Inside the Main City, wealth was flaunted, broadcasted and expected. Suits designed by Brioni, Kiton, Canali and Bottega Veneta were commonplace, conventional in color, smooth to the touch. Wealthy entrepreneurs and businessmen lived here; bankers, stock brokers, executives and traders. Politicians vacationed with whores, lovers and mistresses. Illegal organizations, gambled, traded, setting up conferences with contemporaries. The Main City was like old Las Vegas, extremely profitable through gambling, mostly illegal, and back room deals. Fantastically designed casinos lit the town with flashing colorful suns, mixed with cheers, and laughter.
A mutual understanding existed, allowed by the unspoken word of civility and unmolested freedoms. Police patrolled infrequently, often found entertaining city guests when welcomed. They were paid well; not for their hard-nose police work, rather the opposite. For the most part, police were hindrances, and nuisances. Tax dollars poured into a costly service became an annoying waste in the Main City; a metropolis of gold that shines much brighter than six suns. Many didn’t want to upset the balance of a lawless city, so crime was non-existent, fearing an invasion from regional directors and commissioners.
Lacking common skills, like observations, instincts and common morality, the police were the wealthiest among their contemporaries in the world; ideal for the Main City, unmolested with cops intruding on business. Anywhere in the world, and the madness of a typical metropolitan city would overwhelm them into retirement. However, this wasn’t a typical metropolitan; rather a utopia for the wealthiest people in the world.
Long ago, the overseers of many cities, determined that crime was based on the need and greed of the poorer. Instead a powerful visionary, some called Franklin Gholston, others called him Talus Ndukwe, prophesied that if you cleansed away the poor, then crime would plummet and wealth would strengthen, becoming limitless. Both did. In the Main City, the poor were ushered to the Potosi zones; encapsulated beyond the borders, separated by walls, guards and sentries. Police patrolled the Main City infrequently, violently abusing the assimilated poor inside the Potosi Zone. They were bored.
A powerful storm warned by powerful gusts that disturbed silky golden hair of expensive whores interlocked in the arms of other woman’s husbands, approached. Unclaimed plastic bags artistically danced through the wind, settling in the alleys that separated skyscrapers and exclusive restaurants where reservations required a week, if not a month, of advanced planning.
An organization existed, servicing the pleasures of wealth, prosperity and property; high level gamblers, drug traffickers, and something called Enforcers. A Russian named Nikolai, no known last name, controlled the illegal trade. Police were paid, at the behest of State Senator William Thomas, the services demanded by wealthy constituents; gambling increased their wealth, drugs that enhanced their sexual rages, enforcers eliminating independent threats.
With the lack of a proper police presence, the Main City was also a breeding ground for illegal business, espionage, and anything that comforted the greedy man with the sanctuary that they weren’t traced, stalked or hunted. Many meetings were held in three neighboring grandiose hotels; the Tower Bells, the Golden Ta, and the Dominer Chateau. No prying eyes of surveillance, especially intelligence agencies; conversely, people thought.
Wealth inside the Main City was everywhere. Spending in the thousands during a single nightfall was commonplace, at restaurants, casinos and clubs; the illegal element held the highest profits and increased their influences that spread throughout the country. While people feared Nikolai’s outfit, they acknowledged his recreational requirements, stretching beyond each American coast. Tourism was encouraged, though, mostly disregarded, for they weren’t known, their statements private, their class undefined. Nevertheless, all wanted the services that Nikolai offered.
You were Potosi if you didn’t wear the most expensive suits, or the classiest dresses embroidered with diamonds and gems, sashes made of the finest silks. Fearing symbols would navigate Potosi reactions, like beards, blue jeans and cotton tee shirts, all were avoided. A pair of worlds separated by gates, walls, and patrols; two worlds on a single planet; two worlds within the same city; the wealthy in the Main City, the poor in the Potosi zone. A brewing war would eventually boil and explode. While the moment was close, the time hadn’t arrived because one man had yet to discover that legacy. His legacy.
While parked on Wayland Way, as the night crowds began dispersing to the three hotels penetrating the clouds that raced overhead, Alexander Krueger sat in a fairly new black sedan during an unusually warm November night. The clean shaven squirmy driver looked back over. “Remember Alex, we’re here only on business.” Business is good, Nikolai always said. It never dealt with a recession, or depression. Everyone needed their vices filled. Nikolai assured their addictions would be served.
“I got it,” Alexander said.
“We go into his apartment, make happy and leave. Do you understand?”
“Yea, I got it,” Alexander confirmed while screwing the Glock 22’s muzzle with an Evolution 40 suppressor. The young man slightly jostled the gun, satisfied with the balance and weight in his hand. Alexander felt the snobbish look from the squirmy driver’s face.
“What the fuck is that?”
“It’s a gun,” Alexander mocked.
“I know it’s a fucking gun. Where did you get it?”
“My grandma gave it to me for Christmas,” Alexander joked.
“You’re not bringing that in.”
“If you say so,” Alexander smirked.
Once Christopher slammed the car door and ran across the street towards the Tower Bells, Alexander grinned and tucked his beloved weapon inside his belt. Not only did he hate Christopher, he hated everything that the aging Captain represented. Being a servant frustrated Alexander. For nearly ten years, the young apprentice hadn’t seen his sister after his mind tore through disturbing changes after finding his mother and father murdered in the master bedroom. That morning, he bailed the Minnesota cold, while his sister was away at a friend’s house, and never returned, eventually accepting an offer from a Russian that passed through a restaurant Alexander worked at. His youth was a series of painful memories. A new start was needed. No one knew his old name, even Alexander struggled to remember at times. Don’t worry about it, it means nothing. That life died that cold morning. I am now Alexander Krueger. Forget about it, everyone else has.
Still, Christopher was a Captain, trusted by Nikolai. Alexander reported to Christopher and Christopher to Nikolai. It was the order of things, and Alexander scorned it. Order was corruption and corruption destroyed. Anarchy and chaos were constants, in a world that emphasized class. If Alexander had his way, he’d hire the poor. Bring them into the Main City to do minute tasks of the city; which including distributions, clerks, bussers, drivers, garbage men. However, they were the best informers, loyal to the dollar, of which was endless in the Main City. So far, Alexander hired, groomed, and gave a sense of entitlement to three Potosi, all young, two men and a girl, roaming the streets inside shadows, bathrooms and rooftops. He paid them for information, and the byproduct of his purchases encouraged complete loyalty, if not eventual apprenticeship.
