The calls had stopped coming in. No matter how long he waited, the motel's phone stayed silent. Anxiety compelled him to doubt if the line was still connected. But each time he'd check, he heard that same familiar dial tone. Everything was working perfectly. Other than his lack of work. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, but none of his tension left with it. His hand ached from gripping his stress ball tighter and tighter, the fabric straining between his white knuckles. Jacket needed something, anything to occupy his mind. Until he got word of the next job, he was shackled to that phone. The restlessness was eating away at him, and the apartment increasingly felt like solitary confinement. Just sitting and waiting for an opportunity, like a prisoner waiting on a riot to make their escape. He turned to his cork board and read the clippings from a newspaper article.
"Triad attacked by an unknown assailant! While some speculate the involvement of other crime families, there has been no evidence to prove such rumors or allegations. Police and law enforcement agree, this could only be the work of a serial killer."
Feeling proud of himself, Jacket highlighted the last sentence as a satisfied smile curled across his lips. As soon as the marker left the page and his eyes drifted to another article, his emotions flattened again. The cold stoicism returned to his face as he took the clipping and stuck it to the board, not connecting it to any others.
"Italian mob suspected of illegal car racket! The police have put a hold on further investigations to focus on the recent string of murders!"
Another faint smile, fading just as quickly as the first. Jacket couldn't resist. Though he made a mental note that he'll need to burn his purple four door, lest it gets connected to any crime scene. It didn't make sense, nor did he even think it was logical. But he didn't care. It was what he wanted.
Might as well get this over with.
It's not like there's anything better to do.
Grabbing his duffle bag but leaving his Mac-11, Jacket left the motel and jumped into his car. Engine roaring, he went straight for the docks; speeding around every corner like a madman. Once at the docks, Jacket kept his eyes peeled for anything that could indicate 'business' was going down. And it seemed like business had been booming, because He didn't need to look far. A small-time drug deal, and a hooker working the night shift. But no mafia in sight. Jacket knew them well enough not to take that at face value, though. This was the mob, after all. He figured they wouldn't just be out in the open eating bowls of spaghetti. Regardless, he was satisfied with his cursory survey of the area. No mafia, but the docks had plenty to provide in the way of campfire materials. After stuffing a discarded oil soaked rag into the gas tank of the purple four-door, Jacket lit it with his bic, then simply walked away.
He waited near a warehouse and kept his eyes peeled, surveying the docks with his binoculars. Within minutes the car was an inferno, the flame visible to anyone who could see. Dock workers, the dealers, and several men in white suits peering out to see what the commotion was. This wasn't anything irregular for Rouanpour though. Most onlookers hardly noticed. The rest went back to business as usual, after the engine blew. Jacket saw what he needed, and casually made his way to the warehouse. Reaching into his bag, he grabbed Richard, a suppressor, then put his face on. Richard knelt down, took his PPK from his ankle holster, affixed the accompanying suppressor. Richard made it look so natural, you might have thought he was just kneeling down to tie his shoes. All the while, he kept visibility on the warehouse. Back entrance was as wide open as a barn door. And only two mobsters stood guard, their attention focused on the explosion from moments ago.
"The fuck?.. You think we oughta check that out? Could be trouble…" As he asked, the first mobster was anxiously fiddling with the safety on his weapon.
The other lit a cigarette and shrugged, "Hell if I know. With the shit hitting the fan the other week, it could have been the killer. Or maybe the cartel? Abrego accused Lorenzo at the meeting."
The other sighed, "Just another day in paradise, I guess…" as Richard crept closer to the pair. Lurking behind a stack of crates, and well out of sight.
Still fidgeting with the safety on his gun, the first goon asked, "What's the car this time? Something exotic I heard."
A toothy smirk curled across the lips of the second goon, "Lorenzo had a DeLorean shipped in. And the mark thinks it's all legit too. Gottem paying cash upfront."
