rhythm to the closest loud music play.
The second-hand car, at last having a destination instead of the three Mark's way to be places, sped up really quickly. The large line of hotels and bars, with the distinct pink haze, didn't seem bustling like a normal holiday.
Slowing down to a sudden traffic light, another fresh breeze cooled his bits.
"Oi, you drive with no tunes, Mark? You can't be that boring, little fella."
Mike, circling the knot, changing faces when finding rap, or anything he disliked, to stay with the cliché rock. The 60s and 70s sure were better decades to live.
Cough, Vietnam, cough.
An abrupt record stopping sound crushed the vibe.
"Bloody shite, what now?"
"…All bridges and some roads from the Miami Metropolitan Area had been closed due a severe weather warning. Meteorologists are tracking hurricane Hermione…"
A pure white sedan pulled up with a screech, right in front of another yellow-reared car. As Mark eyed the sudden newcomer, the driver, a guy with a flowery cyan shirt stepped out.
The green light on his side view unconsciously made his foot tap the accelerator.
"This happens every year, don't worry lad. You're not feeling the tornado yet, aye?" Mike chuckled, relaxing to his resumed tune. "Owner of a broken heart…"
Mark veered to the end of the large business line, the look of the lighthouse for an instant. Pole Position's huge bumps of music never went unnoticed on his midnight strolls, even from a street away.
"Huh. Got a girl there, Mark?" His quickie attention diverts didn't go subtle as he wished to.
The former soldier let out a smile, just to sadly look down again to the steering wheel.
"Well, the goods are for the ones who can take it. Push it, a'ight? I'm kinda hungry."
The two arrived at a large houses' block, green tinge over the wood, walls, the floor, almost everything, plus the square bushes surrounding the place. Only the cobbles that served the parking lots broke the pattern.
Three of the five had the door open, happily celebrating the holiday, while the duo found their way to the furthest one on the left, each grabbing bags.
"Ready for the greatest cook in the world?"
Mark smirked and nodded, waiting for his boss to open the door.
"Then your call's be appeased. Mike's shitty food is on the menu today!"
The smirk quickly transformed to an upper eyebrow.
"I told you. I'm crap at cooking. You sure have done a few meals with chicken before, so you better help me!"
Seeing the younger's expression didn't change, Mike tried with another.
"Got top notch coffee here if you wanna."
The door opened, the elder boss and younger troubled-minded lad entered, cracking their knuckles due the culinary challenge that has just presented.
It'd be tough to say that Mark had only learned the necessary to save himself from starving.
"Glaz."
"Yup, right here. What's on the need, Josef?"
"Sorry for the outer-time call, but the boss got us a job."
"Sure, what is it?"
"Interrogation."
Timur lingered his answer, a bit uneasy to say no. He'll ever would blatantly say no in the mob.
"Uh… that wasn't what I did in the Red Army, Josef."
"No, no. We'll be on the sidelines with the muscle crushers. I'm no interrogator either, but there's some German gopnik working in the Chop Shop in Little Havana. Rumors have his ways made the worst Italian mobster turn into a loose tongue in a matter of minutes."
"Right. So where…?"
"Just get to the Chop Shop. We'll get to the place from here. Later."
The click and beep jumped, Timur closing the line too.
His wound healed on its own to a rapid pace, finally able to use it with no sudden pain rush. Having just his right arm had been a pain itself added.
Though carrying a weapon, shoot it right in the face to others… The kick would make him bleed in no time, and he hated a one-hand wield. Even when his twelve kills in that stance said otherwise. Well, the heat made people do things they wouldn't ever do normally.
Turning off his TV, a soap opera he watched for the first time going off in a brief flash, he changed to his new uniform. Well, not relatively new for the bunch of times used in the previous days, the other one doing better in the trash than in his closet.
Using a black shirt instead of the aquamarine one, he closed his door.
His trip to the entrance didn't find anyone, probably because it was still early in the afternoon. Peeps were still at work, or way too early to night shift.
Hopping into his car, the engine screeched to the first ignite. Timur frowned, easing the expression when the third attempt worked.