Several cars streamed by, forcing an edgy Alexander to stand until limousines, Porsches, Lamborghinis, Maybachs, and even a dark blue LeBlanc Mirabeau passed with speed that turned white dots into blurs of white streams. Meticulously crossing the street, broadcasting himself with a diminutive click from his black shoes, he bathed in amusement watching Christopher’s impatience waiting on Alexander. Street lamps dimly illuminated where shadows never roamed, reflecting the street’s surface with a powerful glow, while the milky moon rested behind the onslaught of thickening clouds.
Alexander’s awareness inside the Tower Bells flooded his mind. The building’s service desk on the right was made of dark wood, spectacularly polished, with a young woman staring at her computer afore a tower of endless tiny slits designed for the tenants’ mail. In the company of recliners and couches, a grandiose lobby, across from the information desk, with a bartender wiping down his empty counter towards the back, openly welcoming guests and residents for a stiff drink. After disgustingly seeing two golden-plated elevator doors on each side of the hallway ahead, Alexander noted three exit doors; one beyond the elevators, another to the right of the bar’s lobby and a third bending beyond the service desk where employees roamed, likely taking a break from demanding guests with a drag of smoke to calm their nerves. Neither the bartender, nor the woman behind the counter paid any mind to the visitors waiting for the announcement to proceed to the penthouse.
“Good evening, gentleman,” greeted the Doorman.
“Marcus Thomas, please,” Christopher said.
“One moment, please.” The Doorman strolled elsewhere with his decorative long red suit, black cap and white gloves, extravagantly dressed for a servant. It shouldn’t surprise Alexander, having completed jobs in the Main City, seeing the wealth disgustingly flaunted. Nevertheless, it always did.
As impressed as Alexander was, he bathed in his anger, watching people needlessly parade wealth. Money often carried considerable suffering and pain; those that have it, got off on it. Given the chance, he would annihilate them all. Mother would be disappointed, being the daughter of a preacher, and herself spreading the word of Christ. Mother. How will he ever lose the memory of her pasty white gown, saturated in dark red, after her throat was brutally destroyed just before Alexander’s eighteenth birthday? God didn’t arrive with a mighty shield and sword to fend the weak and innocent. Not on that day. Not ever.
“People actually live here,” Alexander whispered. Growing up in a small town in northern Minnesota, victim to routine snow events that would shutdown cities like this, Alexander could only shake his head at the revolting self-indulgent luxuries. This isn’t how life is supposed to be lived. Poor suffered in the Potosi zone while the wealthy threw away money on diamond earrings, beautiful cars, the finest wines and overpriced prostitutes. It didn’t matter how many times he came to the Tower Bells Hotel, it was something he never got used to.
“Sons of Senators,” Christopher said grinning, turning to Alexander. “This client is of the highest importance, Alex. He’s critical to our success you know.”
“I know, Chris,” Alex said with a mocking tone. “You don’t have to remind me. He’s the son of William Thomas, the State Senator with enough influence to make our business succeed.”
“Not just succeed, Alex. It’s not only that,” reminded Christopher.
“Oh,” asked Alexander, pretending to be shocked with what his informers had already told him.
“Yes, so don’t screw it up.” Christopher still didn’t trust Alexander, and it amused him greatly.
So Alexander played the role of impatient apprentice. For months, Alexander pained a face of youthful exuberance, ignorant and excitable for the sake of masking certain truths. “I say we wipe out the building.”
“Don’t get preachy, Alex,” Christopher said indifferently.
“Preachy,” inquired Alexander.
“You tend to get preachy when you have an opinion,” Christopher revealed.
“I’m not preachy. I’m just saying we wipe out the building. No one has to get hurt,” Alexander argued. “Why are we waiting? Let’s just go.”
“Settle down, Alex,” Chris counseled.
“We can take care of them,” Alex said certainly, pointing at the few guards and workers at the Tower Bells hotel.
“We don’t want to take care of them,” Chris barked with a whisper. “Mind yourself and know your place.”
It wasn’t long after Alexander pictured beating Christopher into an unrecognizable mesh of teeth, muscle and blood, when the Doorman returned, “Gentleman, Mr. Thomas will see you now.” Christopher led Alexander to the second elevator on the right, chiming its arrival after pressing the ascending arrow.
A trap door hung above, with two red buttons below the control pad, which typically meant emergencies. Terrible music, Chris’ insufferable heavy breathing, and Alexander’s unsettling feeling of panic in tight corridors, brought unexpected anxiety. Focus on something, he thought to himself. Alexander stared at his reflection on the mirrors that formed walls in the rising metal death box. Thoughts that he never knew existed started infiltrating, confusing and compounding his constants. How did you come to be this way? If Mikey didn’t die, how would I be? If I didn’t leave Sophie, who would I be? If my parents didn’t die, would I have left Minnesota? What am I? I don’t know, what are you?
Reflections kill, Nikolai once said. Alexander believed his former recruiter was transparent, meaning the stealth of a kill, or simply reflection into oneself. He didn’t fear the mirror, Sophie was his heart, and his heart was broken, black with venomous reactions. The mirror simply amused him. A single thing, like a stupid mirror, can cause such a deviation with one’s life. Still, the thoughts were there, the questions unanswered, the feelings that accompanied, the regrets that wouldn’t dim, rather strengthen. No matter how loud he demanded that they shut up, they remained, unchecked. What was he? He had asked himself too many times to remember how many times he asked the evasive question.
Down the third hallway, three doors on the right, Chris knocked three times on the beautifully crafted heavy front door, with a profile view of an eagle’s head. When it opened, Alexander suppressed his laughter at the shocking revelation of a short man with slick brown hair, a nicely pressed purple silk shirt and black pants. Even his watch shouted, “look how god damn rich I am.” His living room was littered with antique paintings, gold plated disks, and beautiful tapestries to hide bare walls. A twisting metal heap stood on a pillar-designed stand made of marble, directly in the room’s center which dipped like a bowl, or a gladiator coliseum. Inside the fireplace was a television looping the same video, mimicking an actual fire like some awful Christmas CD infomercial. The patio overlooked most of the Main City, faced towards the Potosi in which his view wasn’t obstructed by similar skyscrapers. It was truly the best room of the three hotels.
