When I was a kid, I thought that when you turned off the TV, the show stopped until you switched the set back on. One day, when I was six, my timing had been just right, and I turned it on just as a repeat of the show I had been watching when I had last shut it off began. For a moment, the theory was true. I learned the truth later, though. Perception is funny like that, sometimes. Then there are other times.
I thought I had shut down the Punchinello's the last time I flipped their switch. But now I was back on, full power, for a repeat.
I figure Anton's not going to be expecting me. My last couple of swipes at him had probably got him some sort of "merciful early release." That, or Unc's Will was finally settled, and Anton could afford to buy his way out. Either way, it had to have happened while I was still laid up at the prison hospital. So as far as he knew, I was still in the slammer. I smiled.
Unless he'd already tortured Vlad to the point where he knew the truth of my escape.
I frowned. Back to square one.
As I speed my stolen station wagon gradually towards the Punchinello mansion, I flip on the radio, hoping to drown out some of my racing mind with music, or current events. What I get is the familiar buzz of a newsflash:
"We are LIVE at the crime scene. Behind me sits a veritable bloodbath in what police are calling the worst gangland conflict New York has seen in six months. I'm standing at the Park Avenue townhouse of the notorious drug and arms dealer, Vladimir Morozov. Morozov, who in recent months has been suspected of taking over the criminal territory formerly controlled by the Punchinello crime family, has apparently been kidnapped. Sources in the NYPD are speculating that tonight's attack and kidnapping was in revenge for the destruction, two nights ago, of a Njord Shipping Company warehouse. Njord Shipping has long been believed to be a front for illegal shipments made by the Punchinello crime family."
The Punchinellos owned the Njord Company?? I had a thought: there are no coincidences. But the beat went on: "Police Detective Jim Bravura had this to say: 'The list of identified victims, as it stands at this moment, all appear to have either been members of Morozov's organization, or individuals known to be on his payroll. One, as yet unidentified body, is believed to be one of the assailants and is currently being examined for identification by the county coroner. We will release more information as it becomes prudent...but just let me add, on the chance the people responsible for this mess are listening: your kind aren't welcome in this town. The NYPD has taken down the likes of Gotti, Anton Punchinello, and Max Payne. Whoever you are, you don't have a prayer.'Strong words from Detective Bravura. In other news...
The pieces were beginning to fall together in my mind like a game of Tetris, and I didn't like the pattern they were forming. But whatever conspiracy theories I might have had brewing in my head were put on hold as I slowly pulled within shooting distance of the Punchinello mansion. With the car lights off, I set myself just far enough away to case the joint, but hopefully not close enough to be spotted. Unscrewing the scope from one of Vlad's rifles, I scanned the place monocular-style:
The first thing I notice is the construction: plastic tarps and scaffolding cover major portions of the house. It looks like Anton was stitching up my brief stint as an interior decorator. A new set of private security was out in force as well. From the looks of them, Anton had spared no expense: just from their faces and body language, I could tell that these guys were cold, professional mercs, not the run-of-the-mill blood-related goombahs. Two stood at post on either side of the front entrance like Royal Guardsmen. Another pair toured the main grounds in overlapping routes. There were others, I knew, that I just wasn't seeing. I had to get closer. Reattaching the scope to the rifle, I shoulder some gear and slip out of the wagon.
I make like an F-117 as I stealth it to the tall privacy hedges that surround the mansion grounds. Dropping to my belly, I slither to a good vantage point in the moon-cast silhouettes, and carefully slide the barrel of the sniper rifle through the bushes. I scan my targets, debating on my next move. A frontal assault will have a small army out for my scalp quicker than marinara on meatballs. What I needed was a distraction. What I got, I hadn't expected.
Out of the corner of my eye, a shadowy figure made it's way up and over a security wall a couple of hundred yards to my right, and with gazelle-like speed raced across the main lawn towards the back of the estate. Whoever it was must have tripped some sort of security I hadn't spotted, because alarms began squawking, and the stone cold mercenaries began fanning out in the direction of the intruder. The ruckus left only the two sentry guards between me and entering the place. I didn't stop to think, just aimed my popgun and cleared the doorway in two quick sprays of red and bone.
Once in the foyer, I start flashbacking like an acid-dropping hippie: mental still lifes of flying bullets and falling bodies, mooks in suits taking aim and the slow motion recollection of me returning fire and taking lives. This lasts maybe a half a second. Just long enough for the Mafiosos to hit the 'Reset' button.
I'm facing the main staircase, at the top of which two nervous looking suits are glancing around, hands full of gun, not knowing where the attack is coming from as the alarms blare. Obviously not the Stone Colds. These guys are Family. I think they mistake me for part of the hired help at first, as armed and as bold as I am in waltzing inside. Their hesitation is just what I needed. Dropping the sniper rifle I crouch and jump-roll to the left, pulling out two Berettas in the same, fluid motion. I end up on my feet, squatting low. I pause half a heartbeat, just long enough for their eyes to meet mine, and for the realization of the mistake they've made to register as I let the pistols play patty cake with their upper bodies. They go down hard.