Passing Starfish Island, his way to go each time at work, he noticed a pink cardigan over the beige stairs outside the mansion's main hall. The blonde sword bearer leaned on the large railing on the top, probably watching over the street. Her glasses covered any guess Timur could make.
So rare was the sight of her acting that carefree. In the presence of the Father she barely even breathed, probably out of the strong persona of the only woman among many men. And not good ones.
Then the reason got spotted. It was blended well over the color, even with beige and white being that different. The Son leaned beside her, his back and elbows to the railings, his presence given away by his long ponytail.
Timur eyed and lost the scene in two seconds. His attention to the road deserved more than a possible situation he wasn't supposed to see.
Light traffic, plus a few red lights helped his peaceful arrival at the chop shop. The giant sign over told a simple mechanic establishment, though the space was pretty much a lot to be just that.
After changing into his correct attire, the Russian mobster walked inside. The bouncer avoided line of sight, pretending he didn't exist.
The first section served as a façade, most vehicles tended normally, mechanics going in and out of under the cars, others on the hood, messing around with oil and water…
However, deeper in, he found car pieces, motorbike parts, some even made out factory new from a recent stolen vehicle. Sure, if looking closely, a boat engine could be around too.
Most people in gray clothes, hoodies and jeans, noted as the muscle, lounged in their own place, aside from the shop, yet always on the lookout for some troublemaker.
That's when another white came into view. Timur sighed in relief. Even with the mark on the Russian mob over him, this was the underworld.
Quickening his pace, he joined Josef, talking a black suit purple shirt tanned man, just like him.
"You looking for Bandit? That guy's an asshole. Sure you need him?"
"I know what I asked, chump." The bald mobster growled.
"Chill, Josef." The dubious tone turned into a scared one. "Uh, perhaps tending his bike? Some of the boys arrived with new merchandise an hour ago."
The black suit pointed to another section of the shop. This one's with three sports cars, with mechanics lurking inside their components too. In between, many loose pieces and tools lay at reach on nearby tables, like a twisted surgery.
"Good." A quick jaw up served as a greeting to the newcomer. "Here."
The two casually strolled to the pointed place. Again, some gazes earned, others minding their own business, though when Timur crossed eyes with someone, they quickly evaded, unlike when he was alone.
Huge stomp his fellow mobster had.
Passing through the many workers and perhaps owners of the fancy vehicles, they found two tiny garages, one on each side, in the middle, open to sight, a gangster with an uzi, ready for action.
Ignoring the one on the left for having a bus, as seen through its windows, the duo went for the other, finding another uzi wielder.
"Whoa. What business do you two ruskies got here?" He grabbed the weapon hanging on his chest, muzzle still down.
"We're looking for Bandit."
Josef rolled his eyes, begging for not a shootout again. Tough luck on his comrade, catching the two in the radio effect. Timur trembled as he smelled the adrenaline.
"Uh. He's right there." His muzzle waved towards the garage he guarded. "Suit yourselves."
As sudden as the gangster stood in the way, he walked aside.
Josef turned to Timur, finally letting out a stressed breath. The latter just gave a thumbs up in return.
Another window let the insides free to view. A buff man, no wonder why the bald style kept up even here, sporting the most cliché biker style, tending his Harley. Leather vest, tattoos all over, a deep red heart marked over his chest, bored look and bushy beard.
"What you lookin' for, scum?" The vested bald guy barely saw them with the corner of his eye.
"You sure got some to call us that, biker." Far from getting offended, Josef made sleepy eyes.
"Talk fast, can you? Don't have all day."
"We have a job for you. Something swift and simple."
"Huh?" The seemingly aggressive tone didn't go well as the biker stood up. His height matched both former soldiers.
Timur instinctively backed up a step, but Josef stood his ground.
"How am I useful for the Ruskie Mob?"
"We know you were a NARC, so let's skip the details..."
"You dumb ass shits know about that? Cool." The biker drew a handgun out of nowhere. "Scheisse..."
After the gangster's incident outside, the duo were ready. A two versus one started.
"Don't do anything funny. We didn't come here for that and I don't care about your past with the police." The bald mobster spoke up, as none of three guns even trembled. "I'm only interested in what you can do."
