Dutch...

Complicated. That one word sums up this entire situation.

After being summoned, that's the only word that fits in his mind as to what this is, Dutch found himself walking through the backdoor of what he knew was Jon-Jon's bar in upscale Roanapurr. They didn't blindfold him or put a hoodie on as a temporary head accessory while he had his head to think with, so that was a good sign. He'd be more alert and a lot less willing had that been the case. Not that he wasn't, even now. Old habits.

Information pays better than money; every survivor knows that. And he has a pretty good idea why Balalaika wanted to talk to him. In Dutch's personal opinion, it wasn't any of his goddamn business, and he would prefer to pretend as if he didn't know shit but he knew better, professionally speaking.

Professionally, this has everything to do with his goddamn business. Benny and Jane aren't a problem. Jane is an outsider who didn't work for him. If they split, it would save him from another embarrassing romantic boat ride with Jane jumping Benny whenever her white liver pinches her in the nethers. Rock and Revy, however? He ignores the sigh of frustration bubbling in his throat. Not for the first time, Dutch pondered the ramifications of 'a them' actually in a relationship together and asked himself, what the fuck am I thinking about this shit for? But again, he knew better; professionally speaking, that is.

In Roanapurr, happy-ever-afters gets shot in the face 'round here enough for them to know better, too, especially Revy. Dutch wasn't saying that they couldn't get their kicks. Sure. He's done it often enough, but with nobody that he'd miss too much if they catch a bullet they didn't see coming.

Dutch can't see this thing between Revy and Rock being more than it should be; a tumble and a field test to release some pressure. But there was this nagging in the back of his head that he was wrong about something, and he ain't too keen on finding out that he'd be right to stop it before it gets out of control. This is the real reason he chose to meet with Balalaika.

Only a soft glow lit the passageway that led to the dark backroom of the non-descript bar sleeping soundly at this hour. It's nearly noon. Barstools were flipped up on their seats; their feet in the air, arranged in a circle on the round tables that held them three abreast by the invisible hands of gravity. Someone had the frame of mind to turn on the air conditioning in the duct system running through the place, saving the enclosed area from the depressing heat of Roanapurr's furry at midday.

Sets of footfalls disturbed the quiet. Purposeful strides made their way to a metal door he knew well from his contacts. Jon-Jon has a safe room disguised as a wine cellar hiding behind that metal door and when he thought no one was looking, uses it as an escape exit thanks to the other secret door he keeps behind the wine cellars, behind that clandestine office desk of his.

Here's where Jon keeps the expensive stuff. How expensive? More than Dutch's budget allowed even when he scores big on a shipment, he couldn't pay for a glass of the cheapest liquor in there. Jon has glass shelves upon glass shelves of top premium liquors line out. We're talking Dalmore, Penfold, Johnie Walker Diamon Jubilee. Just a few of the most expensive liquors, trophied among other big-time names in the world of top brand libation and private labels. It's like an Alcoholic's wet dream in there. Dutch would bet his good-eye that that's where Balalaika was seated even now. If Dutch knew her like he thinks he should, then he'd wager that she was sitting directly before the escape door, looking up at the glass rows of Penfold wines sitting over that hidden panel as good little expensive liquor bottles should.

Jon, the poor bastard, didn't know that the Russians knew about his place but you can't smuggle anything into this country, and Chang didn't get a whiff of it first. Roanapurr is his city and for a while, Balalaika was his main squeeze until he tried to kill her, that is. A date night that went horribly wrong. Not many people knew that.

Since his bar's situated in the heart of Cartel territory, and his connections with the current Don sitting at the high table secured for the unsure future, no doubt Jon-Jon felt protected.

You can list a lot of bad attributes of Jon's character, but you can't doubt his eye for quality and his uncanny knack for sourcing unique, money-splurging items. Liquors, most of all. The Columbians love their expensive shit. So bottles of liquor that can buy an average man a house in the suburbs or a condo of his dreams are just the kind of things they like to feed their ego on. Along with coke, young whores, and guns. Can't leave that out. It's part of a good breakfast for your average top-of-the-line Don.