“Chris,” the State Senator’s son greeted with a firm two-hand handshake.
“It’s good to see you again,” Christopher said, placing his hand on Marcus’ shoulder.
“Who is this,” asked Marcus, with a disapproving glare at Alexander.
“He’s Alex. He’s kind of in training, if you know what I mean.”
“Yea? What did you come from,” asked Marcus.
“West,” simply answered Alexander.
“Where West?”
“More north than south.”
“Where did he come from,” Marcus impatiently asked Christopher.
“Relax, Chris. He was recruited by Nikolai himself, in the Northern cold if I remember correctly. He’s training to become a Captain, at the urgency of our fair leader.”
“Is that right,” asked Marcus.
“Yes,” Alexander answered.
“I’ll never understand your two lives, Christopher. A man’s history can’t be easily wiped out. If it were me, I’d want to know everything about that person’s history. But you guys just eliminate it, create new names, profiles and histories. It’s a bit odd if you ask me.”
“If we may,” Christopher prompted, pointing Marcus to a chair.
Alexander didn’t like the distrustful look on Marcus’ face, suspecting that this meeting had two purposes. He would disguise an overwhelming threatening instinct by playing the role of youthful apprentice taken aback by gaudy decorations and six-figure art work.
“It must be nice being a Senator’s son,” remarked Alexander, scanning, observing, taking notes, but wide-eyed enough to lower Marcus’ discomfort.
“Oh,” Marcus said with his aggravating light British accent, “it has its advantages. I can get a table, wherever I want, whenever I want.” Even the chair was constructed with a material that Alex wanted to tear apart like a vicious dog attacking a stuffed animal.
“How is my favorite client,” Chris asked, clearly softening up the son of State Senator William Thomas.
“Plenty good, friend,” Marcus smiled taking a seat, with Christopher sitting in the opposite chair. “In fact, I just acquired more land in the Eastern quadrant. We plan on putting up a few clubs, storefronts, and restaurants, all of that jazz.”
“Congratulations, Marcus. It’s time we get those no good detriments out of here,” Christopher said. “The Potosi should be eradicated, development in the Main City is pivotal.”
“We’re close, my friend. Once we have the lands purchased, we’ll put our objectives into motion. Soon enough, the Main City will be ours to govern, tax, and control,” Marcus remarked, keeping Alexander in his peripheral.
“Phase one is coming along nicely,” Christopher said. “Nikolai will have men ready, I can assure you.”
“Oh, I have no doubts. The police aren’t a threat anyway. A mother with a child suckling on her bosom could neutralize our heroic police force.”
“What’s phase two,” Alexander interrupted; Christopher’s shock revealed; Marcus’ distrust increased.
“Nothing to worry about, boy,” Marcus said, suddenly disregarding his British accent; it seemed American. Alexander’s awareness became heightened, as was his paranoia. Why was he shifting his accent, what’s the purpose? Why didn’t Christopher notice?
“Why don’t you fill those glasses with whiskey over by the counter,” Christopher ordered.
The two commenced business discussions, while Alexander walked to the left of Marcus’ closed bedroom, at the counter with three shelves full of many whiskeys and exclusive wines that cost a year’s salary for some. He pulled a vintage bottle of Macallan, a rare whiskey that’s thought to be extinguished, and no longer produced. Nikolai bragged one evening that he had the only bottle, and it cost him over one hundred thousand dollars to acquire. Was this the same bottle, a gift to his most influential client? As he poured the whisky in short crystal glasses, movement beneath the bedroom door interrupted his focused pour. Bodies were crossing the bedroom light, creating a flashing-like motion.
Alexander returned to both men, handing them half-full glasses with three ice cubes each. Christopher and Marcus continued their bound of hostile takeovers inside the Main City, expanding their territories into the Potosi. With his fingers interlaced behind him, Alex uncharacteristically tuned out Marcus and Christopher’s conversation. Typically, he would concentrate on Chris’ negotiations for information he would keep secret. Instead, he was preoccupied.
Drapes and silk tapestries danced with the song of a night breeze through an open sliding glass door. A hunger formed in his gut. A thirst intensified, his throat feeling a sudden dryness, like stranded victims around by miles of impersonal specs of desert. Muscles in his arms and legs began to tense, spasm, as if they wanted to reach out and twist terrible souls. Developing this thirst for corrupted blood invited a bickering mother, a morally grounded father, or an impressionable younger sister. All were gone, but the thoughts just sat there. The only thing that remained was the scrubbing pad that cleansed those that affected his means. He had no jurisdiction of the beast; the beast commanded him. Instead of fighting it, he bathed in it, feeling a source of power with divine invincibility and insight. This was a trap. You and Christopher will be interrogated for information, to force Nikolai into serving Marcus. The beast was sure of it, and the beast commanded all when awoken.
“…all right, ten percent…” Marcus offered to Chris.
The switch finally turned, the world exploded with bright pulses of pure energy. The Beast acted, gripping the handle of his Glock. Pivoting his right heal, the beast turned and kicked in the bedroom door. Two rather burly men, dressed in expensive black suits looked up in surprise. Surely regretting their lack of preparedness with narrow columns of smoke excavating from their foreheads, both men collapsed, dead with punctured holes in their foreheads.
The Beast turned and aimed his weapon at Marcus.
“What’s the meaning of this,” demanded Marcus, now standing.
“What happened with your accent,” demanded the Beast.
“What?”
“You had an English accent when we first got here. Now, you’re speaking like a natural American. What happened with your accent?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The Beast demanded punishment.
Marcus shouted when the beast fired a spit through his left kneecap. When Chris tried to wrestle the gun away, the beast squeezed his jugular and pushed him over the artistic twisting metal sculpture. “What the fuck happened to your accent,” he shouted.
“You’re mad,” Marcus rebelled.
“Actually, I’m quit calm at the moment. What makes me mad is waiting for my food ten minutes after placing my order. What makes me mad is when people don’t use their turn signal when changing lanes. What makes me mad is when people check out eleven items in the ten items or less lane. What makes me mad is when people fake their accents in an effort to seem bigger than they really are. Right now, I assure you, I’m quit calm.” Alexander suddenly shouted erratically, “What happened to your accent?”
