His lips curled around the cigar and puffed methodically. The sweet stench of the tobacco rose skyward, infiltrating his nostrils. He studied the club with a pair of mismatched eyes. His empty hand errantly scratched at the ample scarring on the right side of his face.
The air was blood hot and muggy. It felt like the cramped interior of an old hiding place the man had used on a rickety transport vessel to escape some overzealous and corrupt authorities he'd pissed off on a distant planet—the name long forgotten. But this was Earth, some far-flung corner of Southeast Asia.
The Palm and Paradise, he said quietly to himself in an acidic tone. The brightly lit edifice was two stories high. Its interior was well-lit by a myriad of neon lights that pulsated to the electronic synths and beats that were broadcast by over-large speakers. The dance floor, tables and bar inside were totally exposed by open walls that were easily retracted during working hours to provide respite from the heat. The cheap ass owner couldn't be bothered to pay for air-con.
He could see a multitude of girls dancing in scantily clad outfits on the bars and tabletops inside. Articulate designs glowed brightly, painted on the flesh they laid bare to passersby. Most were human, but there were a few asari too. Others stood in the crowded streets trying to lure customers inside with promises of cheap drinks and the company of eager ladies.
He chuckled. It was a good business model. But an old one. He casually lobbed the remnants of his chewed up cigar into the gutter and strode across the busy road.
The music was loud. The bass seemed to beat upon his eardrums like they were for percussion rather than hearing. It was irritating, but he came to expect it in places like this. He was certainly no stranger to such establishments.
"Hey handsome man," a young Asian woman greeted him. She stepped in his way as he tried to pass the bar. Her naughty bits were barely covered by thin strips of exotically colored fabric. Lines of bright, glowing blue paint stretched up from between her thighs and across her bare stomach, only to disappear beneath the small amount of fabric that covered her pert breasts. "Looking for some pleasure?"
"Sorry, love, not right now," he responded seriously.
"Oh c'mon, sweetie. I'm a lot of fun," her eyebrows flexed provocatively. The tempo of the music accelerated and then dropped suddenly to a low, suggestive bass. All around them the crowd of people matched the pace as they grinded the night away upon one another.
"I'm here on business. Not pleasure," he explained evenly. "Now move."
She frowned and considered arguing further. Upon a closer study of the man, however, she decided he was not the sort to agitate. His face was grim and set with determination. His hair, more salt than pepper. He was aged, but that was not unusual among her clients here. He had the look of a soldier, also common, but there was a dangerous glimmer in those mismatched eyes of his. And that scar… The man wore it like a grisly badge of honor.
"Maybe next time," she suggested as she eased out of his way.
A glimmer of a grin appeared on his weathered face. "I wouldn't count on it, honey." He gave her a swift pat on the backside. "Now run along."
At the bar he spotted his target- a wiry man with overlong limbs, a ferret-like countenance and slicked-back dark hair. He fancied himself quite the player and was dressed in a finely tailored knock-off suit. From here he looked like something outfitted right off Savile Row itself, but upon closer inspection it was obvious he'd found himself something more local. His target was surrounded by a bevy of young, attractive women. All of whom were similarly dressed to the one that had greeted him earlier. Their naked flesh also painted in a myriad of colors.
And just beside him at the bar was his loyal little bodyguard. Only little was not the proper word to describe him. Like all wannabe thugs this rascal had hired the biggest mook he could find. Better to scare someone off with size than actual skill.
Need to deal with that one first, if I want to talk business.
The scarred man pushed his way past dancers and revelers. Those not too screwed up on red sand or busy with the hired women gave him adequate room. He crossed the room quickly then and found his way to the stool where the individual with slicked-back hair sat boozing with his paid-for-girlfriends. He was laughing, enjoying his carousing with the numerous young girls and sipping his ostentatious cocktail.
His eyes finally set on the scarred man that had arrived between him and the oversized mook he paid for protection.
His glass was frozen at his lips. After a moment he set it down and addressed the man that wore his scar so proudly. "Zaeed Massani, what a pleasure."
The mook's attention perked up at the revelation of who this visitor was. He turned to face Massani's back. He was of ample size and stood at least a head and half taller than the aged mercenary. As soon as his boss gave the word he'd deal with the man. For now, he'd let him speak.
Zaeed's attention was fully committed to the man surrounded by women. He didn't much worry about the ogre behind him. "Yeah, real fucking pleasure, Kovacs," Zaeed chortled.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Massani?" Kovacs asked in a slightly wavering voice. He delicately wiped some excess moisture from his upper lip and gazed at the mercenary with practiced detachment.
"Don't play coy with me you little weasel," Zaeed said a bit more angrily than he would have liked.
The women, sensing something was amiss, began to distance themselves from the conversation.
"Where's my guddamn money?" Zaeed questioned between grit teeth.
"Now this is an investment. You gave me money for an investment. It takes time to profit from investments, Mr. Massani," Kovacs replied a little shakily. "I'm sure you can appreciate that."