Seeing a bunch of Mafia in the neighborhood wouldn't start anything more than tangible suspicion. At the most, an inquiry from the local lackey in charge of this side of the turf. As far as Dutch had it on good authority, Balalaika and the Cartels had a truce, of sorts ever since that indestructible maid, Roberta of the Lovelace household, came back to town three months ago and fucked the entire city of Roanapurr good and hard. Things had been a little quiet since then. That doesn't mean some idiot wouldn't try and start some shit today to show how brave and worthy he is of being shot in the face first. Fuck, he didn't want to be here when that happens and damn sure not because Balalaika felt like being a classy asshole. Speaking of classy assholes, Jon, if he's smart, must be busy right now playing host and barkeeper to his guest and her second while trying desperately not to look like he was sweating under his shirt despite the AC's best efforts. He must be wondering just how the fuck the Russians knew about his secret stash in his secret office just outside his secret escape door in the middle of his faction's main territory?

Nothing stays secret for long in Roanpurr, Jonny boy. Dutch thought, sagely.

There were more of Balalaika's men, of course. Black suits lined the walls, blending seamlessly with the barely lit passage. The signs of their presence from their eyes, the skin on the back of their hands; their pale faces had an unnatural blue tint thanks to the color of the ceiling's neon lights. It's as if Balalaika turned out half of Hotel Moscow for this little excursion. Power is what they call this. The physical representation of who can fuck this place up in a matter of seconds or order it to stay intact as they found it. The person whose word allowed you to live or stop breathing was in control of everything in place right now. And she fucking knows it, too, with absolute certainty.

This wasn't the time to fidget, Dutch knew. If ever Balalaika wanted him dead, she couldn't have picked a better setting. There was no escape. He was alone and outnumbered. Though he saved her life once, that didn't count for shit. That novelty wore off ages ago. No matter his skill with guns, knives, and fists, if the Russian Mafia boss wanted him dead, the powers above would have to intervene on his ass's behalf to get him out of this situation alive and with all his limbs in one piece. Maybe with some of his limbs. Balalaika didn't want to kill him as far as he knew, but his gut tells him he'll be asking her to shoot him before this meeting concludes.

A hulking son of a bitch stood guard at the metal door. It's hard to miss someone that huge, not even if you wanted to. Now, Dutch is a tall man, easily six-four in height with dark skin and two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle-packed mercenary. This fucker towered over him like a human-size edifice. If intimidation was what Balalaika was going for when she hired this motherfucker.

Size isn't everything. Dutch thought cooly, eyeing the giant man from behind dark shades. He and Revy had taken down armies in their time. Revy more so, and her head is barely at his shoulders. Despite his situation; surrounded by the Mafia, deep in the heart of Cartel territory and outnumbered a dozen to one, Dutch's body language remained relaxed. His shades centered under his calm brows, an indistinct expression set in the muscles of his face. He's survived through too much in his years to be shaken up by a titan-human grown out of some factory in Russia, and a bunch of suits.

Without a word, the towering bastard opens the metal door then just as quietly, escorted him through the wine cellars to the office in the back. Two wraps, surprisingly gentle for an enormous fucker like him, gained permission from the female's voice on the other side to come in.

Probably didn't want to unhinge the wooden door. Dutch thought, wryly.

The door swung open with a gentle creek, revealing the person who invited him to this party. Dress for business as usual; your average rose-pink skirt suit, dark hose, and short black heels. Her long blond hair in a high ponytail, and a drink of something dark in her left hand swirling occasionally. Her usually cold blue eyes seemed warmer thanks to the liquor she nurses. Those eyes turned to him the moment he arrived. Not when he enters into the doorway. They were already looking at him from the second her bodyguard opened the door.

"Dutch," Balalaika's relaxed tone gave his name a drawl and a deep purr that if he didn't know better, he would associate her mannerisms as flirtatious. "Drink?" Balalaika asked courteously enough, her sonorous voice taking on an alluring sultry inflection, turning the word 'drink' into something dangerous, enticing, and irresistible; the best combination for any resident of Roanapurr.

Dutch could have refused. Ain't nothing to it on the surface. He could have made up some excuse as to why he didn't need his faculties fucked with right now, especially if that drink, Penfold, Dutch identified from the label on the bottle sitting on a varnished side table between her and another comfortable-looking chair, might be laced with something nasty. Any idiot might believe from the tone Balalaika implanted in this room that she was offering him a choice to refuse. He didn't know of any idiots with a long life span who lived in Roanapurr. And besides, it was Penfold wine, and he wasn't paying for it.

Can't see a downside there. Dutch mused wistfully.