As they erupted into a fit of laughter, Richard saw his opportunity. And he took it. Like a quick-draw Jack-In-The-Box Richard pops out from behind the crates, PPK in hand. Pop. Pop. Quieter than a cap-gun. The two mobsters hit the ground nearly in unison, not a wrinkle on their cheap suits. Richard approached the entrance as casually as one can while wearing a rubber Rooster mask. Crouching low, he made himself at home in the shadows. Whenever out of sight and ears open, he felt at ease. Like a predator on the hunt in its natural habitat.
Inside, a balding, middle-aged Itallian man was throwing a tantrum, "Yeah, that was a fucking message! And we'll do the same to your car, if you back out on this deal! Eighty thousand! That's what we agreed upon! I'm not going any lower so take it or leave it, asshole!"
Yeah. That was definitely Lorenzo. And if Richard could laugh, listening to these lies Lorenzo was spinning would have got him to blow his cover.
An expensive suit wearing a rich brat underneath shot back, "Do you have any idea who you're talking to, asshole?! Elton Crusk! Heir of the Crusk family fortune! Who the fuck do you think you are?!" His slicked back bottle blonde hair had become a disheveled mess, as he howled and shook with impotent rage.
Lorenzo looked the mark straight in the eyes. The mobster toyed with the gold jewelry decorating his fingers as he spoke low, and slow, "I'm the man who's about to rob the heir to the Crusk family fortune and leave his ass drowning in the middle of the ocean, if you don't sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up."
Realizing he may be out of his depth, the mark hesitated. Looking like a boy who'd just been spanked for talking back, Crusk timidly took his seat.
Crusk's entire demeanor had changed, "Look, man… I don't want any trouble. I'm Just a guy trying to buy a DeLorean…" He kept his eyes down this time. And by his tone of voice, he sounded utterly defeated.
Lorenzo on the other hand had a grin so wide you'd think his head would split in half, "Good, then it's eighty thousand." The mobster said, barely containing his satisfaction.
"Alright. Fine…. Eighty thousand. And it's in good condition, right?" Crusk risked asking, while daring to look up from the table to meet the mobsters' glare.
Lorenzo continued his tirade, "No shit! You have eyes don't you? Now pay the fuck up!" His volatile attitude reminded Richard of The patriarch of the Russian mafia back in Miami, only known as "The Father". He intended to kill Lorenzo the same he did to The Father. And the mark was taking the bait, hook, line, and sinker.
"And it's all strictly legit?" Crusk asked, sounding more and more like a whipped dog.
Lorenzo cracks a crooked smile before answering, "As legitimate as anything in Roanapur, Mister 'Just a guy.'" The mobsters voice full of smug satisfaction.
Crusk simply nodded, his eyes downcast. The brat had bucked his last; the mobster finally broke him.
Lorenzo smiled wide enough to flash his gold tooth at Crusk. "Then We have a deal." The mobster said, sounding quite delighted.
But as Lorenzo and Crusk shook hands Richard fired two shots, hitting both men in the head. The mobster and his mark both slump forward, and their bloody faces collide with a sickening thud before they hit the table; still shaking hands. Shocked, Lorenzo's bodyguards began to search in panic. Without any indication of where the shots could have come from, they looked like a pair of headless chickens. As one ran toward the bodies Richard had left behind, the other searched in vain for the shooter. Richard could hear him passing by, muttering to himself in confusion.
"What the fuck is even going on?!" The mobster whispered before he knelt down near Richard, only to meet the same fate as his boss. Realizing he wasn't being paid enough for this shit, the last surviving guard abandons the DeLorean as he makes a break for the other entrance. With Lorenzo dead, the Italian mob couldn't operate in Roanapur anymore and would eventually disperse. Richard was feeling impatient though, so he executed the fleeing mobster as the frightened man struggled to unlock his only means of escape. Dead men tell no tales, or so they say.
Duffle bag in hand Richard approached Lorenzo's corpse and searched his pockets, finding the key to his new car. Slipping into the driver's seat Richard got out of his work attire, throwing his face onto the duffle bag in the back seat.