"Yeah," Zaeed looked around the lavish club as the rhythmic tunes continued to be belted out. Drinks were poured and shots were taken. Dancers, both hired and visiting, writhed against one another to the sound of the music. "It looks to me like the investment has already seen some returns. I want to cash in."
"It's not that simple, Mr. Massani," Kovacs responded cautiously. His ferret-like eyes scanned Zaeed's posture, trying to detect anything threatening in the old mercenaries body language. But his stance revealed nothing.
"Fuck you," Zaeed shot back. "If you don't pay me then I'll evacuate your brains from your skull faster than a pack of whores fleeing from arrest." He leaned forward ever-so-slightly, his head cocked to the side and he peered at Kovacs with those portentous mismatched eyes.
A quick, unintentional glance from Kovacs to his hired guard and the mook thought it was time to act. He reached out and placed his hand on Zaeed's shoulder, vice-like. "I think you need to watch your tone," he threatened ominously.
Zaeed stiffened when he felt the hand upon his shoulder. In a flash he whirled around on the gorilla-guard, snatched his considerable hand by the wrist gave a quick twist and slapped it down on the bar. Before the mook could react Zaeed already had his combat knife drawn from its sheath. With tremendous force he drove the tip of the blade through the man's hand and deep into the surface of the bar.
The bodyguard howled loudly as he felt the blade penetrate his flesh and sever the tendons in his hand. The pain was blinding.
Zaeed reached up and grabbed a tuft of the man's hair and then drove his head into the bar several times with perfectly applied force.
There was an eruption of frightened responses from nearby club-goers. The suddenness of Zaeed's attack had stunned most of them.
The bodyguard slumped to the ground unconscious, his hand still fixed to the bar by Zaeed's blade.
The mercenary turned back to Kovacs who stood in horror at what he had witnessed. "Now where is my money?"
'Z-Zaeed…" the weasel-like Kovacs stuttered. "I can't… just…"
"Look," Zaeed interrupted him. "Retirement isn't going as well as I had hoped. I gave you money. You gave me assurances on profit. It's been long enough. So pay up, mate."
The timing was right. Security had been dealt with. Now for payment. But Zaeed's sight blurred and a blunt wall of pain hammered through his skull from behind. Dazed, he stumbled forward for a moment before instinctively turning to address his attacker.
One of the painted ladies stood behind him, a cracked beer bottle in her shaky hand. She was frozen in fear.
"You bitch," Zaeed said groggily. A gloved hand reached up to rub at the sight of attack. Pain throbbed throughout his skull. It felt as though his entire brain was swelling up. He fought off the surprise and turned just in time to see Kovacs draw a miniature pistol—the Sparrow—a tiny little holdout gun for situations exactly like these.
Zaeed dropped to the floor, sliding well below Kovacs' aim as he fired wildly over the top of him. A slug ripped into the shoulder of a bartender behind Zaeed. The other rounds crashed into the ceiling harmlessly. Shrill screams erupted from the crowd and a panicked stampede started toward every exit of the building.
Kovacs was no gun-thug. He was terrified and out of his element, but seeing an opportunity he fled, forcing his way through the mob of frightened club-goers.
The DJ had abandoned his post but the music was still blaring as Zaeed stumbled to his feet. He rubbed the back of his scalp again, glanced over at the incapacitated mook and ripped his knife out of the man's hand. His limp arm dropped from the bar and Zaeed was quickly in pursuit of Kovacs.
The ferret-like club owner was pressing through the crowd like a fish swimming upstream. It was difficult and his small size didn't make it any easier.
Zaeed was closing the distance. Muscled arms yanked people out of the way or bowled others over. Zaeed was losing his patience. He watched as Kovacs escaped out a back exit into the alleyway beyond. With grit teeth he continued to press his way through the crowd, cursing them as he did. Then, from the midst of the gaggle of panicking revelers, another thug stepped up to protect Kovacs.
With a stun baton in hand the suited crony swung on Zaeed, but the mercenary deflected the blow with a winged arm, combat knife clutched tightly in hand. With his opposite arm he drove his fist into the man's gut like a piston. He could hear the breath rush from his lungs as the man bent forward. A quick follow-up from Zaeed's elbow caught the man on the chin and sent his head reeling backward. He stumbled a few meters and Zaeed was on him again, this time a horizontal elbow strike crossed his brow, opening a large gash just above his eyelid. The thug grunted as he reeled back, eventually collapsing on the ground.
With little ceremony Zaeed stepped over him and continued for the exit.
Outside the dulled tones of the electronic synths inside the bar could still be heard. It was gloomy out in an alley that extended in both directions. But his quarry was there waiting for him. Foolish little prick, Zaeed thought to himself.
Kovacs stood victoriously in the spotlight of an overhead lamp that cast bright white light upon him. His surroundings were shrouded in shadow.
"Now it's just you and me," Zaeed told him calmly as he stepped toward Kovacs. His combat knife was still wet with the blood of Kovacs' mook. He held it out to his side and flexed his fingers on the polymer grip.