Timur, the only one two handing his Makarov, ready for the shot. A headshot. His left arm throbbed, yet his gun didn't.
"Okay, let's talk then." the biker downed his glock.
"Good choice." Josef lowered his own, and quickly eyed Timur to do the same. "It's about interrogation."
"Intel gathering?"
"Yes."
"Why would I work for you then? If I say no, you gonna start the threat, henchman?"
"Sure. We won't kill you if you do it."
"...that's it?" The biker asked after few seconds of silence.
"Do I need to say more? Do you, Glaz?"
Josef quickly threw a lighter to his fellow mobster. Timur caught it and, catching the gist, he lit it up, staring at the bike.
"I've already told you. I don't care about you being a NARC snitch. It's your business, and it doesn't affect the bratva. Police wouldn't do shit anyway."
Timur played with the lighter, while the biker exchanged view between him and Josef.
"Ja, why not. What kind of interrogation?"
"Let me rephrase then. Mob intel gathering."
"Should've started there. It's fun when I don't have to care about being gentle."
"Were you any time? Don't let me down, biker."
For the first time, the rude vested bald removed his glare, to a neutral face.
"Dominic, but most call me Bandit. When and where?"
"Right now. Just follow us on the road."
"Sure. Got nothing better to do either. Meet ya outside."
Timur and Josef turned around, getting out of the little garage.
"We need a battery first..."
"Henchman! What about my payment? It's work after all, alright?" Bandit voiced.
"Dust? Money? What do you want?"
"Now, we´re talkin'."
1986.
Mark woke up, silently. Such strange behavior, after eighty and a bit more days of sleeping drugged or startling up to a nightmare.
His surroundings felt new to him, but got recognized pretty quick. It was Mike's living room, the owner snoring a meter away, on his recliner.
A thin blanket covered the former soldier, balancing the cold breeze from the open window, and his low body heat when asleep. The music outside had died off, though other kinds were still up and loud, yet far enough to disturb the neighborhood.
Trying one more time to go back to slumber, Mark closed his eyes, but just couldn't. He felt rested. Rested after time now.
The silent step he learned in Hawaii worked well here too. Going for the kitchen to grab a glass of water, snuffing a sudden warmth. Every used utensil gathered beside the sink, making him remember the mostly average roasted chicken prepared.
Instead of the elder and the recent veteran, a dusted cooking book did the art.
"I was a soldier too, lad. Time's your only partner, and life treats you like shite."
A tiny single picture of a woman and a younger old man smiling at the camera, over the center table in the living room, gave out many hidden stuff in such sentences.
Mark nodded. Somehow, he understood. Not as deep as marriage, but some he did.
His will to write a letter died a while ago.
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, don't be. I'm over it already. So, how's the sauce? I'm trusting you with that, son!"
Washing the glass and putting it over the other drying utensils, he came up with an idea. His apartment's roof, dirty to the brim, didn't help with one of his likings back in the jungle. One of the few good memories.
Climbing up to the house's roof was next. Not his most clever idea, the ladder just outside, barely covered by leaves. As soon as his first step crunched, a louder snore resounded from inside the house, but no further answer.
The moonless and starry night looked better with no neon nearby. The beach gave a purer eye candy, but this... felt homelike. So close to a place to fall asleep, with less fear. That blanket… sure had meaning. Or not.
"Look! That's the Ursa Major!"
"I only see a bunch of dots, Mark…"
"You only have to look closer, Emma! See? It's a bear!"
"You see a grizzly, I can see a lovely puppy…"
"Mark, Emma! We've got dinner! Come back down if you want some!"
Mark raised a hand toward the sky, and steadily crushed the air gathered inside. His scar ached as the strength on his wrist made its work.
"I'm leaving home, dad. Life... is not enough for me here."
"Go on your way, kid. Though if you bring me here a femme fatale again, your mother sure'll die from a heart attack. Choose wisely."
The last genuine smile given to someone he trusted with his blood, burned in that resort in Hawaii.