And why bother to kill him anyway? Black Lagoon is not a major player in the Game of Gangsters. It's a neutral party choosing to hold power on its own without any allegiances to any one faction, and that's mainly thanks to him and Two Hands. For his business, it was just that, business. Shipping and delivering the cargo, then getting his money. It would only upset the delicate balance of power in the city right now for him to end up dead. Like holding a lit match to a stick of dynamite, if Revy had anything to say about it. Motivated by Revy, he didn't want to think of what Rock could creatively do to this city, again. For as much as Balalaika is a lover of controlled chaos or as most people call it, war, she wasn't careless with her instruments. Revy is one of those instruments that Balalaika implemented into her orchestra of destruction. But Revy is also a power fulcrum in her own right in Roanapurr. Before he employed her, she was already known as Two-Hands. No doubt that's what has the Mafia Queen in a tizzy. The possible change in dynamic should 'the Death-Gambler' and 'The Twin Guns' become a thing.

It's a matter of perspective on the fickle nature of power in this city. Dutch wouldn't be surprised if he got a visit from Chang next, but he doubts that outcome a little more now since Balalaika has made her move first.

"Yeah," Dutch replied cooly, "anything you're having," he said, folding his tall frame into the seat beside Balalaika as indicated by Boris, the Penfold delicately between them.

Because of the angle of the room, it was hard to see until he sat down and the door closed behind him. A large tv monitor sat on a low table designated for its purpose stood only a foot or so from where he and Balalaika were seated. Beneath it laid a black VCR already plugged in. The small glass in the center displaying the word 'READY' running in repeated loops of dotted blue letters told Dutch he was in for a show. Though suspicion pricked at him, Dutch is a patient man by nature. Letting his mind run away from him, trying to ascertain accurately what the machinations of the murderess beside him are, will stress a man out prematurely.

Before he sat down, Jon got busy seeing to his drink request with the alacrity of a man willing to do anything in his power and dexterity to please his guests. Dutch understood why. A white hand-kerchief, now stained with blood and displayed carelessly on the desk, told the story of what happened before his arrival. If that wasn't enough, the purplish-blue bruise blossoming around the bridge of his fat nose and the busted lip was a dead giveaway. Maybe it was the giant who did it in one go? If so, Jon-Jon is made of tuff stuff for his small, rotund stature. How is the man still alive?

Guess he wasn't that smart in the beginning. Dutch reflected, crossing his long legs at the ankles. He doubted Balalaika would do something like mess up the face of the Cartel's lead liquor supplier on a whim in the middle of their territory. May have been something Jon-Jon said. Then again, this is Balalaika. She's as unpredictable as Two Hands is prone to rough language and skin-tearing violence.

In no time, Dutch had a drink in his hand, swirling gently to let it breathe. A modicum of decorum can exist even in a shit-stain city like Roanapurr.

Boris, Balalaika's ghostly second, moved to the tv from his space somewhere in the room. Dutch tracked his movements over the rim of his glass before turning his head slightly to his host.

"What's this about, Balalaika?" Dutch asks softly without preamble as he took a sip of Penfold wine.

The rumors were justified. Dutch felt like he was bathing his tongue in velvet liquid. Smooth, luxurious velvet. In another setting, he would have sighed contentedly, having treated his pallet to something this exquisite. He might have to liberate one or two of these bottles to enjoy that privilege when he gets out of this alive. Popular Roanapurr saying.

The Russian woman said nothing in reply. Content to exercise silent patience while her lieutenant carries out her order by turning on the TV then pressing play on the VCR.

It didn't take long for the VCR tape to show the image on the screen, demonstrating to Dutch why he was here while simultaneously answering his question for her.

It wasn't the time to fidget. Dutch had already established that during his short walk in the passageway. That didn't stop him from tipping back his head and draining his glass in one gulp, then calling for another instantly. The fancy liquor barely registered with him where it had made such an impression at the first tasting.

"Something stronger, would you, Jon?" Dutch requested as composed as he could manage without looking at the man, his right arm outstretched to the bartender with his empty glass in his fingers.

Suddenly Penfold wine, for all its vaunted luxury and claim to fame, couldn't match good old fashion bourbon in Dutch's estimation. Yeah! To sit beside a Mafia boss and hold your shit together while watching the naked bodies of your employees recorded in their intimate moments, set in the most complex positions Dutch has had the pleasure to witness in a long time and sharing things without knowing that they're being tapped, you needed bourbon. Then scotch and whiskey for the finale. And what a finale it was.

