Mark clicked the buckles of his olive green kevlar vest, pulling the straps tight against his bulging frame. It was similar to the one he wore in the Hawaiian conflict. The vest should stop anything short of a rifle round. It'll hurt like hell, like taking a hammer blow to the chest. He'd be sore for awhile, but at least he'd get a chance to be sore, rather then dead.
Mark knocked on his vest and brushing his hands along the areas of his shoulder and upper chest, where the vest did not protect, as well as the large gap of protection for his lower stomach, courtesy of his big gut. "...Unless they shoot me anywhere the vest isnt covering." He thought. Still, being a large man with an extra layer of blubber between his internal organs and the vest reduced the change of being knocked out of the fight from broken ribs or deep tissue damage.
All of this was assuming he didnt get shot by a rifle round, which would punch right through the vest like it wasnt even there. He rubbed the large pouch in the front where the ballistic plates should have been, where they would have been if he hadn't put off ordering them. It was to late to do anything about that now. Even without the layer of steel, the vest could tip the balance of life and death in his favor... At least long enough to take another Russian or two with him, and that was all that mattered.
He took two boxes of 9mm rounds from one of the back shelves and set it on his work bench. His fat fingers popped open one of the thin cardboard flap one of the boxes and slid out the plastic tray. Fifty brass bullet cases gleamed up at him as he reached down and plucked one of them up. He turned the 9mm around, and stared listlessly at the simple bullet itself.
He placed the 9mm round in the vice grip attached to the work bench and tightened it in place. After fishing his folding knife from his pocket, he flipped it open with his thumb before pressing the blade against the soft metal of the bullet. He took a rubber mallet from the tool rack against the wall and tapped the back of the blade a few times. He pulled the knife away from the bullet and ran a finger across the small line he indented into it. He switched hands and placed the blade against the bullet again and repeated the process. When he was finished he loosened the vice and pulled the bullet from it, holding it up to his eyes.
The thin X he had indented into the soft metal was something he picked up, back from the war. More specifically, it was something they picked up from watching bad grind house movies, which gave him and his fellow soldiers the idea to implement it in real life. The little X in the bullet was to encourage it to break apart into four smaller fragments inside of the targets body, each piece a jagged, ripping chunk of metal liable to tumble its way into a vital organ or tear into an artery.
He repeated the process, until all one hundred bullets had marked. After that, he went through the process of feeding the modified rounds into the two magazines of his weapons, as well as two spares. As his fingers preformed their reptitive tasks, he kept his eyes glued on the small TV hooked up to the security camera overlooking the store.
When he finally finished, he sank down down in the folding chair behind him. He watched the live camera feed as it peered down at the glass display counters, and gun racks along the sides of the store. The feed was black and white, and pretty low res, a distortion on the side of the screen would occasionally cause half of the screen to appear as squiggly black lines. He checked his watch. It was a quarter past six. An anxious breath escaped his throat.
He glanced at the backpack, resting in the now empty gun case. He wasnt lying, when he admitted his violent fantasy in front of Ash. He kept a mask here at the store, with his submachine guns within arms reach. Why? He had no clear answer for this. If he had to guess, he kept it close by as a perverted sort of comfort, that no matter how much shit he took from customers or how manipulative his acquaintances were, he always had the option to escape into the back room, and emerge as his inner animal… and bathe the streets in blood.
He'd wash away all of the Russian filth, back into the gutters where they belonged. Why stop there? The gang bangers, the Colombians, the junkies and the dealers, the city would sigh in relief when their day of reckoning came. Mark couldnt help but chuckle to himself. He really was pretending to be a hero in a bad film. The cheesy, over the top, gory kind. The kind of movies he loved to watch.
An unnerving thought wiped the small smirk from his lips. By keeping the mask close, it became a constant temptation that tickled his darker, primal urges. The more he flirted with the dark thoughts in his head, the more they began to frighten him. If he let the beast out of its cage, would he be able to put it back?