Suddenly, a police siren, resounding from afar, filled his thoughts. He sat up on the angled roof, careful to not slide. It'd be embarrassing to make that slip on his boss' house.
One siren was added, then another, then a bunch. A movie level police chase closed the gap quickly to this side of town. Mark, focused on the road, saw the first car, a red Testarossa, driven by the same guy with cyan flowery shirt.
" All units, we got a 10-71 in East South Beach."A female robot police dispatcher called.
Four cruisers trailed behind, too speedy to care about cost to the state.
As soon as they arrived, they scrammed. Mark tried lying on his back again, but a voice stopped him.
"Oi, Mark. What the hell you doing up there?" Mike had his view upturned to his roof.
"…!"
"The door's open, do whatever you want, just don't trip. I'm not going to drive to the hospital for a head bonk."
The former soldier sitting again, gazed up to the sky one last time, before going back to the house. More memories could get dangerous in no time, and the present looked good enough.
With just a sofa, dinner and a blanket.
NW 184th Street
Timur and Josef arrived at a tiny mob operation center, covered in the suburbs around. The first opened the trunk, and grabbed a car battery Josef bought in the chop shop.
Bandit and his bike pulled up, short after joining them, the three entering together.
Three fellow mobsters watched them pass, interrupting their talk to greet Josef in silence. Both had at reach a shotgun, a bat, and a handgun respectively, all things considered, the least measure the high-up here could give.
Another one, through a pair of windows on the left, traced on a notebook, keeping attention to the muscly one.
"Afternoon, Josef." Poor habits had his brown hair messy, and eyes bagged.
"Ah, hello, Adrik."
"Upstairs, comrade. Petrov started a few minutes ago." The sitting mobster saw Timur. "Oh, the other Red soldier. This will be interesting."
The former marksman, a bit unsettled, chose to nod instead of his rusty Russian out to hear.
"And you." Regarded Bandit. "Be sure the guy can be off with a single wipe to the floor when finished."
"I'll try." He shrugged.
Hearing his mother language fluent from the mouth of a filth lowlife biker gangster made Timur blink twice.
Josef went for the left staircase, strangely having two to choose from. The kitchen down the hallway left vapor, like recent boiled water, though no one was there.
Passing through, finding two other mobsters watching TV, firearms at arm stretch distance, and finally a lounge, where six sat among the sofas, smoking, or drinking from a transparent bottle of vodka.
"About time, Josef. Shit's getting better by the second."
The following biggest room, distinct with the plaster yellow walls, let out a high punch noise. Knuckles crushing blood vessels stayed silent unless it touched bones.
"Nice catch, you two."
"Bastard's alive after a direct chest shot." They chuckled. "We sure didn't intend to catch him, my friend."
"He's shot?" Bandit mused, a frown straining his face.
"Well, you wouldn't hesitate if a walrus maniac came at you with a blade, huh?"
"Right…"
Another punch noise. Sure the one doing the interrogation was giving himself out. Bandit, rolling his eyes, tried to open the wooden door, finding it locked.
"Shit, Petrov must be pissed."
"Nah, he isn't the one making the hits. You'll surely see her any minute."
"Her?" Timur whispered, watching his fellow do a quick bottoms-up.
The door clicked, silently swinging in.
"You took your time, maggots." The bearded Petrov's face tilted to view, then backed up, letting the three pass.
A single bulb fought the dark in the room. Below, a tied white man on a chair, bled from his mouth and nostrils, cheeks cut swelled, but still defying his captor.
His arms down to the hand were tight taped to the armrests, while his fingers could roam freely as far as they could, choosing to grab the rest's curved tip instead.
The platinum blonde woman, probably previously mentioned, hanged a fist over him, ready for another punch. Her posture was way more erratic than the perfect poised bodyguard, even having the same complexion. Her hair had more silver in it, bright in the low light.
Her white suit looked a bit different than everyone else's, donned with vertical stripes, and the colored shirt inside resembled of the innocent blended Timur. Then he remembered.
The boss' bodyguard hadn't ever wore that. Even in celebrations, she chose a fancy dress, always with her shades on and her sword. This one, with her crazed blue eyes and knuckle pointed up, straying further from calm.