Dutch will never look at his two employees the same way after this. This little movie is instructive in teaching him things about his employees he didn't need to know until he knew. For instance, Dutch had no idea Rock was that religious or, thus, 'blessed' down there. It's a male ego thing to viciously put other males on a 'penis measuring scale' when in proximity to one another. It ain't no secret about the length and width of a black man's dick. But from a black man's assertion, Rock is impressive. Maybe he had some distant ancestor who was mixed with another ethnicity that worshipped a virility god! That thought could be inspired by his fourth glass of bourbon communicating a justification to his ego as to why someone who's not black is that endowed. Rock's boundless energy as his performance continued would be envious to most men.

"Damn," Dutch muttered under his breath.

From the corner of his eye, he watches as blond brows arch in agreement the further the bed moved from the wall.

"He's quite talented with his tongue, too," Balalaika commented for the first time since Boris pressed the play button, "but I didn't think I needed to put that part in to get my point across. Stuck to the pragmatic details." She added magnanimously.

"Thanks," Dutch replied dryly, refusing to address the elephant in that statement. Balalaika wanted him to ask her what's the point of all of this. How is he being here, watching a porno with her, and drinking expensive boos in the middle of enemy territory had any barring on the political or the practical social paradigm?

It's a huge monitor, the details displayed in living color on the pixelated screen for him to make out everything. And the camera's angle seems to be from the ventilator in the ceiling above the bed. There were vague impressions of the blades moving at intervals every so often. Faint background noise came through from the evaporator core inside the unit from where the camera was set up.

Rock and, Revy were fucking in what appears to be Rock's new apartment, Dutch could tell. The last time Revy's place had seen a broom since she moved in, the broom was moving out. No way it was that clean, even with the sheets on the floor as they were and articles of clothing scattered where they could be seen on the video.

In a perverse part of his head, Dutch couldn't help but be impressed with how Rock acquitted him. Having the size is one thing. Knowing how to use it to please is quite a different story. Had he not seen this video, his preconceived judgments of Japanese men's sexual prowess would have dulled his acumen if Balalaika had just gossiped to him about it. From Revy's reaction to how he's performing, Rock...Rock is a beast.

Even Boris, his personality consisting of quiet lethality, rose eyebrows as the show went on. That's saying a lot for Boris.

"How did they get on the wall?" Dutch asked a couple of whiskey glasses in, his curiosity releasing the question off his tongue in a slow wave. He can hold his liquor. Hell's cold furry! With the shit he's lived through, bourbon was like water at this point.

"How, indeed," Balalaika giggled, a strange sound coming from her lips and, it freaked Dutch the fuck out more than anything else since walking through that door and watching his employees do the nasty. And did it so well.

He was concerned, of course. The video, he noticed before Balalaika volunteered that tidbit on Rock's skill with giving oral; didn't begin at the scene they were watching. Conversely, it was the last of the buffer, meaning that there was more, much more of Rock and Revy's home movie unedited somewhere only Boris and Balalaika knew about.

The questions kept mounting in his alcohol-flushed thoughts, like traffic on a highway on Monday morning they kept backing up, slowly straining through. What more did she have that she didn't want him to know? Why did Balalaika bring him here to see this? What is she planning and, why is she gathering evidence on Revy? He couldn't even include Rock in that scheme plot possibility, building like a thunderhead. The Japanese kid didn't have a reputation in Roanapurr despite his skills at Death's Gamble. Not a lot of people know that Rock is responsible, largely for what happened during the maid crisis three months ago. Balalaika did, of course. So does Chang. Neither of them has made a move to recruit Rock in their circles since then. He might be a target for Revy's enemies if they make this thing between them a regular habit. And, let's call a spade and spade, no woman gets a fuck like that and dubs it a one-night stand. Revy decided to keep Rock the moment she kidnapped him. Now, she's exercising her rights to his body and, Rock is a willing participant in the bargain. For damn sure, Rock isn't in a position to claim that he only wanted a pick me up. Revy would bloody his nose so bad, for starters, if he did that.

