He hit the streets.
He visited old contacts and made new ones, all with the threat and at times the actual act of physical violence. The ones who were smart, talked. The rest were in the local morgue.
Half the night was gone. It led him to a building owned by a corporation called Hammer. Frank scoped out the site from the building across the street. Armed goons in front and back. Hard to tell how many inside. Would the Russian be inside? There was no time to decide.
Frank pulled the grenade launcher out and discharged the teargas shells at the building. The rats scurried out, coughing and gagging, guns cocked and ready to go.
Frank had the M-60 ready. His teeth rattled as the gun sang its tune. The smoke and noise created an aura of chaos, and Frank briefly flashed back to that time in 'Nam, in the jungle, when blood and cordite was heavy in the air.
Frank dropped the M-60 and ran towards the building. He had his gas mask, and he had his Uzi for any stragglers that survived the first onslaught. The building was a mess; it was riddled with bullet holes, and not of all of them fresh. One mook was screaming, a blood geyser where his arm used to be. Frank put one in his head, and continued into the building.
It was dark. The smell was awful; musky and damp, hazy from the teargas. The building was gutted on the first floor, just one large space with blood-caked mattresses on the floor and two or three cameras set up.
Frank knew what the place was. The blood on the floor, the smell; a snuff film operation. He walked across carefully. He had no idea who was left, and he felt exposed out in the open. He slid his night goggles over his eyes. The place looked clean. He looked up the staircase, and saw movement.
He moved carefully. The stairs were old and creaked. He heard the sound of guns being cocked; he jumped and hit the floor. The room exploded with gunfire. He scrambled, splinters flying up around him, and found a safe zone under the staircase.
He heard a voice.
"I know you. You are famous, and so am I. You are ruthless, and so am I. How do you think this will end?" A thick, yet refined Russian accent. Frank shook his head. Why do people have to talk in a firefight?
Frank slung his Uzi aside and grabbed the grenade launcher. No teargas for this bastard. He waited until the bullets slowed; reload time.
He jumped out from his position. He aimed the grenade launcher up, and two volleys arced over the staircase railing. The explosion was loud; he hit the floor, rolled, reloaded and fired again, this time higher.
He didn't hear any screams. Just the explosions and an awful creaking noise. He looked up and saw the first floor come tumbling down. He ran and grabbed a mattress. He covered himself as the floor landed on him, dust and roaches and rats flying through the air.
He waited until the dust settled and the creaking stopped. He was bruised, but in one piece. He pushed hard and the section of floor that had landed on him slid off.
Frank stood up and brushed himself off. He looked around; the first floor was now in the lobby, with body parts and moaning punks in the blood and debris. He pulled out his nine; he through the mess, past the dying and found the one he wanted.
Igor.
He was lying on his back, his legs obviously broken. He smiled through a beard caked with blood. He looked liked a mad Cossack, eyes wild with pain and rage. He talked, this dead man. "You are insane to do this. Do you know who I am?"
Frank bent down and got close. The smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne hit him in the face. "You know who I am. You know this is what I do." Frank held up a picture of the cop's daughter. "Remember her?"
Igor spat and laughed. "No, should I?"
"You killed her, after you raped her. You would've remembered her. She was a cop's daughter. Which means I have an official sanction on this mission."
The Cossack eyes went wild and he started spouting fast in his native tongue. Frank picked out a few phrases; "double-cross", "whoreson", and maybe "slave".
Frank put the gun to Igor's head. "Talk. Now."
Igor smiled. "You have been fooled. Cop? He was partner. We ran slave ring and snuff film operation. How stupid are you now?"
Frank held down his rage and got in close. "What was the cop's name?"
"Bolton. He is a big hero cop. Had a girl he bought and passed as his daughter. Things he did to her? Could not even imagine. I am a monster and he would make me disgusted. He killed her here; he skinned her alive and made lampshades from her. He is insane."
"What do you mean partners?"
The Cossack shook his head. "No, I tell you nothing else. He will kill me. I am not afraid of much, but I am afraid of him."
"Are you afraid of fire? Because if you don't tell me, I will douse you in gasoline and leave you to burn. A hell of way to die, believe me."
The Cossack eyes were hard to read. But Frank could tell it was working. "Fine. But I get to live, right? I walk out of here…well, so to speak."
"Whatever. Talk or burn."
Igor smiled his blood grin. "We had a warehouse in New Jersey, near the Meadowlands. We would often meet our suppliers, slave traders from the European coast. He is there, I am certain. Look for the warehouse that has armed guards, and you will find him."
Frank said, "Thanks," and shot Igor in the head. It wasn't enough to quiet his rage. He walked out of the building, ready to kill, ready to cross that line he had drawn in the dirt long ago.