"Got the electric? Cool, this'll make this asshole squeal." Petrov turned on the lights, gathering the battery pieces on the same table with a lot of vinyl discs, a masking tape, and a bottle of water. Curious, a heavy wrench leaned to a side of it.
"T, get a grip and let this guy do his magic." Josef crossed his arms to her, pointing with his chin to Bandit.
"A sec." 'T' closed to the tied man's face. "Ze good girl's going. So I'm asking one last time. WHO ZE FUCK SENT YOU?" Her thick slav accent present, Timur had to process her words a few seconds.
The walrus mask on the floor got blood stained in no time. Blood from a spit.
"You'll regret zat."
The woman quickly grabbed the wrench, instead of backing out of disgust.
"Valrus, you aren't swimming anymore!" The swing trace ended in the man's leg.
Timur heard the crack on the tied man's knee cap. The latter sure clenched his teeth, a subtle pain whimper escaping between.
"Let that be our greeting, Mr. Walrus! Hope you didn't feel much, did you?"
The tied man raised his gaze to Bandit's eyes. The defiant look was still there, but now the faster breathing gave out more than blood out of the mouth.
"Fine work, lady. I'll take it from here." Changing the tone immediately, grabbing the wrench, he added. "I'm so sorry I ruined your date with the busty young lady, but you'll do with me, alright pal?"
Silence was all he answered, as 'T' took off to the bathroom just beside the place. Bandit kinda overstated, though her chest plumped up her black shirt generously. Timur's eyes returned to the torturer after the door's bang.
"Good. I just want to have a little chat with you, fella! Hm… Should we have a bit of music then? What kind do you like?"
The German gopnik left the wrench back in its place, grabbing two of the vinyl.
"Midnight Riders… Or this is… Rodolfo… What's this, Petrov?"
"Beats me. Never been a fan of music. Uh..." Petrov read the fancy detailed words aside a Latino musician smiling. "Prolly a Colombian left it, it's Spanish."
"Then let's try this one." Bandit stretched his hand toward Timur. "New tunes can loosen up any scene, ja?"
The outsider, now with the vinyl on his hands, walked to the recorder, turning in on and playing.
Bandit, not sure how to dance salsa, moved his shoulders and head with the rhythm. Strolling with style around his own little personal circle.
T, getting out of the bathroom, leaned her back on a wall, taking out a cigarette and lighting it up. Her eyebrow raised as the biker ended his first round.
"Who are you, buddy? I'm sure you got lost and all I wanna do is help."
Glassy eyes got all his answers. The tied one's knee still hurt, but not enough to break the temper.
"That's it? You don't even remember how to talk in English? Okay." Bandit looked everywhere, and his eyes fixed on a green sofa, behind Timur and Josef. "Tip, rip, tip, tip, Tobacco and Ron, Tobacco…"
His steps, coming for a white cloth lying over the sofa, and returning, dancing as well, and grabbing the bottle of water. Bandit opened it, and pushed the prisoner's head backwards, pouring the content on his face. Especially in the nose.
As soon as the tied man opened his mouth for breath, the torturer put the cloth inside, and let the head go.
"Do someone here'll enjoy this?" Bandit pulled out a knife out of his belt, and a lighter out of his pocket. "Let's find out."
Watery eyes couldn't make the middle finger cut out of the left hand, as the first growl, muted by the cloth, met the open area. Soon it went louder as the cauterize worked on the wound. Perhaps even causing a second burn degree on untouched skin.
Bandit reached his hand to the cloth, but looked the prisoner in the eyes.
"Naw, you're still confused, aren't ya? Perhaps this…" The ring finger flew this time, with a pained moan accompanying. "Will help you."
The burn got messier this time, meeting the same blacked blood.
Petrov and Josef watched unamused, Timur trying to comprehend what the hell was going on, and the woman named T went for the gleam irises.
"There goes your first life. I don't know how many you have left, so better to talk to me, okay? Who are you?"
As soon as the cloth got out his mouth, the prisoner spat aiming at Bandit's face, but reached the vest.