“Alex,” Christopher said firmly. “Stop it. He’s the son of a State Senator.” The Beast rolled his eyes and pressed his weapon firmly into Marcus’ left eye.
“You were planning to ambush me. Why?” the Beast asked the question generally.
“I don’t even fucking know you,” Marcus asked.
“What’s my name,” he quizzed.
“Alex,” replied Marcus.
“You know my name, you know me. So why were you going to kill me?” Not us, not the Beast, just Alexander.
Silence.
“Why would I…,” Marcus paused. “What do you want from me? Money?”
“See, I should have said this earlier. But another thing that makes me mad is wealthy beggars that pay their consequence with money.”
“But I…” Blood nearly recoiled onto the Beast’s jacket, landing a pencil-length from his left shoe. “That was close,” the beast said looking at Christopher standing rigid, stunned.
“What the fuck did you just do?” Christopher shouted. “What did you do? Once Nikolai hears about this…”
After the Beast fired the fourth shot into his chest, Christopher collapsed onto the delightfully polished wooden floor. Alexander had a thing for beautifully crafted things. He regretted that the Beast kicked in the bedroom door, and the beautifully crafted floor that be stained with blood; no, destroyed by cursed flame. These were projects that Alexander’s father once skilled at. Destroying someone’s vision and design, brilliantly crafted, was unacceptable, even when necessary.
The Beast squatted next to him, dangling his weapon around his crotch. “You know, Chris, I wonder if I would do this job better if I didn’t enjoy it so much. Sometimes the thirst grips me, you know? The Beast swells in me, punctures me. I can’t control him. It roars an ugly roar.
“I really should do a better job making my artwork cleaner, don’t you think? Too much evidence, I would say. Maybe next time, I’ll just throw someone from the eighty-first floor. That way, an investigation would be limited because the presumption of some drug addicted son of a State Senator could be considered a suicide. It fits perfectly,” The Beast sighed. “Now he has a bullet in his head. They’d see that for sure. Well, we always learn don’t we?” The Beast mused jamming his handgun into Chris’ crotch.
“Why?”
Alex howled in laughter, “You think I have a reason? If it makes you feel any better, you already know my motivations.”
“Nolts?”
“Fuck no,” Alexander said. “Your deal with Nolts was your mistake, but not my intentions or motivations.”
Christopher’s eyes widened, a revelation revealed like sudden shock of an uninvited guest. “The Fighters. You’re an agent, aren’t you?”
The Beast just grinned a terrible grin.
“You know,” Chris continued, finding it difficult to breath, “this will come back… to…”
The Beast stood and fired the remaining clip into Chris’ forehead, feeling relieved sitting on the exquisite couch, with Marcus’ corpse lying on the floor by the patio. He calmed his breathing, finding rhythm.
Christopher was never the objective, that was a pure prospect, allowing the beast to exact punishment, benefiting Alexander promotion through the infiltrated ranks. No, not Christopher. Alexander had reconnoitred Marcus, a defined target, watching him through another’s eyes. Execution wasn’t supposed to happen now, brought upon the Beast, convinced of an ambush. Maybe Christopher too, Alexander wasn’t sure. It was all very confusing right now, thoughts erratic with displaced conclusions. It was the first time that the Beast allowed Alexander to think clearly, finding wisdom and insight within sudden events tonight.
Nikolai used Marcus for his father, a means for business arrangements. Often the Senator cited a lack of funding, forcing an understaffed law enforcement, allowing for Nikolai’s business to thrive. In return, the Senator accepted significant chucks of revenue made from the drug trade and illegal gambling. It was a brilliant arrangement. Christopher, on the other hand, was simply in Alex’s way for a much deserved promotion.
Now the Senator’s son sits in blood, likely creating a sequence of events that would entrench war within the Main City. No, Alexander alternatively thought. The Senator was much too greedy, and his son was a political detriment to his own goals. Alexander needed the war, though. The Beast was hungry, always feeling off the fresh blood that streamed like rain gushing into sewers. His death would serve the Senator’s greater purpose, eliminating a tabloid starring son. Nikolai might hunt Alexander however, if he learns of this night; Christopher a great Captain, the State Senator politically connected for the organization’s business. Still, Alex’s motivations are his own. His destiny, close, within his grasp, even though it was yet to be defined.
Lightning briefly scorched the sky, followed by a low rumble of thunder. Seconds after a drizzle, the clouds opened up. It sounded like tiny sheets of metal clanking against bigger sheets. Alex walked onto the patio, where a slab of concrete above provided some shelter. It wasn’t as he expected. Clearly, it was raining, his ears didn’t fail his ear heard it, his nose smelt the fresh rain overwhelm him. Instead of streaking transparent droplets, Alex only saw tiny gobs of water falling so slowly, it seemed as if they were suspended in time. Reaching, crashing to an obliteration, Alex watched one droplet fall into a hugging embrace of his left palm.
Loosely holding his gun, he opened his eyes and daydreamed, entertaining a terrible thought, unblinking, wondering an easy alternative. In a flash, it’s over. What did he have to live for that meant anything? Would he impress upon a better life onto others that deserved it? Then he remembered, “reflections.” You aren’t that man, a voice called out. You are something, much more. You’re close, oh, so close. Don’t stray. Don’t hide. Don’t cower with that gun.
Slowly closing his eyes, he thought of Sophie; her soft green eyes, accentuated dip on her upper eyelid, puffy cheeks that swelled red in the winter, dimples that flanked her thin lips, and long flowing black hair. His heart often pumped wildly when she whispered lovingly to him, pressing her soft skin against his, covered with a blanket under a sea of blinking white dots in the sky. Sometimes he showed off, pointing out constellations, making their names up. She often giggled when he named a constellation after her. When she asked later which constellation was hers, he often pointed to the wrong one. If she knew his mistake, she never called him on it.
It seemed like an age when touched her, made love to her, treated her as his queen several summers ago when their love was realized. Always together, even in the ages when children learned to walk and talk, they were always giggling, smiling and even conspiring. Now, she was hostage to Joseph; a burnt out addict, related to Nikolai in some twisted way.