Jacket rested for a moment, hands on the wheel of his new DeLorean. Catching his breath while he took it all in. It was beautiful. Just like his old car, before it was trashed. Even had that 'new car' smell. Jacket backed out of the warehouse before reaching into his pocket. He fishes out a well loved cassette tape, and without looking up he slips it into the player. "Miami", by Jasper Byrne.
Jacket turned the volume up on the car stereo as he maneuvered his car out of the docks, making his way back onto the road. As he cruised down the neon lit streets and enjoyed the smooth beats of his favorite song, Jacket was back in his element. Tapping his foot, bobbing his head, clearly proud of himself. He smiled and casually leaned back, one hand on the wheel. Most people in Roanapur were asleep by now, anyway. Jacket made only one stop, a convenience store. Jacket stepped in and saw his best friend, Beard.
Beard was elated to see him, "Hey man! Haven't seen you in a while! How've you been?" Beard said, as he stepped out from behind the counter and gave Jacket an endearing one armed bro hug.
Beard was all smiles as he spoke, "So when can I meet your new girlfriend? Maybe we can grab a coffee, I can close the shop for a while."
Jacket's Girlfriend stepped in and held Jacket's hand, "He brought me with him, this time around." she giggled.
Beard smiled warmly at her and nodded, "Well, why don't we grab a cup of joe now then? It's my store, I can close it and reopen it as I see fit. San Fran has plenty of coffee shops, there's one right across the street actually. It'll be on the house!"
Beard, Jacket and Jacket's girlfriend left the convenience store together, and saw the sky had started turning an ugly shade of orange. Then, from some distance behind them came a loud rumble. Jacket turned towards the ominous sound only to see a mushroom cloud towering over them, and a titanic wall of nuclear fire slowly bearing down on him. Only, it was slower than it should have been. A cacophony of emergency sirens pierced his ear drums. Then, as suddenly as it started, it began to fade. The radio in his dilapidated car was cutting out, before playing a new song. One Jacket had never heard before.
The music struggled to play over the damaged car stereo. Or maybe the tape was warped. Jacket struggled to make sense of the lyrics, like part of him didn't want to listen.
As he forced himself to focus, "You are the blood, flowing through my fingers" was all he could make out. Maybe Beard or his girlfriend could hear it better? But when Jacket turned around, he saw his girlfriend was dead. A bullet wound dead center between her eyes. Beard had been reduced to nothing more than a charred skeleton. They looked at him without speaking. But, they were smiling. Through the cracked and dirty windshield, Jacket could see someone stepping out of the ruins of Beard's convenience store. Himself. Only, this version of him was wearing Richard.
As Richard spoke, Jacket could hear him with perfect clarity, "You can't run from your sins forever..."
Jacket stared at him, dumbfounded.
"How many times have we met? No matter what I say, you end up doing horrible things. You refuse to see the truth. It'll end the same way it has before." It felt like Richard was right behind him as he spoke, and only growing closer with each word.
As the white-hot glow of the nuclear annihilation inched closer, it drowned out the music with its terrible roar. But Jacket could still hear Richard as if they were speaking directly into his ear canal.
The roar of nuclear fire was like a jet taking off inside his head, but Richard's voice was still there, "You're nothing more than a serial killer... A rabid animal. Violence is all you live for. All you understand."
Jacket watched his masked reflection as it was swallowed by the colossal wall of white light. It inched closer and closer, engulfing more and more of Richard until there was nothing left. Then, as soon as Richard was gone, time returned to normal. In an instant Jacket felt all the heat and destructive forces of nuclear death slam into his body, and wash over him. As he looked oblivion in the face within that fraction of a second, the pain was immeasurable. But, only for a moment.
Click.
Jacket sprung up from his bed and looked at his hands, then slowly at the room around him. Thankfully he was alive, and still in Thailand. No nuclear death. Just the same shitty motel room. He slowly pulled himself to his feet, and checked outside his window. Seeing that his stolen Delorean was still parked in the ally, Jacket let out a palpable sigh of relief.