"Scheisse, I love this vest. Don't worry, I understand. Maybe you need another kind of approach."
The knife on the interrogator's hand swiftly slashed the left eyebrow, then again on the other.
"Blood's the max expression of sensuality, did you know? It's red, the color of passion… Goes with our heart rate, our will to go busy, cherry popping and even erections, man! But soon, you won't."
Bandit undid the pants of the man with a swift cut, letting the wiener and balls in the open. Having the ankles tied as well, the danger couldn't be less.
"You, Glaz, right?" The biker pointed at him, with the bloodied sharp end of his blade. "The battery is on you. The testicles are a nice place to do a little shake up, don't you think?"
Timur, taken out of the blue, walked to the battery, grabbing the two electrified clips. Three pairs of eyes looked over his steps, while the torturer still did his rounds with the knife in his hand, and swish! Another cut.
The former marksman wasn't sure of how they were used, but tried sparking them a little, brushing one with the other.
"Woosh! You look eager, comrade! Though let me ask first." Bandit eyed his victim again. "You sure wanna do this?"
"Fuck you, asshole! You all here are dead! I'm not important… and nothing I'll even say will work for you motherfuckers!" The tied man cried, still enduring the pain, as the cloth got out of his mouth.
"Fine answer. BECAUSE OF COURSE I'LL LOVE THIS! FIRE THE ENGINE, GLAZ!"
The German cheered to himself, as Timur, hesitant, did as commanded.
Mark stifling a yawn didn't mean something new on his counter. Though, him being there Sunday, sure it was. The idea came up as he enjoyed his free day after the hangover with Jordan.
The detective had to go with it and get to work like a normal day, throwing a blanket on the sofa, careful to cover Mark to the head. The sun rays through the curtain and thin layer on his eyes helped with his slumber, sleeping through the morning to midday.
Rest only lasted one day. Now, three days later, his eyes were close to being bloodshot again.
"I'm fine, Mike. I can take Sunday if you wanna."
"Oh? I'll cover morning then, and you in the afternoon 'till five, or whatever, just close the store."
"Yeah."
He wanted to see her. The napkin lied aside the telephone, tried twice to call, but failed to dial the last two. Friday and Saturday didn't leave a trace, either, having worked the two days.
This one seemed to be lost anyway. Getting even darker, Mark made up his mind to wrap up the place on the next client.
"Hi there."
His thoughts got interrupted by the blonde his mind was full of. Sporting the light eye bags, and her hair covering her left eye, and carrying her orange backpack. She gripped a cup of Star breeze's coffee in her hand, walking to Mark.
"…!"
"I… uh… here, have this." Alex offered the cup, putting it on the counter. "It's for the one you bought me in Paddie's."
Mark blinked thrice, not quite believing what was going on.
"Don't know which one you'd like, so sweet would do? Anywho, see ya!"
The ponytail blonde turned around, and not giving opportunities for Mark to reply, rang the bell.
A bit after, the former soldier opened the cup, the warm smell… the hot going further to his cheeks.
"See? Totally washes away your painful yesterdays…"
"That's all you have, Earl boy? This juice can go all night, sweetheart!"
"I dunno anything… All comes from phone calls, a Dan called…"
"Dan, Dan, Dan, you've mentioned him like four times now! DAN WHO?"
"I don't know, please, I dunno, I'd… Nghngh, NO, NO!"
"Bzzt! Wrong answer, partner! Lady, show our contestant what he has won today!"
This time 'T' sparked the clips, and put each on the nipples, the electricity making its work, the shock noise heard over the chips cracking inside Petrov's mouth.
Timur strained his eyes, just to see the bearded one giving some to Josef.
"That's enough." Bandit hopped to the tied man's, blocking the woman's way. "Now, this is your last life, fella. Who sent you?"
"Dan… from the… phone calls… I tried calling him back, but there's no answer..."
"The chicken mask? Got something about that?" Josef finally spoke up, for the first time in the interrogation.
"I don't… what the fuck means… the chicken! But I'm glad there's more than me on you, Russian filth..."
"That's it. Make his balls explode, this is useless. He doesn't know shit." The tanned bald man ordered, with a strong tone.