Kovacs smiled stupidly at the mercenary. "I wouldn't be so sure of that," he warned.
From the murk behind him two armed figures appeared. One, a salarian, clutched a shotgun. The other, a hefty and mean-looking woman with a shaved head and a submachine gun stepped forward.
Zaeed stopped his march forward. His eyes looked back and forth between his two new enemies. Their weapons were leveled on him, he was hopelessly outgunned.
Kovacs laughed shrilly. His thin lips spread into a snarl. "You must be an idiot. You think I'd have just one guy working for me? Do you know who my father is?"
"I just want my money, Kovacs."
"There is no money for you," Kovacs hissed. "I took your money and used it up. I never intended to pay you back. Just like all the other idiots who invested with me."
"Not a smart move, boy," Zaeed said threateningly.
"Oh please," Kovacs waved a carefree hand at Zaeed. "My dad is the heaviest hitter in the city. But a man has to strike out on his own and start somewhere right? Getting this club going was the first step."
"So you steal money from people and then fall back on your daddy's muscle, eh?" Zaeed chuckled. "Real bad ass over here."
"You're all small time," Kovacs said, sobering up some after Zaeed's remarks. "You might have been the most dangerous of everyone that invested with me. But I wasn't too concerned about a washed up old man."
"Big mistake," Zaeed threatened in a menacing, hushed tone. "I'm going to get my money out of you, boy. Even if I have to smash you open like a little piggy bank."
Kovacs felt a chill run down his spine, but that same stupid smile appeared on his face. "Fat chance of that happening. Take a look around you. You're not really in an advantageous position."
"I think you should do the smart thing and give the man his money," Zaeed heard the familiar accented voice of a woman say.
From the darkness behind Kovacs a slender hand emerged, a Hornet submachine gun clenched tightly in delicate fingers. Then a face appeared. Perfection by design. A real femme fatale. Gleaming blue eyes that belied a dangerous individual. Hair as black as the shadows from which she emerged.
The barrel pressed against the base of Kovacs' skull.
"Who the fuck are you?" Kovacs asked alarmed.
The SMG-wielding woman wheeled around to confront this new threat, but a sudden shotgun blast from the blackness in the alley sent her twirling into the grimy pavement.
The salarian's muscles twitched only slightly as the reality of the new status quo donned on him. Before he could react to anything he felt a sharp pinch in the upper part of his chest. He glanced down and with disbelief saw the polymer grip of Zaeed's combat knife jutting out of his chest. The mercenary had thrown it with expert precision. The shotgun clattered to the ground. The salarian hovered momentarily, before collapsing under his weight.
"Oh fuck!" Kovacs declared, throwing up both hands.
Zaeed briskly closed the distance. He knelt over the salarian, whose breathing was shallow. He gripped the handle of his blade and yanked it free. "Heh," he grunted. "I'm getting rusty. I was aiming for this fellow's heart." His eyes locked on Kovacs.
"I'll pay. I'll pay you," The words blundered out of his quivering lips in a hurry.
"I know," Zaeed smiled. "Why don't you throw in a little extra for my trouble? How does twice the amount owed sound? Good. Here's the account number." Zaeed produced a small slip of paper.
Kovacs, with the barrel of an SMG still at the base of his skull, hurriedly snatched the note from Zaeed. His omni-tool illuminated on his forearm as he tapped in a few keys. "Okay… okay," he stammered. "Paid in full. And a one hundred percent increase. Interest… g-good business, See?"
Zaeed leaned over to confirm the transfer of funds. His lips peeled back into a smile. "Out-bloody-standing."
"So we're good? You're going to let me go?" Kovacs was shaking. "You know my father-"
"Shut up," Zaeed held up a hand to silence the young ferret. "You can go." He waved down the alley.
Without a second thought Kovacs sprinted off down the alleyway. He didn't look back. Not at Zaeed. Not at the dead female, or the dying salarian. He just ran as fast as he could.
The sound of Zaeed's laughter echoed in his wake. "Run you guddamn little weasel. Run back to daddy." He turned his attention to the gorgeous SMG-armed woman. Her form-fitting combat uniform was taut across ample breasts. He cracked a sly smirk. "Normally I don't have a problem with beautiful women following me into dark alleys, but I have to make an exception when they're Cerberus."
The woman dropped her arm and re-holstered the SMG at the curve of her hip. "Former Cerberus, you mean," Miranda Lawson said in a that silky voice of hers.
Jacob Taylor stepped out of the gloom and placed his freshly-fired shotgun back on his lower back. "You're getting sloppy, Zaeed. Didn't even know we were here."
"Oh please," Zaeed mimicked a grimace. "I clocked you two turtledoves the moment you were on me. I saw you this morning when I left the hotel and again at lunch."
Jacob's lips curled into a smile. "Never mind then. I stand corrected."
"So what do you want, love?" Zaeed asked, glancing back at Miranda.
"Simple—we need your help."