A moment later, a sound from the monitor silenced his thoughts. Rock and Revy's images screamed on the monitor in perfect synchronization, purchasing his attraction back to the screen just in time for Dutch to watch them slide down to the floor, panting and out of strength directly after the tension got released explosively. Revy's sweat-slick body heaving on top of Rock's. At the same time, Dutch witnesses Rock tenderly kissing Revy's hair, fingers stroking where they could reach without too much effort.

"Oh fucking hell," Dutch nearly exploded, his eyes narrowing. Dark brows collided with each other, "don't tell me."

"That Revy and Rock are in love with each other?" Balalaika offered, picking up his unfinished sentence. "No. Nothing so superficial to my eyes." Balalaika told him confidently, her voice back to normal from what her 'laugh' made it sound like earlier. "You should have seen their faces this morning when I invited them over to the hotel for a job I want their expertise on. It was delicious to watch them try and act normal." She chuckled with dark humor.

"That is fucked up," Dutch said, shaking his head.

"Not as much as it can be." Balalaika demured, all traces of her humor gone. "Do you even have an estimate of the amount of cash flow this one tape can pull on the black market circuit alone?"

"I can imagine," Dutch said seriously.

"Revy, as you are aware, has the rep for being a fem' fetal. This," she pointed to the VCR, "is gold to anyone whose ever heard of the mighty Two Hands. Revy's lived like she has nothing to lose in this city for years. Not suicidal but for profit, and I'm not judging her motivations." Balalaika said, a palm waving casually in his direction. "Avarice is an essential part of survival as a gun needs bullets to be effective. But it's not enough, is it?" Balalaika asked rhetorically. "Eventually, I knew this would happen." Balalaika continued, her face placid, ice blue eyes slowly frosting back to their glacial element. "From the moment she took Rock off that ship and held him for ransom, I could have bet you and won that she wanted him for more than what was on the surface. She didn't even know that she liked the Yaponsky. You should've watched the first part of the video and listened to them, like a scene straight out of a soap opera. At least it was entertaining, even before the sex."

It's not like Balalaika to not have a backup. So for whatever this evidence is worth to her against Revy and Rock, you can bet that she has a copy, if not several copies, somewhere.

Boris turns off the tv then. The last scene shows the couple just beginning to untangle from one another. The image of Revy trying for the second time to get up and failing was the last part of the tape before the screen went dark. The silent man returns to his place at Balalaika's right, not too much to be invasive of her personal space but effective at the first sign of trouble.

"I've seen enough, thank you very much," Dutch responded, feeling like his brain needed bleach and hot water to remove the stains of the last ten minutes.

"It would seem that way," Balalaika said casually. "The question now, Dutch, is what are you prepared to do about this?" she challenged him.

"Hmm," Dutch sighed, sounding non-committal.

What can he do about it? The fact that this tape exists and that he knew of its existence is more detrimental to his interests than a few one-night stands between Rock and Revy and the potential power couple they may become one day if one of them didn't catch a fatal bullet. It also did not fail to occur to him from the moment Boris pressed that play button, the serious shit-storm forecasted to happen should Two Hands find out that Balalaika has this tape. 'Should?' No. Not should. 'When!' When Revy finds out that Balalaika had spied on her, Roanapurr's underbelly will flip and roll because Dutch knew his partner. Revy is not someone to take this sort of shit lying down. His earlier thoughts came back to haunt him as he drained his glass of whiskey for the last time, almost like prescience.

Nothing stays secret for long in Roanapurr. Not a damn thing. How the fuck did I get into this mess? How the hell do I get my ass out of it without shit going sideways with me in the middle of it? Dutch asked himself.

From behind his shades, Dutch shot a glance at Jon-Jon. The man was as nervous as a virgin on her wedding night. Jon-Jon was trying to hide his fear to the best of his ability, but you can't hide daylight once it's dawned. It might have been that human instinct, sharpened with every year you survived in this hell-hole city, or it might be because he's been the server at many meetings similar to this one. Either way, as the meeting whined down to the nitty-gritty, Dutch could see it on Jon's face that he senses that his usefulness was wearing off on his unexpected patrons. 'How hard can it be to pour yourself a drink when I'm dead?' could have been a sign sharpied across his forehead from the shifty-way his eyes moved from them to his escape panel, and then he tried to hide it by looking at anywhere else. The fact that he didn't mouth off about his connections with the top Don at the Cartel High Table must mean that he'd already tried that method, and it'd won him that shade of purple. As far as Jon-Jon knew, no one in that room knew about his escape panel behind the glass shelves, behind his desk.

