Chapter One – Crazy Ivan
Los Angeles, California
2002 A.D.
The soft sound of classical music echoed through the car as it
drove through the dark alley. Heavy rain fell from above, and through its
tinted windows an occasional flash of light could be seen and the distant
rumbling of thunder could faintly be heard. Slowly, "Crazy" Ivan Saratov leaned back in his seat, his
hard, steel-gray eyes scanning the alleys. It was in places like this he had
gained his reputation, first as a petty thug, beating up whores and torching
businesses that were late with their protection money, and later as leader of
his own heroin ring. For thirty years, ever since coming to this country as a
child turned cold in the heartless slums of the Ukraine, he had been a veteran
of the Los Angeles crime scene. He had risen through its ranks, fighting
fiercely for those who had his loyalty, and toppling them just as fiercely when
he had the chance. Now he was one of LA's criminal kingpins, and he fought for
nobody but himself, and the sprawling coalition of organized crime which he
oversaw.
The ruling chair of syndicate which he now ran was called the
Slated Throne by some, the last three people who held it died gruesomely. The
first, Daniel DiFrancini had been gunned down by the Jamaicans ten years ago,
the second, Carlos Vascevo had been strung up and butchered by the L.A. Ripper,
the third Rolan Marit had been found dead two weeks ago. Many people suspected
Ivan himself of masterminding that piece of work. Ivan was content to promote
that theory as long as it made people wary of his power, but he knew it wasn't
true. It almost looked like a street mugging, except that Rolan had been
missing half his intestines, and his skull had been cleaved off. He wasn't
alone. Over the last several weeks, crime bosses, drug lords, even seemingly
insignificant thugs had been turning up dead.
Thinking about the attacks angered him, he didn't like things
he couldn't explain.
And that's why he was here, driving down an abandoned road
deep in the warehouse district of LA. Ivan had ordered his lieutenants together
to discuss the issue. Five years ago the same thing had been happening, of
course it wasn't exactly the same. Back when the L.A. Ripper, as the police had
dubbed him, walked the streets the carnage had been in massive proportions.
Ten, twenty people at a time had been found brutally butchered. This time
around the strikes were more surgical, El Cabala had been found strung up with
two of his bodyguards at his Beverly Hills penthouse. No one else in the house
had heard a thing. Juan Dominguez was left floating in the San Gabriel River
without his heart. Once again, no witnesses.
The music coming from his car radio was disturbing his focus.
"Turn it off." Ivan ordered.
"Yes sir." the driver said as he quickly turned off the music
and Ivan once again stared out into the darkness.
Everyone was taking hits, some drug and prostitution rings had
already broken apart under the pressure of lost leadership. So far Ivan had
been lucky, he had lost only a leg breaker and a coke peddler. The only other
ones who had been as lucky were the Jamaican Posse, but then none of the
constant turmoil of the city's crime scene ever seemed to be able to stop them.
It had been five years since they had lost their ruthless leader, King Willey,
to the L.A. Ripper, and they were still the biggest competition to his Cartel.
Ivan fondly remembered the day that he had turned on his favorite news-zine,
Hard Core with Greg Pope, and heard the news of Willey's demise, up until that
point he had actually thought the L.A. Ripper had been some of Willey's boys,
lord knows he had certainly been brutal enough to order such hits. Then one day
the King had been found decapitated in a back alley, with his spinal column
removed.
Ivan remembered the stir that had made in the West Side
underworld, not only because King Willey was the most powerful drug lord on the
coast, but because very few people actually knew what he looked like. Ivan
himself had bribed the county mortician to get a look at the mutilated corpse
of his rival. Whoever had pulled it off earned Ivan's respect that day, he had
sent word through his informant network to find the man responsible, he could
use someone that resourceful, but no one ever showed up.
Actually he was a little miffed
at the fellow, he had been planning his own surprise for Willey, but then again
so had every other drug baron in the city.
The car slowly came to stop in front of an old, broken down
warehouse. The graffiti covered, and crumbling walls of the building reminded
him of the ghettos of Grozny where he had grown up as a child. There were two men by the doorway of the
building, hunched over an old and battered trashcan, warming their gloved hands
and doing little to hide the automatic rifles they carried. The driver, John
Novakovich, quietly opened Ivan's door and stood waiting with an umbrella
ready. With a grunt Ivan got out of the car, even at the age of fifty he looked
impressive, with a massive build and silver-streaked hair. Six bodyguards,
three in each of the cars that flanked his, fell into line, creating a tight
circle around their boss. Almost as if entering a funeral home, the entourage
walked toward the warehouse entrance.
* * *
"Someone tried this before, five years ago, it's the same damn
thing", a tall, gruff man said as he leaned toward the table. Murmurs of
agreement echoed his statement.
"What's wrong McDarmid?", a greasy-haired giant of a man spoke up,
"Afraid of a little blood?"
