Chapter 7: Clever Play

The sounds of whimpering and writhing reached Fritz's ears as he gently wiped down the serrated combat knife in his hand. He did not neglect his task and decided to ignore the noise for the moment, energetically cleaning the blade until it was spotless and the last stains of blood were gone. Satisfied, he set the weapon down on the table beside a hatchet and a small handgun. The firearm was a Colt Model 1903, a pocket pistol that was easy to conceal but no less deadly than its larger cousins. There was a single light shining down on the table to illuminate the weapons. The commotion, however, came from the shadows only feet away. Fritz turned to watch the struggling Russian man, a large steel hook through his shoulder keeping him suspended in the air. With his feet several feet off the ground and his wound bleeding out, he held onto the hook for dear life lest it shred through flesh and bone against his weight. There was a strip of duct tape over his mouth so he could not speak. Fritz simply watched him with twisted curiosity. It was like a small child discovering the power of a magnifying glass against ants for the first time.

Eventually, Fritz grabbed a stool from against the wall and propped it up beneath the Russian's feet so he would not need to struggle anymore. Then, he removed the duct tape. The Hotel Moscow enforcer gasped for air, steadying himself on the stool.

"That's it, Sergei. Deep breaths."

"You're fucking sick," the man whined. He was incredibly pale and covered in sweat. He'd lost a lot of blood already and it would not be long before death took him. Fritz, it seemed, was disturbingly content to wait for that moment instead of taking the Russian's life himself.

"Don't be so afraid, Sergei. Death comes for us all in the end. You should welcome it." Sergei did not even have the energy to spit at his captor.

"Tell me who put you up to this," the man demanded. "Who's paying you?"

"My employer is irrelevant," Fritz told him. "What matters is that I'm here to grant death to you and your comrades. Tell me, how are Hotel Moscow dealing with this unexpected turn of events?"

"We've been out for your blood ever since you hung Alexei from the bridge. You better hope Balalaika never finds you. You're suffering will be long." Fritz just giggled in response.

"Alexei…yes. He put up quite the struggle, but he submitted in the end. A pity I had to kill him before the hanging."

"Goddamn you!" Sergei cried. "When I get down from here, I'll strangle your scrawny German neck myself!"

"I'm afraid this basement is to become your tomb, friend. Do yourself a favour and accept that."

Fritz produced a pair of handcuffs from inside his jacket. He approached the Russian man and forcefully bent one arm behind his back, then did the same with the other and handcuffed them together. He reapplied a fresh strip of duct tape to Sergei's mouth and kicked the stool out from under him. The deranged killer stood there and watched as Sergei struggled and roared in pain what little he could under the duct tape. It took maybe ten minutes for his energy to wane and his body to go more or less limp. He was still alive, but the life was leaving his limbs. Fritz smirked and turned on the spot, snatching up the Colt Model 1903 and hiding it in his inside pocket. He switched off the light so the room, and Sergei, would be swallowed by the darkness. He leisurely went to the door and left, closing it behind him and ascending the steps onto the street level.

The cold air embraced him like a familiar friend and he felt the brunt of it on his hairless flesh. He inhaled deeply and kept his eyes on the night sky. The night time had always been inviting to him, welcoming every sickening fibre of him with open arms. It suited him to dwell in the shadows and he had become accustomed to it. He walked for a time through the streets, paying no attention to the passers-by and unscrupulous criminals that looked at him in disdain. After a while, he came to a stop on the path and watched the pair of men walking in the other direction across the road. He knew immediately that they were from Hotel Moscow. In the short time he had been killing for La Famiglia, he had come to recognise the Russian mafia members almost perfectly. During his life, the art of killing had become second nature to him and this brought with it the necessity to easily recognise one's prey. Coupled with this, it was nigh impossible for Hotel Moscow to hide from him.

He started walking forward again, his eyes never moving from the two individuals whose lives he intended to take. His pulse quickened just at the thought. The woman who was walking nearby managed to bump into him as she passed, snapping him out of his bloodlust for a moment.

"Hey! Watch where you're going, asshole!" Fritz merely grinned and closed his eyes.

"My apologies," he said soothingly. The woman, who had been poised to unleash her Berretta Cutlasses on him if he argued back, now relaxed and headed into the Yellowflag bar, no longer fussed with picking a fight. Fritz continued on his hunt for the Russians, patting the breast of his jacket to make sure his gun was still there.

(*)

Revy hurried towards the bar, thirsty as ever for her usual helping of rum. Cletus and Daisy, who had been with her during the pursuit of the Cat Lady, were sitting by one of the round tables to the right, accompanied by the Wolf. Shenhua was by the bar, with Rock two seats over on the other side. Revy took the seat in the middle and whistled at Bao for her drink. He said nothing, but rolled his eyes as he reached for the bottle of Bacardi.

"She sure waste no time," Shenhua joked.

"Damn right," Revy answered her. "Wasn't expecting to see you here, Chinglish. Spend all your reward money already?"

"There not much to do around here these days," the Taiwanese assassin explained. "Plus, we have killer on the loose."