Mark would have preferred to never find out. Here in this storeroom his fantasies would have remained for god knows how long. But that big fucking guy, that Russian asshole… he came into the den and poked the sleeping bear.
He had called him a pussy. Mark was a pussy. He was fat, pathetic, and emotionally weak. What better word could describe him then pussy? His friends would sometimes call him a "big bear" because he's large and easy going. Because he was afraid to be anything but pleasant. Mark always hated when they called him that, not because he was being called a bear, but because it showed how ignorant most people were.
Bears are not pleasant. Bears are not cuddly, or cute. Bears are big, belligerent animals that would maim, crush and kill someone for so much as thinking about entering their territory. A bear wouldnt do it out of necessity either. Not for food, or to protect itself, but for the shear audacity you showed by stepping a foot where it didn't belong.
Bears killed out of rage. They dont stop clawing and tearing until their insults are paid back ten fold, and their fury subsides. More often then not, the target of their rage is left a lifeless, tattered husk, but you cannot blame the bear. You blame the people who gave such a furious creature a reason to take vengeance in the first place. You either kill the bear out right, or leave it alone… but if you you try to take a bears life, you better be damn sure you shoot straight. An elephant may never forget, but a bear never forgives.
Mark's eyes locked onto the small security camera, as he waited. He no longer checked the clock. It was dark out, that's all he needed to know. After what felt like an eternity of staring into the black and white screen, several blurry objects, little more then shadows, lingered in front of the store. Mark leaned foreword, his eyes staring bullets into the small TV set.
The door to the front of the store swung open. He had locked that door, so the ones opening it had managed to pick the lock… or they had Ron's key. Because of the low resolution of the camera, he couldn't see the figures clearly. The lights of the store remained on at all times due to the simple fact that thieves preferred to work under the cover of darkness. Not that anyone in this neighborhood would bother calling the police. It was clear the four figures filing into the store one by one were not afraid of being seen.
Mark's eyes widened as he saw the final figure to step through the door. Of all the figures filing in, the last one stood a head taller then the rest. As the familiar strongman scanned the store slowly, he turned his head, giving the camera a clear shot of the mans face.
Mark felt a cold anger grow in his heart as he stood to his feet. He pulled his eagerly awaiting bear face from the black backpack before slinging it over his shoulders. He took his inner animal in both hands, and slowly lowered it over his face. His breath echoed against the insides of the mask as his heart sped up in his chest. It wasnt fear that caused his heart to race, but anticipation.
He pulled the MP5's from the worktable and gripped them tightly in each hand. It was time to kill. It was time to die. He pushed the metal door latch down with the barrel and foreword grip of the gun in his right hand, before pushing the door open a crack. For a brief moment he considered stealth, to creep up on his victims before springing his full auto trap. But that was Mark, the human, thinking that. He took a deep breath, and let it out. With it, he let Mark the human go, and embraced Mark the beast.
Without any thought, he brought his black combat boot against the door with a terrible crash, flinging it open, knocking it off one of its hinges from the sheer force. Adrenaline surged through his body as his leg crushed the sturdy door like it was nothing as he lumbered through the doorway at a swift pace.
He stood before the Russian mobsters brazenly, his twin submachine guns leveled at the mass of intruders. Time seemed to stand still in that moment. The Russian mobster's hands were frozen, caught in the act of shoveling hand guns and shotguns into duffel bags. Even the strongman, his arm reaching into his suit for whatever piece he had holstered there, was motionless, his eyes locked onto Mark's snarling bear mask.
They were like deer caught in the headlights. Like fish in a barrel. Mark relished the looks of shock in his victims faces. Just before he squeezed the triggers of his two submachine guns, and the explosive sounds of gunfire enveloped him, he heard a single satisfying word escape the strongman's lips. "You?"
