It had been a few hours since Bolton left, and Frank was poring over the information that had been laid in his lap. A Russian hitter, who had a penchant for hurting women. The only question was why would a cop's daughter be hanging with trash like that?
Bolton didn't have an answer. He just looked at Frank with eyes that were haunted and angry. Eyes that looked all too familiar. Frank should have told him no. Except that the Russian was already on his list of people to kill.
The moment Bolton left, Frank was on the phone with his contacts. Every one of them said the same; Bolton was legit, a real hero cop, role model, and a point of pride to the NYPD. And now he wanted Frank to kill someone.
Not hard to figure the whys; rage will make you act in crazy ways. Rage will make you forsake anything and everything, to inflict pain on others because you are incapable of feeling anything anymore. Every time the guns barks and bucks in your hand, you know you made your world a little easier to live in. Frank knew. He killed the monsters because it was all they left him. He was a warrior, but when the war is over, the soldier leaves it behind and settles into his life with his family. But there was no white picket fence. Only a brief respite before his new war, the war that could never end, until he was stone-cold on a coroner's slab.
Frank flexed his arm. It was stiff, but manageable. He walked over to his bed and pulled out the footlocker underneath. His files were inside. Piles of paper, pilfered from police stations, FBI listening posts, and blood and knuckles, until some scumbag talked. The Russian was in the middle of the stack; Frank may have made a misjudgment on how soon he needed to be dealt with.
Piotr Rasmanavich; a cold-war soldier in the former Soviet Union. Former Spetnatz; the Soviet version of the Green Berets, if the Green Berets believed in killing women and children, and wearing their bones as jewelry. Tough son of a bitch; joined the Russian Mob in 1997 and moved up in the ranks fast and hard. Rumor had it the bosses were scared to death of him, mainly because of his unpredictable behavior. In 1998, he skinned a rumored informant alive, and reportedly made soap from his flesh.
Frank checked his list of contacts in the Russian Mob. They were slim; several names were crossed out. Sometimes his rage got the best of him. But it was hard not to break some bastard's neck when it was just there, right in front of him with a bow on top. He had a few names; they would have to do.
He walked over to the closet and pulled out his uniform. The jacket, pants, boots, and his armor. Then the top. The skull was always grinning, and Frank always felt a sense of comfort when he pulled it on. It was a good feeling, watching the eyes of some mook in the dark, when he walks out and the skull is there, grinning his smile of death.
He got dressed, and grabbed his guns. Now he felt complete. He walked out the door, intent on blood and mayhem, the only things he had left.