Jacob scrunched his nose and suppressed a scowl as he eased his way through the door, the smell of spilled beer and vodka mixing with other unmentionable aromas. He'd never had a taste for alcohol, for various reasons, but booze was hardly the only thing this place had going for it. He had to resist the urge to break up a tussle that broke out across the room as one of the more intoxicated customers tried to force himself on one of the dancers as she passed by, attempting to remove what little clothing she was still wearing.
Jacob slid up to the bar and ordered a glass of water, making note of the bartenders decidedly unlocal features against the eastern European faces. British maybe? When he came back Jacob reached for his pocket, ready to flash his service card, but the bartender shot his arm out to grab Jacobs and shook his head no, then glanced over Jacobs shoulder. The spec ops veteran looked up toward a round mirror fixed near the top of the wall behind bar and saw what the bartender was on about.
Four feet behind him in a small booth near the raised platform for the dancers, three men were sitting hunched over a pile of printed out pictures. One was fat and balding, slumped back in his seat, sausage like fingers glistening with rings and puffing on a thick cigar clamped in his yellowing teeth. The one next to him was much thinner with sharper features and looked much more worried as he poured over the photographs, while the third looked more like a mouse than a man, scrunched face and large outward facing ears to boot. He also seemed to be in a mild state of panic, eyes constantly darting and glancing around the room as he wriggled in his seat like a worm in loose dirt.
Jacob looked back at the bartender and gave a swift nod then let him leave, but not before both men's glares made sure the other new they would have words later. He then turned his attention to the group of men and what they were saying.
"And you took these all yourself?" The thin one asked his trembling friend across the table.
"N-n-no not exactly." he said slowly, "I mean I to-took some of them But I had to swipe the others from the cops."
"And?" the fat man asked through his cigarette smoke. The small man looked confused, and his mouth dangled open a few moments before the thin one asked.
"How many were there?" The small man seemed to shrink even more, trying to disappear back into his seat. "Look Freddy," the thin one said losing his patience. "I know you're freaked out, hell if I just watched my whole crew get ghosted out from under me I would be too. But if you want us to make these rats pay you gotta give us something more than a few pics. Now how many guys came at you?" He barked quietly lifting his glass to his mouth and taking a sip as the bartender flagged down one of the dancers.
"Um-uh," Freddy apparently wanted to stall saying the number as long as he could. "M-ma-maybe one."
Jacob smirked, hearing the wet cough as the thin man nearly choked on his drink, spilling most of it down his white shirt and coat. Jacob saw the bartender whisper something to the dancer he had stopped. She nodded, then reached for the one article of clothing on her body not classified as undergarments. As she pulled the bleached white hood up over her head and the other dancers slowly did the same, the fat man leaned forward, puffing smoke into the other mens faces.
"Freddy," he said, voice ragged like any chain smokers and thickly accented in a mix of russian and polish, "You're telling me, that one guy, one man," he gestured to the pictures, gold cuff links on his coat sleeve shimmering. "Did all this."
"No-not exactly a man Sir, he was more like a, well a."
"Like a what? A phantom? A ghost? Batman?!" He asked laughing. Jacob saw the bartender tap something on the under side of the bars beer dispenser, then vanish down a hall, the tell tale glow of an emergency exit sign evident overhead.
"Ye-yeah!" Freddy yelped, near a panic attack. "I mean, he was everywhere. Above us, below us, all around us! Hell he took out five of the guys before we even knew he was there!" The fat man shook his head, puffing in a long breath from his cigar before leaning back in his seat.
"Un-friggin believable," He muttered in Polish, before regarding Freddy once more in english. "Did you at least get a good look at this freak before he bolted?"
"Ye-ah! I mean, no, kind of, sort of, not, It was dark okay!" Freddy shouted, arms shaking like tree limbs in a gale as he pushed himself up on them. "He-he was moving too fast, and, h-he was wearing this white hoo." He froze, eyes flashing too and fro, wider than dinner plates and dilated beyond even that. "He, he's here," he croaked as he voice cracked, "He's here." The thin and fat man exchanged glances, then looked back toward the mouse man.
"Who," The thin man asked, his tone that of a man convinced of another's insanity. But Freddy just kept looking around, his head whipping around so fast on his neck it seemed sure to snap. His bosses saw a bar and dancers strutting around serving drinks and eye-candy, but all Freddy saw, were faces hidden by white hoods. He scooted out of the booth, arms trembling worse than ever as he tried to keep himself upright on the table, head still spinning on his neck and eyes bulging. He finally got his feet under him, legs shaking like a wood bridge under a freight train, and a single word escaped his lips.