The recoil of the MP5's kicked wildly against his arms. He embraced the recoil, he used it, letting the muzzle dance and sway over his dumb struck victims. He let out a throaty bellow, as the bullets tore through the white fabric of the mobsters suits, sending scraps of bloodied clothing tumbling through the air. Blood splattered onto the ground as each mobster hit the floor, it sprayed against the walls and glass display cases, it sprinkled into the air and fell again in bright red droplets on the tile floor. It was the most spectacular two point five seconds of Mark's entire life.
As the last discharged bullet casing landed against the hard concrete tile floor, and the smoke from his submachine gun's barrels cleared, one of Mark's victims staggered backwards. Mark glared at the strongman, who through some miracle had managed to remain on his feet. Blood ran down the side of the Russians leg, and pooled onto the floor. The arm that had been reaching for his weapon was now down at his side, shredded by three bullet wounds across his forearm and bicep. Several tears in the gaudily dressed enforcers shirt, littered his torso, but still the big man remained on his feet.
Mark couldnt help but be impressed at the strongman's stubborn fortitude. He felt his rage slowly subside, his anger trumped by an intense relief that washed over him. He had done it. He not only survived, he dominated. He and he alone stood unscathed. The Russian strongman struggled and swayed before Mark, his eye still locked onto the sight of his brown bear mask. Mark smiled under the mask with sick satisfaction as he placed one of the MP5's between his armpit to eject the magazine of the other submachinegun with both hands.
As Mark reached for a spare magazine, he saw the strongman raise his shredded arm. Mark's eyes widened in horror. Though his arm had been shot to shreds, the strongman managed to raise his piece. Mark was staring down the barrel of a .357 magnum. Mark dropped his empty guns from his hands and rushed the injured strongman, letting out a deep throated yell. Mark saw the flash from the revolvers muzzle, before the sudden impact to his upper chest rang through his body. He staggered backwards and fell against the display counter behind him, cracking the glass with his rear and lower back. The pain in his body was equal to the realization that entered his mind. The strongman too, was wearing a bullet proof vest.
A white hot wave of self loathing blossomed within Mark's chest. He had let this happen. He could have tried to blame it on the holes of his mask not being big enough, that he simply missed the revolver in the big mans hand, but he knew the real reason. He hesitated. He didnt give himself fully to the bear inside of him. He foolishly savored his minor victory instead of going for the final kill.
His teeth clattered as rage overtook him. The strongman's revolver was leveled at his head now, though the Russian struggled to keep it steady. Mark lunged for the strongman, more furious now then he had ever been. Before Mark could descend upon the Russian, the strongman collapsed to his hands and knees. It had taken all the Russian had to raise his gun for that single shot. He had nothing left.
Mark stomped his heavy boot down onto the strongman's shoulder, crushing the collar bone underneath. As the Russian groaned in pain, Mark gripped the big man by the head with both hands. His hands felt possessed, driven by the furious adrenaline high, as he lifted the Russians head up. His fingers squeezed against his skull as he thrust his thumbs into the Russians eyes, burrowing through them deep into his sockets. The Russians tortured scream became little more then a gurgle as Mark lifted with all of his might. He pressed down with his leg and foot, still tightly planted against the Russians shoulder.
Soon, the only screams came from Mark, as he felt the Russians head jerk and give way under his hands. With one final bellow Mark tore the strongman's head and part of his spine from his body, causing an eruption of blood to spatter against the rubber bear mask. Hoisting the head high above him, he let the droplets of blood rain into Mark's mask, until he tasted copper and saw only red.
. . .
Mark was motionless for nearly an hour. He stood there, leaning against the counter, his mask lifted up by his bloodied hand. His mask felt glued against his forehead with the sticky blood of the strongman. He panted. His breath no longer restricted he sucked in each breath as if it would be his last. Soon after, his body come down from his adrenaline high. In its absence, a weariness took its place, as did a disturbing realization. He was still alive.