Dutch couldn't claim that this wasn't his business. Balalaika knew that he was smarter than that. And therefore must recognize what this meant should this tape circulate.

Revy, while an independent, is a powerbase onto her own. He couldn't just wave this off as a 'nothing to worry about' or 'what the fuck do I care' sort of problem, as much as he would really like to do just that.

"Revy knows what she's doing," Dutch began somewhat weakly, but with his deep baritone, it sounded like confidence to his ears. Maybe Balalaika's were on the same frequency, but he doubts that. "If she wants to stay with Rock, then that's her decision to make."

Rock didn't even want to own a gun. Yes. He's survived for two hellish years already in this place without one, and that's because of Revy. But the weather ain't gonna be bright, and sunny every day. Dutch has witnessed Revy follow a kidnapped Rock into a demilitarized zone to rescue him against a guerrilla unit. She has to know what she's picking up if she still wants to be with the man. Unless she's only there was the sex, in which case, they had nothing to worry about. Dutch will be more worried the day Rock picks up a gun.

"Besides, I ain't her daddy. I can't tell her what to do. Even if I did, what do you think the results of that conversation will turn out to be?"

Balalaika was silent for a moment in the wake of his words. She knew he was right, he could tell it from her calculating glacial eyes. It's just that his argument, while correct, was politically weak. In every way Dutch could see, he was at a disadvantage here. Balalaika has leverage on the vanguard of the Lagoon Company, and he was powerless to do something about that for the moment. His business will suffer if Revy gets herself killed trying to protect Rock now that he meant more to her than he did a year ago. He didn't know if this is the first time they'd done something like this, so Dutch had to assume that it's been more than just a one-night-stand-home-movie. The tension between them for the past three months made more sense to him when he thought about it in the fashion of a relationship spat. He'd suspected as much. His business will topple if Balalaika exposes that tape, simultaneously spitting on Revy's reputation. Then Revy will get killed but not before bringing half of the Russian Mafia with her to hell, trying to get to Balalaika for pulling something like this. Balalaika already knows that.

Still, why Balalaika wanted his opinion on Revy and Rock's relationship puzzles him. Why would she need him to know that his employees are fucking each other? If she wanted him to know that, it would have been more convenient for her to just tell him about it. It wouldn't take that much convincing. The tape had merit and value, Dutch had to admit, but he didn't need to see it. Maybe Balalaika did it as a courtesy to him? If so, what did she want in return for showing him the cards in her hand?

A sudden thought came to him that he took into consideration regardless of the obscure nature of its origins. Dutch chanced a look at his host and wondered if Balalaika was thinking what he's thinking she was thinking. Then he stifled a groan.

There is no such thing as a simple woman. Dutch thought, trying to suppress a shiver. For the first time since entering this place, he felt a little trepidation. What if he'd been looking at this the wrong way. Balalaika has evidence on Revy but if he knew the cold Russian woman like he was starting to suspect that he didn't enough, then what if was she after Rock instead of Revy.

Revy is known in Roanapurr. If Balalaika wanted dirt on Two-Hands, what could stop her? So why did she have this tape in the first place? Unless she got lucky while spying on Rock.

Now, why is she spying on Rock? Dutch almost dismissed the answer to that question because it's just not how his view of Balalaika is. But could she be interested in Rock? If so, Dutch felt sorry for the younger man.

Playing the events in reverse in his mind that lead him to this seat, in this room, made a sort of twisted sense now;

Rock's job that he did for Balalaika.

The efficient manner that he acquired that apartment.

Balalaika must have hinted that she was willing to do Rock a favor.

Rock, being desperate, took her up on her proposal.

Being the ruthless paranoid that she is, Balalaika arranged for the apartment to be bugged and watched.

Then Revy came over.

Before their conversation could continue, a fusillade of bullets rang out just outside the bar. Balalaika rose and stood from her chair with a pleased look on her face as if today was the best day ever. And Dutch knew there and then that he walked into some shit designed by the Russians to fuck up the Cartel's day. Dutch predicted that this would happen. He hated it when he was right.

Remaining in his seat, Dutch took out a pack from his front pocket, shook out a stick, then lit up a cigarette. He held one thought in his mind as he took the first drag. He wished his partner was here to help him loot a few of these bottles. Revy would have her guns ready and waiting for the first unlucky bastard to poke his head out. This day just got a little too interesting for his taste especially after sampling some of the most refined liquors Jon-Jon could get his greedy little stubby fingers on for his Cartel associates.