At first, she, and only she, was his motivation until he was invited to a dark meeting in black alleys, with no names and unrecognizable faces. His fate and destiny began there, for she was still his motivation, but not his only. Circumstances turned difficult, unclear, like a heavy fog blinding even efficient eyes. Now, she was a shell. Her vibrancy for life, dead. She teemed with death, conspiratorially degrading. Sporadically, he had seen her from a distance, hidden far inside shadows. Her eyes were sunken and her natural smile, gone. If he called to her, he wasn’t sure she’d recognize him, or if he’d recognize her. It pained him greatly, the events that unfolded in the past five years; so much so that the Beast was born, the anger, and the style of terror integrated into his own.
She’s dead, the Beast reminded. No, he shouted back. She’s far too gone, and our new objective is critical. We must continue, the Beast reminded Alexander, focusing him again on the present. The Beast murdered one of Nikolai’s Captains, and the Senator’s son, which benefited Nikolai’s business far too greatly. However, that depended on his father, William Thomas and his reactions.
Alexander had come too far to run, climbing a ladder from the footstool after Christopher’s death. Instead of running, he boldly played out scenarios for a lie that could exonerate him. It was an ambush by Marcus, and Chris didn’t make it. Better yet, Chris was in the midst of another legendary boozing session, and the bodyguards that the Beast easily displaced, took him out. Marcus Thomas was well known; perhaps victim of an assassination from a rival. That’s when Alex began to smirked. No, no, no. Alexander was set up, he felt it, a nagging twist in his gut, instinct, which he learned long ago to trust, without question. It’s why you left Sophie. Shut up. I didn’t leave her, replied Alexander.
After bringing his trembling hands together, he finally pushed off the patio’s railing, feeling frozen and stiff, like his spine was wrapped by a thousand tiny muscles. Back inside the apartment, Alexander placed small devices in the corners of the living room. Each device displayed a digital “twenty” on the face, once Alexander activated the censor reception. Flowing into the apartment like a gentle whisper, Alexander bathed again in the cool breeze calming his nerves, drying the growing perspiration from his face. For a couple of breaths, Alexander felt a therapeutic benefit to this apartment. He wondered if Marcus felt the same way.
After stepping off the elevator, Alex caught the Doorman’s attention and smiled. “Stepping out for a moment. That fireplace up there makes things rather stuffy.”
“Of course, sir,” the Doorman courteously grinned.
Standing next to the black sedan, Christopher’s keys already extracted, Alex pulled the pen-like device from his pocket, and followed the building towards the eighty-first floor. Innocents would be killed, it was the costs bothering Alexander. It was necessary, the Beast reminded. After the briefest thunderstorm passed, the moon already penetrating the destabilizing clouds, Alexander clicked the pin-like button. Exploding wildly twenty seconds later, rolling out like a ball disintegrating into darkness, Marcus’ room was under assault from a defenseless enemy. Evidence would boiled in the flame. Broken glass fell, crashing against the pavement in unoccupied alley stops and eateries.
While he watched, a spark echoed an intruding ding, like metal on metal, a familiar sound. Alexander instinctively spun into a crouch, leaning against the driver side door, hoping he guessed correctly. A killer was sitting above him with a heavy finger against a powerful rifle, waiting for Alexander to return to the black sedan. Cover was limited, yet paramount, and the crowds were emerging from stores, hotels, pointing, and crying in a panic from the explosion of the Tower Bells.
With a small camera fixed at the base of its hinge, Alexander positioned himself along the front tire, leaning out to expose the cell phone, giving him a third eye. Location. Where was he? Nothing. The first floor was dark, where the Golden Tǎ’s lobby should be. Save for curtains drawn against lightened rooms, the second and third floors were empty and covered. It wasn’t until a minor reflection against a magnifying lens three rooms from the left, fourth floor, when Alex grinned. Careless, leaving the window open, stationed. Someone was inviting him. The Beast wouldn’t let the invitation go unanswered.
Questioning escape routes, Alexander noted the gathering crowds, good for cover, great for confusion. It wasn’t enough, his position known by the killer. He needed another distraction. Maybe the killer already left, he couldn’t take the risk. No, he wanted to know who this was, why he was targeted. Knowing the line of sight from the shooter, it would be easier to plan; the cover known, his location revealed. He needed another distraction; create a second front of chaos. It was simple.
Alexander ripped a lengthy tear from his sweater, shoving it down the car’s filler tank, leaving several inches exposed like a wick. His lighter illuminated and took the exposed cloth to flame. Quickly, he rolled past two parked cars behind the black sedan, sprinting over the side walk, along the Golden Tǎ, reaching the rear door that led to the hotel’s kitchen. This was a sprint, a mad dash towards an immortal finish line. Leaning against the outer door, he waited, nervously glancing at his watch, scanning for disturbances of an escaping killer. Boom! The exploding car was loud, preceded with a powerful bright flash.
His patience drew thin, anxiety with an escaping killer, Alexander yanked open the metal door, pushing aside staff trampling guests, making their way through the lobby to the front doors, investigating the disturbance. Billowing black smoke, creating panic, confusion, Alexander slipped through escaping crowds.
The Golden Tǎ’s alarm loudly wailed, forcing a hasty evacuation, bumping, colliding, some women screaming. More chaos. The staff had cleared, adding to the chaos from a smoldering fire, and thundering boom. Composure, act as if you belong, Alexander patiently walked through the double brass doors, past the deactivated elevators. One escape route, cut off. To the right of the elevators, down a corridor filled with expensive art imitations, stood a glowing red exit sign with an adjacent emergency stairwell.
Streams of panicked guests, barely clothed, nightdresses, boxers, robes, tees and sweaters, running towards any exit, adding Alexander’s cover. Slipping through the crowds, pushing aside short petite women and aging men, Alexander sprinted, leaping, turning and hoping the stairs. Pushing aside, twisting narrowly, Alexander wasn’t without his bumps, curious looks, and shoves. It was pivotal that he read every face, every bag, suitcase, briefcase, to be certain that the killer wasn’t under the guise of a fleeting crowd. If the killer was skilled, he would hide among the crowds, passing Alexander without even a glance.
“Stop,” a uniformed guard said above. “This is a mandatory evacuation.”
“My daughter is in her room upstairs, on the fourth floor,” lied Alexander, still running towards the fourth floor. “I have to make my way up to her.”
“Sir, you have to go down, we’ll find her,” he ordered.