"Whoa, I can still work on this, henchman..."
"He tried to kill my brothers, and it's been more than twenty minutes. A lot more in fact, and him breathing is an insult. You against that, biker?"
...
"Nice shot, Timur."
His Dragunov rifle narrowly kicked his shoulder, just searching for the next target.
"Seen Pelevin yet, Komarov?"
"No, but for the holy mother, he's another hunter, comrade." His fellow replied.
"The bodies, huh? I thought it would be a quiet day after the other... Oh." Verenich's voice copped the little beep.
A shot heard in the distance, a friendly variant of a Russian-made weapon.
"That one at the entrance was moving. Prolly the hero tried to believe in his cross at first."
" Verenich, lieutenant Avilov and his team are entering the scene. Hold for friendlies."
"Copy. Reinforcements are here, care for stray shots."
"I think I've got contact." Timur whispered to the radio.
"You positive?"
"Second floor, fourth window left from the middle. Oh, no."
Another shot from a silenced sniper. This one from the other direction in the jungle, breaking the glass.
"Why is he letting some alive? A broken arm won't stop a man, cyka." Komarov sounded annoyed.
"Oy, watch it on the trigger. I see Rusakov and Belikov getting upstairs."
Timur slowly adjusted his scope. Pelevin didn't carry any kind of plate over the tank top, fighting two Americans at the same time. More, judging from the rate of fire over the private's cover.
As he positioned his finger to help with a bit of suppression, he saw a body launched with a shotgun across one of the windows.
"Pelevin's positive on my end. The three Americans are down."
"There's Rusakov. I think it's clear."
Through Timur's lens, the reunion between the three ended pretty quickly, as Pelevin tried to leave the scene.
"What the hell. Chill out, Nikolay."
"What happened?"
"Fella tried to punch Pelevin. Malyshev arrived though."
"Verenich, wrap up your team and get to the resort. Kauai is ours."
"Woo."
Half an hour later, the three reunited in the resort's parking lot, as most of the jeeps were there. As the three gave some thumbs up and joked about their kills, Timur's eye corner could see four American soldiers held at gunpoint by Avilov.
"Uh, Verenich."
"Say."
"There isn't an interrogation here?"
"Not that I remember." His team leader answered. "Those guys wouldn't do the same if we did either."
"But the intel..."
"You can't be sure that they are gonna answer. And all you' d do is wasting time and resources. Why not just..."
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Any of them could do what Pelevin did. Don't forget that, Timur."
...
Even having the idea, Timur couldn't talk. He hasn't been spoken to. So he chose to step a bit closer to Josef, just to show a bit of support.
The tanned bald man briefly looked sideways to him.
"No, but I'm not gonna do it." Bandit clarified, going to wash his hands in the bathroom.
"I wasn't talking to you. T, please do the honors, yes?"
"Gladly." The woman with black gloves grinned, sparking the clips.
"You ain't better than them… bitch! Getting fucked by some big shot doesn't mean crap! YOU'LL BE DITCHED IN NO TIME! Urghhh…!"
Shortly afterwards, Bandit and Josef got out instantly, talking about the payment, the first looking visibly annoyed. Petrov eyed Timur, before going away with the other two.
The five heart's beatings turned into just four, before T letting loose of the clips, and letting herself onto the ground in the process.
Timur, frozen in place, didn't know what to do. Suddenly, a burst laugh came out of the platinum blonde, grabbing the bloodied Walrus mask, trying to tear it apart, but as it was made out of rubber, brute force wouldn't budge it.
Minutes passed, and T stood up again.
"Ze hell you looking at, scumbag?" The woman glared at Timur, brushing the dust off her.
The wooden door opened again, Josef entering.
"Hey, 'T', you'll be staying in Starfish these few days. Know how to get there or want me to drive you?"
"Can't I have motel or somezing?" She retrieved a ring with a square gem over it, and put it over her thumb.
"It's the boss' call. You can phone him if you want to, but he sounded pissed. I… suggest not."
"Vell, fuck. Let's roll, I guess"
"Fine. Come on, Timur. You did well."