In a few seconds, he'll have to grab his pistol and the extra mags in his back pockets, walk outside of the AC's influence into the sweltering maw of Roanapurr, in the middle of a gunfight that he wanted nothing to do with. Bullets and heat bearing down on him like the hot breath of a predictor in waiting. Waiting for the chance to kill him. To put his body in a convenient gutter to endure the unglamorous and indignified last few moments of his life.

Dutch got to his feet, his towering frame slowly unfolding out of the chair that he watched porn from this afternoon. He blew out a smokey breath before eyeing the imperceptible square behind Jon-Jon's desk. Almost imperceptible to those who didn't know it was there.

Roanapurr can kiss my black ass.

Another thought occurred to him as he watches Balalaika's back disappear into the darkened cellar towards the chaos she no doubt orchestrated, and he was reminded of the people responsible for this bit of excitement in his otherwise too eventful day so far. Balalaika, the instigator. Revy and Rock, oblivious pieces to the Russian woman's machinations Roanapurr's political landscape on a whole as far as the mundane powers that be are concerned.

All of you can kiss my ass. Dutch thought, cocking his pistol on his holster belt to his right hand. Three strides to his left got him to the door behind Jon-Jon's desk. A quick sweep under the first two drawers and his fingers found the button for the escape panel.

Balalaika has an army out there to back her up plus one giant. Dutch has himself. She didn't need his help as much as he needs it right now.

The panel slid behind a few glass shelves of liquors Dutch has only heard rumors about. And some he hasn't. Stretching up, he grabbed three labels he'd spied earlier and a couple of quarter bottles he could fit easily in his vest pockets. Ever the observant watcher, Dutch kept his awareness sharp on the last occupant in the room, Jon-Jon. He'd thought for sure that the man, given the opportunity to flee, would have made use of his infamous escape panel and get the hells out of here. But Jon-Jon is one of those men. Now that the big sharks were out of the water, and his friends are here with guns and bullets to spare, Jon-Jon was feeling like a big boy now.

Dutch hadn't removed his pistol yet from his belt but it's within finger's reach should he need to apply it to persuade any argument in his favor.

Jon-Jon has been watching him curiously. He hadn't moved since the gunshots started barking outside as if he was planted to that spot by Boris.

Dutch watched the man's face from the corner of his eye, his emotions as clear as a sunbeam through a clouded sky; anger the most prominent. When Dutch reached under the desk and found the button as easily as if he'd been the one to install the switch himself, Jon-Jon's podgy face looked like it was a second away from detonation. He spat a series of curses out in Spanish then translated it into English for Dutch to appreciate the venom of every word in context.

"How the fuck did you know where to look for the button, eh? Or that there is a door there? You fucking hijo de puta?!" The short rotund man actually spat a blob of spit onto the expensive-looking tile like he was standing outside in the dirt. His thick accent only added heat to his words; words he didn't have two minutes ago in the presence of the Russians. With just the two of them here, Jon-Jon puffed up like a bullfrog trying to look intimidating to a hound. Dutch continued to study the labels. " Hey!" Jon-Jon slammed a meaty hand down impudently on the desk, making a loud bang. "Tu hijo de un cerdo! Say something, you son of swine! It was you, wasn't it? You told that Russian puta everything about my operations, didn't you?¡Di algo!"

"And what I'm going to say to convince you, Jon?" Dutch finally responded to the sweat-faced shorter man with the purple bruise, "No? I didn't say anything to the Russians? You're not gonna believe that, even if it's the truth."

"And that's another thing," Jon-Jon said gesturing with a wagging finger in his direction, "Since that bitch invited you into my private office," he pronounced the word 'private ' with possessive authority, his confidence roaring foolishly back life from the grave Balalaika and her men had buried it in just by being in Jon-Jon's space. "I find it peculiar," Jon-Jon continued with a touch of eloquence, causing Dutch to raise a brow. The thought of this donkey trying on class for the first time amused him. And then it was gone and Jon-Jon returned to his cut mix of English and Spanish, "ese, we never met before. You and me," Jon-Jon gestured between Dutch and himself with a gliding open palm, "we ain't never had no dealings before, how en la mierda, do you know my name? Eh, hombre negro?" Then as if to make a point, added in his thick accent, "Dutch".