“No, you don’t understand,” Alexander pleaded. “She’s been instructed to only to leave her room when she hears my voice. See she has…”
Alexander yanked the guard’s right wrist, bringing his knee into the uniformed man’s nose, crushing cartilage and bone. The second time he yanked the wrist, the guard limply rolled down the stairs, colliding into the wall. Some cried, while a second, unseen uniform guard drew his weapon and shouted, “Freeze.” Within a blur, a blink, the time it takes to make a choice without options, Alexander pulled his handgun, with the suppressor resolutely screwed along the muzzle’s grooves, firing two spits into his right knee. Alexander allowed his gun’s exposure, scared onlookers opening an unmolested path. When he cursed himself for not removing the guards’ radio, or knocking him unconscious, speed became vital, company was certain. It was too late, returning now would waste time. Maybe save your life. Shut it. But he couldn’t rush, or be careless. The slightest error would be fatal; granting the killer as skilled, if not more so, than Alexander.
It was dark, save for sporadic emergency lights casting shadows down the hallway, with blue flashes on the red fire boxes that wailed loudly. Rooms were closed, locked behind a keypad that opened with the appropriate access card. With his gun firmly in hand and his eyes peering down the slide that drew its point, Alexander slowly and cautiously approached the third room on the right.
Before he kicked through the room, he saw a slight film of black along the door’s edge where a closed door should exist. He tackled through with his right shoulder and rolled into the dark hotel room, firing indiscriminate spits in all directions. Nothing. An open window that pressed against swaying silk purple curtains, a cigarette tray with five extinguished cigarettes, and a shell casing barely exposed underneath the edge of an undisturbed bed.
His awareness dropped, his observations struck through the open window. Who was trying to kill him? What happened that would call for his death? Did they know? Alexander couldn’t see, blinded with bright anger, the Beast advising Alexander, though not yet taking control. Soon actions would become uncontrolled and death serving every purpose imaginable. The beast was angry, spitting curses, growling terrible growls.
During critical breaths, sporadically shifting his focused eyes on the chaos below, Alexander searched the confusion, someone sprinting, paranoid enough to keep turning back. There! A man with a black long overcoat carrying a black metal briefcase calmly leaving the panic, towards the Potosi, checking pursuers every third step. I’m right here, you fucking bastard. He was as good as anyone; killer or not, the Beast would make sure the encounter would be violent. Killing was paramount, breathing secondary.
“Freeze,” a shout came from behind. Two cops, both with drawn weapons.
Alexander lifted his arms in surrender, allowing his gun to bounce against the thick red carpet. One cop approached, holstering his weapon, reaching for metal restraints, while the second kept his weapon drawn, distant and nervous, aimed towards, but not directly at, Alexander’s head. As soon as the closest cop grabbed his wrist, Alexander flipped his hands over the cop’s hands, twisted his arm until it snapped shoving the officer into his friend. Alexander jumped onto the bed, propelling himself in the air, landing in front of both men, unable to regain their balance.
Alexander gripped one man’s throat, and pressured the point on his wrist that held the weapon, twisting both, until the gun fell, and the cop’s eyes bulged. Enough, something in his mind shouted. No, I must kill him. He’s the enemy. No, the enemy is escaping. He released his grip, forcefully shoving both men into the hallway wall. The Beast picked up the dropped weapon, a standard issue, and fired half the weapon’s ammunition harmlessly into the wall above their heads. He returned into the room, locked the door, flicked the cop’s weapon onto the bed, and retrieved his own, holstering inside his belt. Other cops began shouting their approach, which stunned him. The radio wasn’t destroyed. A critical error. Not now! Escaping became priority.
With the window still open, allowing another cold breeze into the room cooling his skin, Alexander passed through it, lifting himself onto the building’s ledge. Curious onlookers \ already spotted him, with the black smoke thinning out, betraying the hope that he could mask behind it. “What’s he doing,” someone shouted. “Get him, before he hurts himself,” and “Where’s the fire department? He can’t get out?!” an old raspy woman shouted.
Rivets and brackets sealing in place an oversized water pipe, barely out of reach, forced Alexander’s toes to grip the ledge leaving his heals hanging. Alexander needed all his upper strength to complete the transfer, jumping, catching a rivet with three fingers. His weight, the cold, and the sharpness in the brackets deeply cut into his skin. Certain death if he released his grip; it hurt, but death was worse. With a grunt, and furious ambition that deflected the sudden hopelessness most men would feel, Alexander lifted himself allowing both feet to sit on the brackets below his knees.
Climbing the thick black metal pipe was futile, slow, and pointless. The man with the metal briefcase was escaping, his shadow already disguised. Once Alexander reached the fifth floor, he leapt to the ledge, caught himself with a firm grip above the frame, pushed open the unlocked window and rolled into the room. Checking his corners in the dark hallway, Alexander turned and sprinted, without hesitation, aware that any shadow could be fatal. Banking on the cops calling reinforcements, and a negotiator to end the sudden siege in the guest room one floor below, Alexander slammed open the stairwells heavy metal door on the opposite end of the hotel, praying that he’d be gone within the relayed message of a man climbing the building.
Joseph, Marcus, William, Alex, Nikolai. Sophie.
He looked down the stairwell. Nothing. He looked up. Nothing. As he put his foot on the first step to go down, someone shouted indiscriminately below. A cop, coming up the stairs. Friends. Assault rifles. Alexander reversed and sprinted towards the fifteenth floor, kicking in the first room on the right, measuring through the window. He could make it. After two spits to clear out the glass, Alexander accelerated quickly to a full sprint, propelled his body over the window’s ledge and exploding through the cool air, feeling spits of rain slide against his skin. Time slowed, his body paralyzed. Droplets of rain slowed again, like a liquid gobs stopped by the command of a rotationless globe. Sounds of panic growled, while breathing became unnecessary.
The adjacent building’s window grew suddenly, forcing Alexander to push out his legs, aiming to penetrate the window with the least amount of injury. Other than a pop in his shoulder, violently rolling into the room, save for a few scraps on his face, Alexander successfully jumped from the fifteenth floor of the Golden Tǎ, into the fourteenth floor of the Dominer Chateau. After a quick sigh and a glance back at the Dominer Chateau, Alexander grinned, making the impossible, possible. He might yet escape, unnoticed, tracking the killer that marked him for death. Go, now.