After blowing up his previous car, he figured it was time to change location. And besides, that nightmare had left him with a bad feeling in his gut. Like it was an omen, or something. Not that he believed in that woo-woo bullshit. But he figured that in Roanapur, he better not take any chances. He took his Mac-11 and shoved it into his duffle bag, leaving his evidence board behind. After tossing his bag into the back seat of the DeLorean, Jacket sped off. Unsure of where he even wanted to go, as usual. All Jacket knew was that he needed a drink, so he sped down to the "Yellow Flag". After a relatively short ride Jacket parked in the alley behind the bar, and slipped in through the rear entrance. With all the other patrons busy drinking, it was effortless for Jacket to find a seat at the bar without drawing any undesired attention. Like before, he slammed a wad of cash onto the counter. Bao recognized Jacket and gave him a nod before fetching his usual: A Bacardi. And leave the bottle. Next to Jacket was another familiar face, the volatile red head he met his first night in Roanapur.
The red head chugged a glass of rum and gave a raspy chuckle, "Feels like deja vu, huh? I've been keeping up with the news, and I gotta say I'm disappointed."
Bao sets the bottle of Bacardi on the bar as the red head is talking, and Jacket takes a swig as he does his best to ignore her snide comments.
Pouring herself another glass, the ginger shake her head and gives Jacket a condescending smile, "A serial killer fucking around with Hotel Mosscow? Please, I've seen that shit before from children..."
She paused and downed the second glass in a single gulp, "No, seriously, actual fucking children! Out done by murder happy kids, how pathetic."
Jacket didn't move an inch. Not even glancing in her direction. Taking the insults and attacks on his character like water off a duck's back. If only she knew the things he's seen. The things he's been through. The things he's done.
The red head wiped rum from her chin using the back of her arm, then kept her insults coming, "Balalaika'll blow your brains out soon enough. You'll be nothing more than a memory. Just a fart in the wind."
Jacket just took another drink and gave the bottle a shake. Only half empty. He realized that If he was going to keep ignoring the loud mouth next to him, he was gonna need a second bottle.
That annoyed her, and the red headed loud mouth's cocky smirk turned sadistic and menacing. Jacket could hear it in her voice as she continued.
She spoke in daggers, her breath reeking of rum, "Or maybe you'll just up and run away before she gets the chance? I mean… She IS ten times the shot YOU are! Must be why you never fucking talk. You're scared. Just a big fucking chicken. I bet you cluck like a chicken, too!"
The red head doubled over with laughter at her own joke. And Jacket couldn't stand it anymore. He came here for some fucking quiet and a stiff drink. Who the fuck does this clown think they are? Jacket slammed his fist on the counter hard enough to make his bottle of Bacardi jump, then turned to face the bitch. His eyes were like a pair of bullets as he shot a hateful glare in her direction.
She spoke with an air of victory in her voice, "Tough guy huh?'' Then sucker punched Jacket, her fist connecting with the side of his head.
To his surprise it actually hurt. Enough that it caught him off guard. Not enough to make him flinch, but almost. That almost was all Jacket needed to recover from the dirty blow quickly enough to return the favor. His haymaker lands square in the center of her face. Like a Golden Glove with steel hands, the blow sends her to the floor flat on her back, and nose broken.
Like a rabid hyena, Revy responds by lunging at him. She goes for his throat but comes up short, only managing to get a grasp on his shirt collar. Jacket punches her in the face again, since she did him the favor of closing the distance. As the two trade blow after blow to the face, Bao calmly leans down behind the bar. The brawl comes to a stop as a deafening blast rings out. Bleeding and badly bruised, and dusted with debris from the hole in the ceiling, both Revy and Jacket look across the bar to see Bao load another shell into his shotgun. The iconic sound of his pump action echoing off the dingy walls of the Yellow Flag.