The three saw the other mobsters celebrate, lounge, or in case of Adrik, still filing papers, as they left the place. Bandit and Petrov were nowhere to be seen, confirmed by the missing bike outside.
Night smiled over the city of Miami. The looming warmth of spring couldn't feel nicer, with the breeze through the car window reaching the exact speed. Palm trees seemed happier too, even in this part of town where they breathed mostly smoke and dust, as the darker stems gave away.
"I'm hungry. Got somezing to eat zere?" T asked from the back seat, her hair waving with wind.
"Probably not. What do you want? We can buy anything out here."
"Any...zing? Even a nice Boeuf Stroganoff?"
"Uh, you can settle with shashlik, or even pirozhki if you know some places."
"You vouch for them, Josef?"
"No. For some reason I don't like our food served here. Maybe it's paranoia."
"Well, why not pizza then?"
Timur held in a red light, casually a tiny pizza parlor opened for business, on the other block.
"Wow! What kind of car is that?" T's head popped between the driver and Josef, pointing to the other side of the road.
"It's from that movie, an Acado GT. Haven't seen any out in the open yet. Is it that special?"
"Considering its price, I think so." Timur hopped in, answering the tanned bald.
Straining his eyes, the former marksman caught the driver. An unexpressive blond man.
"Dude, it's awesome!" T commented as both cars passed each other, before Timur pulled up beside the parlor.
"I'll go. Don't talk too much, a'ight?" Josef smirked, closing the door.
The clients inside, as always, trembled in his presence, yet he, out of habit, just walked to the clerk. At least the attention's speed made up for the bad mood.
Cigarette smoke flew over the BMW, parked on the long line of hotel and discotheques. Noting the closeness to the sea, the neon vapor painted pink its surroundings, with the young and middle-aged people, enjoying their last hours towards the hateful Monday.
Mark didn't plan on doing that, having just a night cruise because of an unintended caffeine consumption. He didn't plan on having her brother on the phone, either.
The pathetic feeling of the line cut for the lack of an answer crushed his good vibe. Still, he washed the empty cup and put it along the many vases to use in his kitchen.
"I hate myself."
Deep drags after, blood distributing the nicotine to the tip of the hands and feet, a motorbike engine rattled to Mark's left, behind the BMW. Winning the former soldier's attention with the noise, a gray leather jacket woman jumped out of it, a dark helmet over her head.
"Lo, Grace."
She giggled inside the round protective gear, taking it out. Instead of having the regular braids, her hair was tied in a downed tail, the white strand standing out a bit more.
"Didn't know I'm that obvious, Marky. Or were you checking me out that much?"
"Not many girls come to me. What are you doing here?"
"Nothing. Got bored and decided to have a cruise 'round South Beach."
"Finding just me in the process…" Mark grinned, remembering a line. "Help, officer, I have a stalker here!"
"Heh, you wish. Got a light?" She owned herself a pack of cigs, putting one between her lips.
"Yeah, catch."
Their smoke trails joined over the thin air, touching but not mixing, as he leaned on the driver's seat, and she just in the back.
"Didn't know you enjoyed the smoke, Grace."
"Actually, this is my first. Am I doing it fine?"
"Yup, way better than me, to be honest."
His first ended with smoke going out of his nose and coughs promising he wouldn't do it ever again. Such a void promise.
"How bad can anyone be? Anyways, thank you." The lighter flew back to Mark.
Enjoying the company, Grace's phone beeped.
"Another one? ANOTHER ONE? This is bullshit, Jordan!"
"…"
"I'm on my way." Grace turned to Mark after closing the square phone. "One more time, you're saved huh?"
The former soldier shrugged.
"Say hello to Trace for me."
"Sure." The Korean put the helmet on again, engine turning on.
With a kick, Grace sped up down the roadway, going right on the first curve, leaving Mark with the second cigarette, which he didn't lit up, and stayed looking at the stars leaning on his BMW. Feeling a tiny bit better.
Cobra Copter - Erika / Rodolfo y su típica RA7 - Tabaco y Ron / Voyager - Expresos Flamingo