Alexander ran wildly, with thick stomps from heavy legs, descending the narrow staircase of the Dominer Chateau, leaping over white metal railings when the stairs reversed direction. Seconds ticked away when he reached a door marked “exit” that led through the hotel’s lobby. His weapon secured, while heavily breathing and perpetrating through his dark torn shirt, Alexander opened the door gently, scanning for threats. The pain pulsating in his right shoulder throbbed; managing just enough not to be debilitating, yet still excruciating.
Emptied from curious onlookers along the corridors, in the bars and kitchens, the lobby exploded with oriental tastes, delicately crafted statues, and water fountains of historic figures. Alexander broke into the coat room using a small lock pick buried in his pants. Police were looking for a man with a long black coat. Appearing differently, however slight, could be enough to exit through the confusing crowds. Alexander left the Dominer Chateau with a short leather jacket, brown, with an extended collar, buttons with a zipper inlay, and two deep vertical pockets just above his hips.
With a special forces unit streaming into the Dominer Chateau, encased with black Kevlar vests, glass shield helmets and SG-550s, it was obvious they didn’t know he transferred to another building. They really were incompetent. Alexander hurriedly walked away from the chaos, no longer apart of the confusion, rubbing the pain that swelled in his shoulder.
Once the crowds were behind him, all staring, pointing, and gossiping about the consequences of both explosions, Alexander started sprinting, slowing only to peak down alleys, expecting the man with the black metal brief case. Nothing. What did he expect? He waited too long, the hunt, the escape, all for nothing.
Alexander sprinted faster, seeking any clue, the man, his destination, he felt a growing impatience. Frustrated, Alexander ran blinder, tilting his head for corners, hidden passages and raven infested alleys. Unable to quickly slow, he lost traction, sliding into the cop emerged from another alley. Without hesitation, or consequence, relying on vicious instinct, Alexander sent consecutive jabs into the man’s throat, sweeping his leg behind the cop plunging his head into the concrete. He wasn’t getting back up. Police were crooks, paid from the pockets from Nikolai’s illegal trade. It was justified, no matter how proclaimed the innocence was.
It wasn’t until the dark shadow, guided by his growing paranoia that all men were bought and paid for by Nikolai’s money, that he ran down the alley, easily gliding over a brick wall, landing quietly on the other side. There he was, turning into the nearest building, a small Chinese restaurant with a screen door that banged loudly. Was this man baiting Alexander into a trap? No time to spring it, he had to make this end. Patience. I have none. Answers are all that I want, all I came for. Answers were meaningless, all that mattered was death.
A floor above the Chinese restaurant, several open windows invited quiet winds of a decent cool stream, tempering warm bodies after a busy day of exhaustive service. Using the dumpster directly below the lit room on the elevated floor, Alexander jumped, and pulled himself through the window. An older Chinese couple began shuffling in bed. A nude woman flipped their sheets over her exposed breasts, while the man, clearly defended his home, his business and his honor, stood.
A bit short, with quick, yet weak impacts, the Chinese man attacked Alexander. It was too easy, deflecting punches, chops and holds. He had to put this to an end. Several shots into the kidney and a well placed hook into the man’s temple knocked him unconscious over the bed, across the woman’s legs. Before she could scream, Alexander pointed his weapon at her, leveling his vertical finger across his lips to remain quiet. She quickly nodded.
Carefully crossing one foot ahead of the other to avoid detected moans in the wooden floor, and his weapon drawn clearing each room with a glance, Alexander reached the stairs that led to the restaurant’s main dining hall, with a closed kitchen to the left. No movement, nothing. Maybe he left through the front door.
Patience. Fuck patience. Alexander hurriedly elapsed the stairs, keeping his weapon leveled, looking around corners, under tables, allowing awareness to flood his senses, listening, seeing and even smelling. The restroom. The kitchen. Where did he go? He glided through bathrooms, checked the stalls, and swept through the kitchen; even walk-in freezers. He can’t be gone, Alexander panicked. He must answer my questions, the man with a black metal briefcase had something that Alexander needed.
Just as he lowered his weapon, sighing loudly, processing new thoughts, Alexander had one of two options. Patrol the streets in disguise, spring the shadow, the enemy, the man with a dark metal briefcase who would surly escape. Call into control; learn new instructions, impressions, seeking information, key words, or uncommon phrases, whatever. Alexander didn’t know who was behind this, but even the Beast’s closest friends were now the enemy. But why? Nikolai. It had to be. Save for the State Senator’s son, he was the most powerful entity in the Main City. Nothing happened without his approval. No, he knew something, discovered by accident perhaps.
Just as he rubbed his temples, a massive weight slammed into his back, knocking him forward and sending a paralyzing pain throughout his body when his shoulder impacted the floor. Kicked away by the would-be killer, his weapon was useless now. A knee dropped into Alexander’s back, an arm wrapped around his neck. Circulation slowed, breathing problematic.
“Clever, mate,” the enemy said. “Cause a ruckus, opening your escape. You’re bloody insane, you know. Even a fool knows when to ditch town, when a six figure contract is out on their head.”
Desperately, Alexander widely threw his left elbow into chaotic swings behind him, knocking the man sideways, loosening the fatal grip around his neck. Barely pushing himself away from the floor, Alexander swung his right arm connecting against the man’s face, sending him sprawling backwards. It was lucky; the killer had him.
Finally, both men stood, facing each other. The enemy grinned, licking away the blood the formed around the corner of his mouth. The Beast was absent, where did it go?
“Why don’t you leave, mate. Go away. Leave Main City, take some Potosi with you. Enjoy whatever life you can muster,” the enemy said.
“Who are you,” asked Alexander.
“I’m the one who answered the wire,” he said.
“The wire?”
“You don’t know, do you,” asked the stunned enemy.
“Know what?”
The enemy lunged, jabbing with short powerful blows that Alexander easily deflected, leaning backwards, throwing hooks, uppercuts, an old fashion boxing match, dirty and relentless. Slapping away weak shots, side-stepping powerful one, pressing closer avoiding others. The enemy wasn’t skilled with hand to hand combat; he wasn’t inventive, hadn’t seen every fighting style. Punches were thrown, chops, blocked, parries and counterpunches. Alexander’s arms and hands were a blur, prepared with years of instinctive combat training. He knew when and where the next blow was aimed, positioning his defenses.