"Morderca." The fat man did a double take.
"What?" he asked in Polish, the same language Freddy had just used. But Freddy was in full blown panic now, twirling around, terror written all over his body, as he screamed.
"Morderca, MORDERCAAAAA!" He ran for the bars exit, shoving past the dancers and toppling drinks and tables in his mad dash for escape. He flung open the front doors, and vanished from sight as they swung shut behind him. The fat man looked at the thin one.
"What the hell?" he asked, laughing a little, when suddenly.
"AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!" The thin man repeated his bosses question, and exchanged a glance with his boss. A jerk of his head sent the thin man racing for the door, along with two other men from the bar and one of the dancers. Jacob only had to wait a second before he heard the girl scream, and one of the men swear. The thin man rushed back inside, running back to his bosses table, pale as death, and frantically whispering into his ear. The fat man's eyes went wide, and he looked at the thin mans face, looking for any hint of deception. But the fear in his eyes held no lies. Jacob listened closely, hearing fragments of shocked conversation carrying across the room from the front.
"Oh my God," One man gasped, "He, he's."
"So much blood," One of the dancers started through sobs and the comforting of her coworkers.
"How the hell'd he even get up there so quick?"
Jacob decided he had heard enough, mainly because the fat man and his lackey were making for the emergency exit in the back. He waited another moment, then stood from his seat at the bar and followed them.
Pablo Yakunin did not feel fear, that was what his front and middle men were for. He walked past the restroom, heading toward the flase wall and door that would take him out into the alley where his Mercedes was waiting. This was his club, in his town, with his JA-25 pistol in his left coat pocket with a full magazine of armor piercing rounds. Pablo knew he had every reason not to be afraid.
But even with all those confidence boosters in his pocket, you tend to get nervous when you're told by your number two guy one of your street heads has just been killed and strung up like a catholic cross from your clubs sign. He waited while Bruno checked the alley, stepping outside the door and looking up and down the dark damp corridor before nodding the all clear to his boss.
Pablo stepped out, his number two not ten feet in front of him, hand on the glock hidden in his own coat pocket. He could see the headlights of his BMW parked in the lot at the alleys end, the glow shining off the still damp pavement. He heard Bruno start to say something in polish, but it became an english swear when a metallic clatter rang though the air behind them. Pablo drew his gun, but the motion was slow and clumsy, leaving him staring at an empty alley way and a club door ajar. He just started to lower his gun when he turned around, only to realize Bruno was gone.
He lifted his gun again, looking for whoever took his number two, but the alley way had at least a dozen smaller passages splintering off of it, and tonight the shadows were thick. He heard a clatter to his left, and he pointed his gun at the closest alley in that direction.
Mistake number one.
Then, he started backing up away from the alley, but into another one.
Mistake Number two.
He kept reversing, gun aimed for the alley, but when he decided the danger had passed, he lowered his pistol.
Mistake Number three.
And turned around, not realizing he had lost his orientation in the fear of the moment, and put his back to the only way out of the alley.
Final Mistake.
A flick of his wrist, the tell tale shink of unfolding metal, and the twin microscopic glints as the moon light caught the edges of his blades. That was the only warning Pablo Yakunin had before the man leapt from the third story window, left arm reared back and hooked forward, like a cobra ready to strike. The next thing he knew, Pablo was face down in the alley, his entire front meeting hard asphalt and concrete, while two very sharp somethings pinned him where he lay.
"AH GOD!" he swore, stripped of any confidence and bluster, "Please, I-I'll give you what ever you want, ju-just don't hurt me!" The man twisted the blades, making Pablo scream.
"Too late for that I'm afraid," He said, his voice smooth and disturbingly calm. "But if you don't give me a hard time about it, you might not wake up in front of you know who." He dug the blades in further, soliciting another scream. "WHERE ARE THE SHIPMENTS COMING FROM, AND WHERE ARE THEY GOING!?" But the question had returned the crime lords resolve, or perhaps it was a different terror all together that had steeled him.
"AGH! Wha, What shipments?! AAHH!"
"Don't lie to me Yakunin! Every Tuesday at ten pm, you and your thugs take a container from the docks in Gdynia, and somehow, that container is in Berlin by morning! Unopened!" He put more force onto the mans back, Palblo's spine popping as the obese man groaned in agony. "Where, Pablo?"
"I don't know okay!" he shouted pleadingly. "We pick up the box when it gets there, we drop it off on schedule, no questions asked! AAAH!" He screamed as the man put even more weight onto his back, forcing two vertebrae out of place.
"You're not very convincing tonight Yakunin."