As their guns clatter to the hardwood floor of the landing, the alarms cease yelling at me. I know I've only got minutes to get to where I need to go, and no security sirens to cover the noise of my movements. Painfully, I pull the floor plan of the mansion from the violence of my memory. Anton would want to keep Vlad away from the cops if they happened to storm the place. Out of sight. The wine cellar.
I retrace my months-old steps through the ground floor rooms, the Berettas waving back and forth as I cross every threshold, finding nothing as I near the kitchen. Then, behind that last door, a sound: chewing. A carrot, I think. Guess I'm huntin' wabbit.
"What da hell's all that racket out there?" That's one. The one chewing. Wabbit.
"I'm not sure. Maybe the 'Commandos' spotted a tin can and felt compelled to put it out of its misery." A smart-mouth. Brainiac. That's two. I don't hear any other voices. I holster the Berettas and pull out an Ingram. Taking a couple of steps away from the door, I tap the base of it with my toe, knocking. One of them steps towards it. I don't have the hat, mask, or the sword, but I draw the mark of Zorro across the door in small caliber rounds. There's a scream, a thump, and I duck to the right as hollow points drill their way through the air I just occupied. For my trouble, I hear a "Muthafuka!" Must be Wabbit. Brainiac would have come up with something a lot more articulate.
I dive low, shouldering the door open and sliding across the bloody linoleum just as Wabbit is stepping through the door down to the cellar. I swipe the Ingram horizontally, catching him twice in each calf. Losing control of his legs, he pitches forward with a whimper, down the concrete stairs. I hear a wet crack of bone and a sharp gasp as he hits bottom. Broken back maybe, or neck. Either way, Wabbit's not going anywhere. I haul myself to my feet, my arm covered in Brainiac's still oozing blood. I slam my back to the wall, facing the doorway downstairs, and listen. At first, I get nothing, but like eyes in a dark theater, my hearing adjusts to the quiet, and I begin to catch hard violence not too far away: moans and the sounds of fist hitting bone, coughs of something liquid, and snarls. I hear a curse in battered Russian.
I'm cruising down the stairs before I know it, checking corners, stepping over Wabbit, whose head is looking up at me from an anatomically impossible angle. I come to a turn in the dingy hallway, and switch my ears back on. A walkie talkie breaks the quiet:
"Sir, two of our men are dead, and we've found another pair, yours, dead in the foyer. I suggest you relocate to a secured- HOLD IT!" *BLAM* That conversation was over. Whoever had just got the message tried to respond, but it sounded like a steam kettle trying to sing happy birthday.
"hEy! *wheeze* taLk tA Me, gudAMMit! *cough!*" I roll my head around the corner just far enough to grab a look at Mr. Whisper.
Anton looked like the last member of the lasagna line of the Frankenstein Family Tree: big, scarred, Italian, and ugly. He still had that shaved gorilla look, but this time in a crisp Armani suit. Added accessories included the long, jagged scar that ran across his throat, and its mate that bisected his eyeline. And though I could see he was now, artificially, Woden's twin for having lost an eye, he still had one working peeper. Sort of. They must have done some transplant rush job, because that one eye looked too big, off-white, and bugged out to have been naturally grown. That, plus it didn't seem to be winking. A steady stream of tears ran down his face, but he looked anything but sad. The bug-eye had only one thing in its crosshairs at the moment: Vlad, battered, bloody, and tied to a metal chair. He wasn't moving.
They say that losing a keen ability of one of the five senses can cause the body to compensate by enhancing one or more of the others. Anton's body must have grown bat ears, because as soon as I stepped into the room my face met his backhanded hamhock of a fist, and I hit floor like a sack of bricks. In my doubled vision, I saw twin monstrosities looming over me.
"pAyNE?! *wheeze* hOw tH' helL?" I try to form words, but all that comes out is "It wasn't...me...was the...one-eyed man..." Next thing I know I'm floating, giant hands lifting me into the air like a magician's assistant. Rolling my head to the side, I think I see a large knee lining up to break my fall, and my back. Somewhere, I hear a gunshot. I fall, and hit something hard. The dust tells me it's floor. Then the giant stomps out of view. My vision blurs, but my ears are sharp:
"WhoEvaH yA aRe *hisss* yEr a deAD mA- whA? SweEt chEEks? *cough!* iS daT YoU? WhUt're yoU *wheeze* dOin'- waiT! NO!"
Another gunshot. A long, aching pause. A heavy thud. As my senses creak back to something near normal, I'm pretty sure Anton is dead. I stumble to my feet and out into the hallway, a gun I don't remember picking up wobbly raised. I do my best to keep it level at Anton's killer.
"Fancy meeting you here, Max. Been a long time."
I sigh.
"Hi, Mona." I pass out.