When the enemy lunged again, Alexander backed, deflecting cautious jabs effortlessly. Suddenly, the enemy swept his right leg across the wooden floor, missing Alexander’s jumping legs, opening himself for a shot into the gut. Alexander stepped back, cursing his unresponsive lungs, and taking his enemy lightly. Where is the Beast?!
Another foot planted into Alexander’s chest, crashing him through the wooden curtain that blocked the restaurant’s kitchen. Pouncing, the enemy started crushing Alexander’s throat with a mighty squeeze. Breath. Just breath. His ankle. Alexander grabbed the enemy’s left ankle, and twisted. Shouting, the enemy backed away with a limp, allowing Alexander to sit up, roll over to his right and twist his legs into a circular motion springing him into a standing position.
Surprisingly, the enemy put up his hand.
“Who are you,” asked Alexander, more frustrated this time.
“My mother called me a bastard,” the enemy mused.
Alexander threw a kick towards the bastard’s knee, unsettling the dust, missing the enemy who lifted slightly to avoid the crushing blow. Shooting his forearms up, blocking a long-arm shot across his face, Alexander straighten his fingers and aimed at the enemy’s throat. Blocked by a diagonal parry, the enemy countered with body shot, forcing Alexander to spin away, opening the distance between the two.
“Who is your employer?” Alexander asked.
The enemy brought his leg up, aiming for the side of Alexander’s head. Krueger ducked, bent his knees, placed several shots into the bastard’s gut, and then connected with several blows into his face. Alexander swept his leg, the enemy jumped, cocking his arm in a downward blow. Leaning back, Alexander deflected tired punches, connecting with a few himself, purposefully grinning at his enemy’s low endurance. The enemy was a poor marksman, a thief, a shadow assassin. He wasn’t a warrior, inexperienced with hand-to-hand combat, lacking the necessity to win at any cost. Yet, the Beast didn’t exist, didn’t take over, sleeping, hibernating, on leave, away from Alexander.
Unwilling to connect with fatal blows to piece together the past thirty minutes, Alexander tried to wear down the enemy, allow the Beast time to return. The bastard was panting like a hot tired dog, wiping sweat off his face, allowing himself a defensive stance, prepared for counterpunches but worried his slow hand would become too fatal. Alexander could strike at any time at this point, but waited.
Suddenly, Alexander laughed loudly, “Good, eh?”
“Oh, fuck off,” the enemy said, suddenly taking a seat. The fight was over, both of them knew it. Alexander had wore him down, yet still stunning him that death wasn’t the end of a battle. Perhaps, a first.
“Who are you? Why are trying to kill me,” asked Alexander, slowly approaching, standing two tables away.
“There’s a contract out for you.”
“What’s your name, who’s your employer?” shouted Alexander.
“Employer? I work for myself, mate. When a contract hits the wire, everyone looks to get paid. The highest bidder, as some would say.”
“How much?”
“Half a million,” the enemy sighed. “Half a fucking million, sitting in front of me. I missed the bloody shot, get doped, chased, and then beaten in some Chinese restaurant.” The enemy pointed, “you know, some would call that an inevitability, no matter how much I try to kill you, it can’t be done.”
“Who put the wire out?”
“Who the fuck knows. It’s all anonymous. It hits the wire, a phone number is given to establish contact, confirm the kill, and instruction for money transfers.”
“What happens if you call? Tell them I’m dead.”
“A crony would need to see the body, photograph it and once the confirmation is made, the money is transferred.”
Alexander placed his hand to his mouth, thinking, wondering, growing impatient, but stabilizing his anxiety diving into wisdom of adjusted perceptions. Who put the contract out? Should he call Nikolai? No, maybe he put the hit out. He knew? Perhaps it was Nolts, Nikolai’s greatest rival. Government? Maybe Captains within the organization, Joseph, Raymond, or Riley, angered with Alexander’s uncommon ranks.
“Call the number, tell him to arrange at old Millens. No one will be there and there’s a startled couple upstairs that likely called the police.”
“Fuck you, I’m not bloody helping you. I still want my money, I expect to get it.”
“That might not be a problem,” Alexander grinned.
“What do you propose?”
“First, your name,” Alexander prompted.
“Simon.” The enemy finally admitted.
“Make the call, Simon.”
It was, as if he watched from above, maybe a movie, observing all from a helium balloon, a glider or a bird. Shocked and stunned, Alexander watched Simon, the bastard, the killer, the enemy, quickly unleash and discharge a surrogated dagger that penetrated his chest, near his heart. Alexander looked down, saw the handle but no exposed blade. Warmth grew around his chest, dizziness started blurring his vision. Damn you, he shouted at the Beast, still asleep, dying like Alexander. His posture lowering and his balance becoming imbalanced, he reached for a chair to regain it, but missed.
Alexander fell.
Landing on his back, watching white little dots form within his vision. Simon, the bastard, the killer, the enemy, hovered over Alexander, not the Beast. The Beast was gone, dead, for no reason. What had happened? Why did he lower his defenses? Did he really think this assassin would allow a walking fortune to go uncompensated?
“Looks like I’ll get my money after all, mate. I do apologize, however. You fight for a cause that should be fought. You would have succeeded if not for my bloody skills.”
Simon retrieved a handgun from his black metal briefcase, and returned to Alexander, hovering over him. His weapon aimed at Alexander’s forehead. “It was an honor,” said the enemy, a ritual of sorts between two fighters. But not warriors. This man wasn’t one; he was a thief, an opportunist, a deceiver.
What happened next was, perhaps, a dream. Or some transformation, like a page turned without words remaining in a book with no ending. It was so sudden, Alexander didn’t register it as it should be registered. Confusion, aided by lost feeling around his arms and hands, his lips coursing with a poison that overwhelmed his body. He wasn’t clear. All he saw, all that happened within his vision, wasn’t right. It was as if the enemy’s head just fell over, bouncing against the wooden floor and rolling over, while a loud thud marked the collapsed headless body. Once the head stopped rolling, it just stared at Alexander with unstunned eyes. What happened? Maybe he was dead, this was simply transformation from one hell to the next.
Another face appeared, blurry, yet known. He squinted his eyes, forcing the blur focused. The long wavy golden hair, the button nose, the thick lips; he had seen her before. When he finally put her face into place within his memories, all he could say before he saw darkness was, “Sister.”
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