"Fuck off Eddy, whoever this bitch is, he's killed four of my dope
runners." Alexander McDarmid growled as he ran a hand through his thinning hair
and looked up. Running a casual glance across the ceiling, then returning his
gaze to the table, and the people seated around it.
"Its not the same thing… this is calculated." A short, fat man,
Don Sheridan, said as he nervously picked as a piece of lint on his sleeve.
"What do you mean Sheridan?" Ivan
asked as he took a cigar from his pocket.
"The Ripper was just killing people at random. A few Russian's
here, a few Spics there. This guy" Don paused for a second, making sure
everyone was paying attention to him, "this guys a piece of work. He's not just
shooting up people, someone's giving him targets."
"What about the thugs. My man, Mike, he was nothing more than a
breaker. Why'd he take him out?" Ivan asked as he put the Cigar to his mouth
and lit it.
"I don't know… target practice?" Alexander put in helpfully, and
nervous chuckles echoed around the table.
"It reminds me too much of Willey." Don said as he shook his head,
"I can't think of anyone else who would do it. No one was as fucked up as that
crazy Jamaican."
"Willey's dead." Ivan's voice was flat and cold. "Whatever this is
about, we survived it then and he didn't." There was a sharp sound as billows
of rain started to pour from above, and cold winds swirled into the warehouse.
Ivan frowned, "Someone shut that window."
A man quickly took up the task, ascending the rickety wooden
stairs that led to the second floor of the warehouse.
"Keyser Soze? Are we getting too close to his territory?" Don
put in helpfully, ignoring the sudden chill.
"No, he doesn't work on the west side."
"Look, it doesn't matter who it is. All that matters is we
stop this loon before he does any real damage." A thin, gaunt man put in.
McDarmid spoke up, "You're right. I've been talking to my boys
and they've started compiling a list. I think someone's called in outside help…
a professional."
Ivan was intrigued, "Explain."
"Well, it's not anyone from around here. Probably someone
from New York… I've done a few calls and it turns out that there was a guy, oh,
maybe eight years ago, who pulled of a number like the one's were seeing now.
Edward Smithson, butchered six people… cut out a few hearts, ate a few brains.
All sorts of sick shit."
A cool breeze blew across the room, Ivan was getting annoyed.
"Damn it, someone shut that fucking window, now!"
A black blur momentarily cast a shadow over the table, as the
hanging ceiling lights were blocked by a falling object. The bloody body of a
man slammed into the table, blood splashing across several seated at the table.
"Holy Shit!"
A whirring sound rumbled through the air, then the warehouse
became pitch black as all the lights blacked out simultaneously. For several
seconds, an eerie silence prevailed, with the shocked men struggling to draw
their weapons, and defend themselves.
It didn't stay quiet long.
A flash of azure blue light flared brightly from somewhere on
the warehouse catwalk. It flew with blinding speed, impacting with McDarmid's
chest. In the light, Ivan saw blood erupting from a gapping hole in Alexander's
chest as he dropped to the floor, like a marionette with his strings cut.
Gunfire erupted from each of the twenty men in the room, Ivan
himself wielding a Glock, firing at where the indigo fireball had came from.
The hail of fire was deafeningly loud as chunks of rotting wood began to rain
down from the ceiling. There was a thud as something landed on the warehouse
floor.
A blood-curdling scream, in the muzzle flares, Ivan saw one of
his bodyguards being vaulted in the air. Blood splashed onto his Armani suit as
another bodyguard had his head sheared off. Now the gunfire was chaotic,
everyone was firing everywhere bullets raked the room, Ivan saw another lord
get shot by his own men in the chaos.
A stinging pain bit into his arm, he was knocked on his back by
the force as a stray bullet nearly blew his arm off. He had his wind knocked
out of him as he hit the floor. Men were still firing like crazy, the only
pauses came when they were desperately trying to reload, or when another
blood-curdling scream echoed through the warehouse.
From his vantage point of the floor, still gasping for air,
Ivan saw two other men get cut down, one with his throat missing, and the other
with his back and neck twisted at impossible angles. As the screams replaced
the gunshots, Ivan began to push him self off the floor.
If he ever got out of this alive, the first thing he was going
to do was disembowel the bastard who shot him, then he was going to get every
hit man this side of the Rockies after whatever son of a bitch was responsible
for this. He was still thinking of revenge, too deep in thought to notice the
ghostly quiet that had settled in air, when something shoved him back onto the
ground.
Someone heavy was on his chest, through the red haze that his
eyesight had become, Ivan thought he saw something hovering over him, something
ephemeral, like hot air passing over pavement. He tried to lift his gun up the
fire at the thing, but it was violently knocked away, and went skittering
across the concrete floor. From the corner of his eye, Ivan noticed three red
dots crawling languorously up his arm, Ivan was still trying to figure out what
they were when another blast of blue fire blew apart his skull.