"Yeah, this is Roanapur," Wolf piped up from his table. "We've got about fifty killers on the loose."

"So funny," Shenhua groaned, exasperated. Revy turned around in her seat to face the room.

"Yeah, we heard the same," she said, getting back to the point in question. "Sis is furious. This nutcase has taken out five or six of her people already."

"It doesn't sound like the work of anyone we know," Rock interjected, finally joining the conversation. "I wonder who could have it out for Hotel Moscow."

"Use that big brain of yours, Rocky Boy," Revy mocked light-heartedly. She pinched his cheek like he was a young boy and gently shook his head from side to side. "You must be itching to figure this one out." Rock caressed his cheek when she released him. In truth, he was curious to discover who was responsible for these killings, even if his passion had been slowly dwindling for a while. He was always the one who used his intellect and knowledge to uncover whatever mystery landed itself in front of him. It was a surprise he didn't jump at the chance to piece the puzzle together back when they first heard about this. Only now had he shown any particular interest in the situation. Revy chalked that down to the alcohol. Rock took a swig of his own rum and lost himself in thought.

"My guess would be one of the newcomers Chang's story about the Cat Lady brought here. There must still be a few stragglers hanging around."

"You hear that, Hill Billy?" Revy called, directing the question and demeaning nickname at Cletus. "Rock thinks you're the one fucking up Balalaika's men."

"Bullshit!" Cletus spat, slamming his fist on the table. Daisy placed a hand on his shoulder and he calmed himself. Clearly, she was used to reeling him in when he had an outburst. "I ain't got nothing against those Ruskies, 'cept for them being commies and all."

"It still doesn't make sense, though," Rock continued, paying no attention to Cletus's ramblings. "There's too much of a pattern. This killer isn't blowing off steam, they're specifically targeting Hotel Moscow. It's strange." As the Japanese man was lost in thought, the door of the Yellowlfag opened and several men entered the bar. Revy was taking a drink at the time and looked up mid-sip to spot them all. She lowered her drink, surprised.

"Ikemba!" she called to him. "Ain't too often you come this far into the city."

Ikemba was the leader of the ACR, or the African Confraternity of Roanapur. During the seventies and eighties, Thailand saw an influx of runaway criminals from Africa. The ACR was comprised of former death squad members, Neo Black Movement of Africa defects and child soldier deserters. They mostly kept to the outskirts of the city so as to stay out of the way of the ruling factions and their dealings mainly concerned nearby towns and villages. Primarily, they ran a protection racket, but Ikemba had been dabbling in other nefarious areas of the criminal underworld lately. Balalaika and Chang allowed the ACR to exist and operate unabated and they all stayed out of each other's way as a result. If Ikemba was in the middle of the city, something must have happened. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and two large, meaty hands. He currently wore a spotless wine-coloured suit with a mismatched light blue tie sporting yellow stripes. Two golden earrings shone in the light and several rings covered his fingers. He also wore sunglasses and his face was kept clean shaven, save for a neat goatee.

"Revy," he greeted Lagoon's gunslinger. "Haven't seen you in a long time." He leaned on the bar beside Rock as they spoke.

"You hear the latest?" Revy asked, to the point.

"Of course," Ikemba confirmed. Despite his remote location and refusal to get involved in the city's affairs, he was still very well-informed. "Balalaika hasn't formally acknowledged anything yet, but her people are dying like cattle in a slaughterhouse."

"Yeah. Bitch is pissed, alright. If she doesn't catch this asshole soon, she's gonna have a real shitshow on her hands."

"With any luck, she'll accept our help," Ikemba said. "I've offered to have my people gather information. As soon as they know more, we can help Hotel Moscow find this mystery killer."

"Oh yeah?" Revy asked, holding her drink up as she prepared to take another sip. Rock found it genuinely surprising that the ACR would be assisting the Russians with this. None of their people had been affected by these murders and it seemed unlikely that they would be. The unknown killer seemed to only have eyes for Hotel Moscow.

"What's in this for you?" Rock asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Not a thing," Ikemba admitted. "But it never hurts to cosy up to the bosses. I have to keep myself in their good books, you understand. With the way things have gone these last two years, it's a wonder we're still here."

"Well, you ain't exactly been on the front lines," Revy slighted him. "Soon as you turn something up, how about you pass it our way?"

"Does confidentiality mean nothing to you?" Ikemba asked, somewhat tongue-in-cheek. "Any leads I have go directly to Balalaika, you know that. I assume Lagoon Company keep a similar code of privacy."

"Ah, you're no fun," Revy told him. Ikemba placed his hand on his heart.

"You wound me. But how can I deny a lady as beautiful as yourself? I will trickle what information I can down the pipe."

"Pfft," Revy scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Always the charmer. Appreciate the heads up, Ikemba."

"I don't forget my friends," he told her. "It seems like a century ago I was hiring Lagoon for my own business." He pointed at Rock, then. "I don't think this one was with you then."

"He's…relatively new," Revy explained.

"Dutch is branching out," Ikemba jested. "I'd better be on my way. My people work fast. I should have something for you by the end of the week."