Dutch smiled at that.

He was still watching the man, keeping track of when he did something out of context with his general behavior. Dutch has seen men like Jon-Jon a thousand times over. Cowards with connections. Sycophants and lickspittles, feeding off the power of other their betters. Men like Jon-Jon are more lip than action. Personally, Dutch had no problem with cowards. A coward man keeps sound bones or so the saying goes. But when they got brazen it irked him. Cowards like Jon-Jon were informants and the information from them can reach the right ears far too quickly for Dutch's liking.

Jon was still talking, still threatening like a dog barking after a moving car but undecided whether to give chase or not.

Finally, the little mutt took a step closer. His insults in mixed English-Spanish growing harsher the longer Dutch remain silent, pretending to study the labels in his hand. Learning from Rock's predicament, Dutch had spied for cameras in this room since watching his employees misfortune. His contacts had never spoken of any in his ears but you never know when your information was outdated. He saw none and as Jon-Jon had stated this is a private area.

A man is entitled to his privacy, of course. And according to his intel, the Cartel Dons occasionally uses this room for special dealings. Dutch doubted the Cartels would have appreciated having their meetings in this office recorded. And Jon-Jon would have obeyed them to the letter.

"That little puta you know, Revy and her loverboy, I'll make sure that tape gets around," Jon-Jon threatened him viciously. He must have a death wish if he was threatening Revy's reputation. But that's what you get with cowards, they tend to talk a lot.

"Thank you, Jon." Dutch faced the nasty little man. In less than a breath, he had his loaded gun pointed in the shorter man's face, almost at point-blank range now that Jon-Jon's done him the favor of stepping a little closer just to be an asshole.

"F-F-F-ffor what?" Jon-Jon swallowed nervously, his beady eyes on the barrel of Dutch's 9-millimeter pistol a few inches from his big nose. Jon-Jon developed a stutter on the fly; his bravado melting faster than a snowflake in summer.

"I'd totally forgotten about that tape until you reminded me of what dragged me into this mess in the first place," Dutch said calmly. Resting the bottles in his hand on the desk, the big mercenary strode over to the VCR. Pressing the eject on the front made the black plastic tape slides out as commanded. It took up the space of his large palm but he held it firmly in his grip before securing it in his empty vest pocket. Not once did Dutch take his eye off Jon-Jon or his gun.

"Y-y-yeah, s-s-sure thing, amigo."Jon smiled a nervous, a mixture of golden and white teeth flashed at Dutch; his attempt at being friendly. Dutch didn't smile back. "I-I-I wasn't gonna say nothing to nobody, you know I'm telling the truth, right."

Dutch's trigger finger remained unpersuaded, his trained eye on his target. The only way he can miss is unless he wants to.

"You know," Dutch began casually, his tone as calm as the lake, "in all I've survived in this shithole city, there's one thing I've learned to accept as absolute certainty,"

"What's that, amigo?" Jon-Jon said quickly, chuckling a little, his tone optimistic; voice pregnant with the cadence of hope. Even his stutter vanished like it never lived. Dutch couldn't help but notice the stress he added to the word 'amigo'.

"In Roanapurr, truth is like Santa Clause, God, and Power," Dutch said conversationally. Jon-Jon gave him a look crossed with confusion and interest, waiting for him to continue his point.

"Whatcha mean?" Jon-Jon asked anxiously, interest coloring his tone, and Dutch could see why the man made a good sycophant as he hung on to his every word like a leech.

"It's a matter of perceptive," Dutch told the liquor procurer; his tone still calm, still even.

Jon-Jon's face was still sporting that confused expression when Dutch pulled the trigger spraying blood and brains all over the expensive liquor bottles and the glass shelves behind him. A couple of moments later, released from the control of mind and his bodily functions, Jon-Jon's remains shit itself.

As the battle raged on between the two gangs outside, Dutch and his bottles of expensive liquors plus a few quarter bottles, took leave of Jon-Jon's bar using the escape panel behind that clandestine desk, where the remains of Juan, 'Jon-Jon' Hernandez sat in a pool of his blood and waste. The panel door two steps away from his body. If only he'd played to his strengths and taken the cowards' way out, he might still have been alive.

"Guess his eye for quality didn't extend to his life,"Dutch said sagely as the panel door closes behind him.