"I SWEAR THATS IT!" he yelled.
"Then where do I find your suppliers?! And who takes the containers once you drop them off?!" Then to his surprise, the man with two blades stuck into his belly, and a dislocated back, started laughing.
"Hehe, You are in way over your head creep," he chuckled, "You are bat shit insane if you think these guys are gonna let you catch them the way I did." The man growled, yanking his blades out and turning the fat pole over. But before Pablo could reach for his gun, he felt two pointed edges pressed to his wind pipe.
"You have to have talked with someone," He snarled, face obscured behind a wrapped clothe and the shadows of his hooked hood. "Somebody who knows where they are, where they're operating from." Pablo laughed, as much as he could with his neck threatened.
"Have you even met these Freaks?!" He asked, "None of them, not one, is gonna sell out to you, not even if you put them on deaths door mat. You know why? Because they got conviction! They have god on their side! And when the big guy gets his army, Ho ho man, THE WHOLE WORLDS GONNA BUR-hurk!" He gagged when the blades pressed through to his carteroid arteries, connected their flow to his esophagus. Pablo gagged and choked for a moment, before flopping onto his side lifeless. The man flicked his wrist, collapsing the blades back into his gauntlet, and stooped over the body.
"Che la morte ti dia la pace che cercavi," he said as he rolled the corpse over and placed a hand on his forehead, and said softly, as if to a dear friend. "Requiescant in pace." And he closed Pablo's eyes.
He stood, making a mental note to clean his blades before the blood dried, when he heard the sound of a gun cocking. He dropped to his knee's and spun on his left, hand flying in and out of his pocket faster than most could blink, but he wasn't fast enough. His muscles seized as a biting burn tore through his shoulder and neck. The bullet had only grazed him, but it was enough to make him drop his gun and clench his hood over the wound.
"Alexander Stryker," The attacker smirked as he walked up to the assassin, a tiny black pistol aimed at his skull. "Hmpf, and here I thought this was going to be hard."
"Hello Bruno," Alex said looking at the number two, "Are you going to shoot me? Or just stare at me all bloody night?" Bruno scoffed and shook his head.
"You woke the wrong dog this time Stryker," said, putting both hands on the pistol as he took aim at the assassins head. "You should've taken the hint when R."
BANG! BANG!
Bruno's legs crumpled under him and he dropped the split second after the bullets passed through his skull. Alex looked up just as his rescuer dropped down using the same outer ledges he had used to ambush Pablo. The man hit the ground right beside the dead Bruno, a Colt .45 gleaming in his hand, and approached Striker. Alex tried to stand, but when he got his wobbly feet under him, the man simply pushed him back down.
"Easy," he said gently, "You've lost a lot of blood, and you'll lose more if you don't stop moving close that up." He holstered his gun, pulled a wad of napkins from his coat pocket and pressed them into Alex's already soaked hood and jacket. "Hold that," he said, letting Alex take the paper wad, while the man pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. Alex's imagination didn't need very long to draw up a conclusion.
"So," he sighed, "Are you calling the embassy or the coroner first?"
"Neither," he said pressing a button and turning off his phone and turning back to Alex. "My ride; got a UH-144 ten minutes out, they're on their way with some meds, which if that geyser in your neck is any indication, you're gonna need soon."
"What do you want American?" Alex growled, recognizing the mans accent and mannerisms quickly.
"My name is Jacob Keyes, I'm with the UNV spec-ops." He explained. "And you, are Alex Stryker, British Military Intelligence, Section 6. Double O status too I believe."
"Former," Alex flat-linned quickly. "I'm burned, in case you haven't heard."
"Ah yes, well, hmm, about that. You know why I came to that club tonight? I mean, besides finding you and keeping you alive. Its because I spent most of this morning, in London, having the most un-pleasant conversation you can imagine, with the most uncompromising, self absorbed."
"You talked to M then."
"And my heads still spinning. But more to the point, I got her to agree to a favor."
"And this favor includes me?" It wasn't a question, but Keye's stance shifted all the same.
"Here's the bottom line right now Stryker; You've got five minutes to decide, yes or no. Now you can walk away and never see a uniform again. Or, you can take a little ride with me, get patched up and level the playing field, cause believe it or not we are after the same thing." Alex looked at the bodies of Bruno and Pablo, then up as the drop-ships twin rotors and its search light passed overhead. He looked at the soldier, who turned and began walking after the light.
"Look at it this way; They've got friends in high places. Having some of your own couldn't hurt." Alex looked down at his free hand, the carved leather barely peeking out from his jacket sleeve. He looked up again, then started walking.