Bao spoke like a father who'd finally had enough, "You do this every fucking time, Revy! This is the third time this week! ONE of you is bad enough, but two?! You assholes take this outside, or I'll repaint my bar with the both of you! For once can't you just get drunk like everyone else, without destroying my fucking bar?!"
The pair both glared at him for a moment through black eyes before letting go of one another. Revy chuckled, her blood still dripping from her swollen lip and broken nose.
Revy spits the blood from her mouth before speaking "Fine, I'm not drunk enough to not give a shit anyway." Then she glances in Jacket's direction with a blood smeared smirk, "Hell of a left hook though."
Jacket steadied himself on his way out of the bar, unsure where he'll go next. He wasn't gonna find his quiet drink here, though. No thanks to Roanapur's most notorious local maniac, of course.
But before his hand could reach the door, he heard Revy call out, "Hey... what's your name, killer? If you're gunning to be my competition it's only fair, right? And besides, it'll make it easier to collect your inevitable bounty!"
Jacket's hand hovered over the door handle, wanting to answer but still hesitating. Eventually he pushes the door open as if leaving her without an answer, but he stops again and cocks his head to the side.
"Jacket." His voice was quieter than Revy was expecting.
"People just call me Jacket." He says a little louder this time, slowly finding his voice.
Revy caught a glimpse of one of his eyes, as Jacket looked back at her. Flat and colorless. As she peered into that empty well of darkness, she felt it staring back at her. No, deeper than that. Just two black holes staring into one another, searching for a soul.
Jacket now realized that back when Revy told him that she could smell "it" on him? She was lying. Not about the smell. He could smell "it" on her, too. No, she'd been lying to herself about what it was. Or maybe she was mistaken. Either way though, he now knew exactly what she meant.
And he loved it.
His voice grew louder, yet felt more distant, "Before I get out of here, I need to let you know something, Two Hands..."
The color drained from her face, and Revy paused.
Jacket continued his monotone monologue, "You're wrong. Always were. About yourself. About people like us. We're not dead, far from it."
Revy snapped out of her shock enough to scowl at him. Who the fuck was he to tell her that she didn't know Roanapur like the back of her hand? Or herself, for that matter?! This fucker has the fucking nerve to tell her how to live her life?! She knew she was dead! And who the fuck was he? Just some fucking chicken man! He doesn't know shit about her! Her world view being challenged like that just pissed her right the fuck off. Being dead? It was the only thing that made sense! It's why she does what she does. It's the whole reason she has to do what she does.
As Jacket spoke, each word was like a bullet punching a hole in the armor Revy had built up for so long, "We're wild animals. We're predators, and it's our instinct to hunt. Don't you get it, Revy? We're not dead… We're death. The chaos and death that trails behind us? The destruction that follows in our wake?... We both love it. More than anything, or anyone."
As she listened, Revy realized her hands had been clenched into fists so long and so tightly, her knuckles had turned white. And she suddenly found herself wishing she was close enough to finish the brawl, shotgun or no shotgun.
But Jacket kept going. His voice just as dull, emotionless and flat as before, "Your reputation precedes you, Two Hands. And after I've finished my 'business' with Hotel Moscow? I'll show you what kind of animal you are, myself. All you need to ask yourself is… Are you a predator, or are you prey?"
And then, he was gone. The door clicked softly shut behind him and Revy could hear the roar of the DeLorean's engine a moment later, before Jacket sped off. The entire time her scowl only grew more and more hateful. Being talked down to? Being judged the way he did just now? FUCK HIM! That fucking settles it! Revy knew what she had to do next. She had to kill him, and she needed to be the one to put him down. Today? Tomorrow? Fucking whenever! No matter how alike he thought they were? Revy knew better. She knew she was better, too. A better shot. A better hunter. And a better killer. So that fucking chicken better watch the fuck out. Revy punches a hole in the wall closest to her before storming out of the bar. As she walks away from the Yellow Flag, and the muffled sound of Bao screaming at her fades into the distance, a crooked smirk crawls across her bloodied lips.