His breath scratched against the roof of his mouth as he continued to stare ahead, at nothing in particular, his jaw slack, his face expressionless. He hadnt planned what he would do after his vigilante spree should he survive. Truth be told, it was easier to convince himself he was going out in a blaze of glory. He never thought he would have to deal with the aftermath.
The bear in him had since left, leaving Mark the human in control once again. He finally gathered all of his courage to timidly glance to his left. The bloody scene of carnage made him want to puke. He quickly turned away and closed his eyes tightly, focusing to keep the contents of his stomach on the inside.
He had seen blood and death before, sadly this was nothing new. Only these were not soldiers, this was not a battlefield in some tropic rain. This was right here in the store he came to work in every day. Unlike killing foreign soldiers, killing criminals had consequences both legal and illegal. "Ah shit..." Mark thought. He checked his watch, it was five past twelve. In the morning there would be people walking the streets, customers looking to get in, and he had a pile of blood and bodies smack dab in the middle of the store room.
Panic gripped him. The only thing worse then mobsters coming into his store or apartment in the middle of the night to murder him, was to have someone call the cops. It would end with the same results, only a much longer, grueling process. It wasnt how poorly he would fair in prison, the big passive fat man that he was, that scared him. It was the known fact the Russians owned the prisons.
The police werent always as inept as they were now. The crack down on the first wave of Russian mobsters was trumpeted as a wide spread success throughout the country, with politicians and police departments patting themselves on the back on live TV every chance they could get. But what law enforcement quickly realized, what Mark could have told them for free, was that Russian's were harsh, cruel individuals, and American prisons didnt even phase them. In fact, some Russians were rumored to take the fall for his associates willingly, not out of honor or obligation but for a change of venue. Once the Russians filled the prisons, the prisons belonged to them, and slowly but surely, the rest of the country followed suit. If Mark was arrested for murdering four Russian mobsters, he could count the days he would survive in prison on one hand.
Mark walked over to the bloody mess in the middle of the store, racking his mind for what he should do next. The pile of bullet riddled corpses overwhelmed him, he didnt even know where to begin. He brought his hands to the sides of his head as the stress began to rise, managing to smear blood over his face and mask. The mask! First things first, he ran to the back room and stuffed the bloody mask into his backpack and zipped it closed. He tried in vain to brush the fingerprints of blood he left over the backpack, before being seized by panic.
He sank into a fetal position, keeping his hands together as not to spread blood and evidence over anything else as he hyperventilated. After several minutes passed his hysterical breathing returned to normal. He was in over his head, far to deep to handle alone. He needed to call someone.
As he made his way to the phone, the thought of calling Corey briefly flashed into his mind. He scoffed and laughed bitterly. "Hey Corey, been thinking of you. Wanna help me bury some bodies?" He was sure that would go over well… Corey deserved better then to be dragged into something like this. Mark thought of calling his relatives, but he quickly dismissed that thought. He would rather die in prison.
He stood there, dumbfounded, as he stared at the phone. The only other name that came to mind was Ron, and he wouldnt be answering his phone anytime soon. The crusty old man probably wouldnt have helped Mark himself, but he might have pointed him in the right direction. Ron of all people knew how much of a blight the Russian crime was to this country. He let anyone know who asked.
He gritted his teeth and fought back tears. "Stop it… you fucking bitch. You keep that shit inside." He cursed at himself through gritted teeth. Well… there was one other option he had. He looked down to the reloaded MP5 resting on the counter. "No…" Mark whispered. "Not that, not yet." As he watched the clock on the wall tick down, at his time until daylight slipped away minute by minute, a sudden thought popped into his head. He dismissed it right away at first, but the longer he stared at his alternative, the less and less crazy it seemed.
Mark fumbled into his wallet and pulled out the electronic store card, before flipping it over. He stared at Ash's number, next to the a bloody thumbprint, for a long while. "Eh, why not…?" Mark finally uttered to himself. Any hope, no matter how unlikely or misplaced, was better then the alternatives.