Chapter 23

Hands casually jammed in his pockets, Linden strolled out of the front door of the Dons' Mansion whistling a jaunty tune. Breaking off long enough to call out "See you again soon!", he wasn't at all surprised to hear the large door slam shut behind him.

Unruffled, he continued with the melody and meandered down the path to where his colleague was waiting patiently. Leaning against a lamp post at the top of Wall Market, Deacon smoothly fell in step with the other man.

"I thought you were only going to be ten minutes" Deacon accused. "I've been standing there for almost twenty." Part of his task had involved waiting outside the Mansion for Linden to exit, looking inconspicuous. Needless to say, for a Turk to look inconspicuous in a place like Wall Market was no small feat. Thankfully though, Deacon was suitably menacing that anyone who did take too much interest in his presence was quickly deterred from pursuing it.

Linden produced his sunglasses from one of his pockets and snapped them open. "You know what it's like" he replied, putting on the shades. "Getting the Don to part with money…"

"The words 'blood' and 'stone' do tend to spring to mind" acknowledged Deacon. "What was it this time?"

The two sauntered through the shops and stalls of the Market. Most noticeably, even though the place was teaming with people, the men were never jostled or pushed. Such was the reputation of the Turks.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

A smirk creased Lindens' face as he recalled his meeting with the Don of the Slums.

The man was no more than another of Shinra's puppets, put in place by the company rather than through any of his own merit. He took care of the seedier elements of Midgar - ran the brothels, offering protection to shopkeepers throughout the slums (for a price of course) and taking care of any unlicensed business. Naturally he wasn't allowed to keep hold of all the money he 'earned' - Shinra claimed a large cut, collected by the Turks. The current Don (more than most of his predecessors who spinelessly acquiesced to the President's every demand), had a slightly different attitude to money. He thought it should all belong to him. Therefore every time a Turk called to take Shinra's money, the Don tried every trick in the book to get out of paying some, if not all, of the amount.

His antics were legendary amongst the elite group of hitmen, and many a battle had been fought over who got to take the assignment. After one argument too many, Vincent had finally instigated a rota, ensuring that everyone got their turn to play with the Don.

"He said he'd got religion. Was giving away all his worldly possessions to charity." It was all Linden could do not to burst into raucous laughter. "Though evidently he hadn't gotten round to giving away all the fancy stuff in his office yet."

Deacon, a man who took the spiritual side of life more seriously than most Turks, shook his head reprovingly. "God forgives all men for their sins" he lectured, "except sniveling little creeps like him."

"Amen to that, buddy" agreed Linden. "So when do you think we should start running?"

His partner checked his watch. "As it happens, round about now."

The two men simultaneously broke into a sprint, tearing their way through the milling crowd, just as a ball of flame erupted from the Mansion behind them. Shoppers flung themselves to the ground in a panic as the explosion shook the Market, while the racing Turks dodged a hail of masonry as they made their escape.

"Ouch!" A stray piece of flying Mansion chipped Linden on the shoulder.

"Your own fault" puffed Deacon as the pair rounded a corner and away from the worst of the devastation. "If you'd taken the ten minutes you told me instead of twenty, we'd have been well out of here before it went off."

"But visiting the Don is always such a pleasure." Estimating themselves to be clear of any more flying debris, they slowed to a walk once more. Looking back over his shoulder, Linden could see a huge cloud of thick black smoke, rising from where the Dons' Mansion used to be. "Nice bomb though" he complimented. "Very effective."

The corner of Deacons' mouth curled upwards into an unmistakable smile. "She was a beauty" he admitted. "I designed it especially for the Don."

"You did?"

"Sure. I made it big enough to take out the entire building, make him do the largest splits he'll ever do in his life and spray-painted it gold to match the rest of the shit he had in there."

Linden couldn't help himself from laughing this time. "You're a true artist, man." He sighed. "The only problem now is that we've just blown up our favourite Don. We're gonna need a new one. Do you think that guy had a brother?"

"Orders are orders" Deacon, ever the pragmatic one of the duo, reminded his colleague. "The boss said he had to go."

"True." Though stationed out in the middle of nowhere, Vincent was still doing his damndest to remain at the hub of Turk operations. All missions, information and operations were communicated to him, and he issued the orders from Nibelheim. It wasn't quite the same though, as the three Midgar based Turks had discovered. "Ah well, job done. What say we go get a drink?"

Deacons' smile increased. "I like your way of thinking" he replied. "Preston said he was going for a few bevvies over in Sector Eight. We could always join him."

"A regular Turk night out. Let's go."

A siren was just beginning to sound in the background, no doubt the fire service come to put out whatever remained of the Mansion. Leaving behind the chaos of Wall Market, the Turks ambled towards Sector Eight. Linden spotted a small child shoot past him, clutching something small and shiny to his chest. He vaguely recalled seeing a similar item, some kind of golden paperweight, sitting on the deceased Dons' desk.

The crowds didn't diminish as they neared their destination. The news of the explosion had obviously filtered this far though the Slums, which wasn't surprising considering the rate at which information sped round the area. People were buzzing like flies, huddled in corners or heading off to loot the bomb site.

Reaching the main road through the sector, Linden looked up and down the street. This place too was full of people. He noticed they seemed agitated and heading in one particular direction, but not the quickest route to Wall Market. Turning to his partner he asked "which bar did Preston say he was going to?" Deacon pondered a moment.

"Henderson's, his usual."

"That's what I figured." Linden's brow creased up in thought. "And isn't Henderson's that way?" He pointed down the road, the same direction as the residents were heading in.

"It is…" Deacon followed the other Turk's line of sight. Indeed, the people did seem to be heading towards one particular place. Neon signs fizzled outside forming the unmistakable word "Henderson's". He started to jog along with them, Linden trotting close behind. As they grew nearer, their alarm increased. People seemed to be staggering out of the building, clutching at wounds. Some lay on the pavement, injured, dead, it was impossible to tell.

Shifting into a dash for the second time that evening, the Turks shoved their way through the crowds and up to the door, where they skidded to a halt.

"I think we'd better take a look a look at this" grimaced Linden. "Looks like someone's gone a little crazy in here." Deacon was only half listening, his attention had been grabbed by something to his left. He moved over to investigate but stopped almost immediately. Linden carried on regardless. "I think…" Deacon interrupted his flow of speech.

"I think" he said slowly, eyes riveted on the ground, "that we'd better call the boss."