THREE

New York City, USA

The three Russian foot soldiers of New York’s infamous Dekre Crime Family sat around a small kitchen table in an old, run-down apartment. Yuri Arkov, a heavy-set man wearing an Adidas tracksuit, was the leader of the group. The other two at the table were his top triggermen. They were playing a casual game of poker and chatting away loudly and vulgarly as they went. As per usual when they gathered, there were no limits in place as to what could be discussed; no topic was considered sacred amongst them.

“So, how many times you use that long thing of yours, Yuri?” one of them asked.

“A gentleman never tells, Boris,” Arkov smiled at his colleague.

“Oh, come on, Yuri, you are no fucking gentleman!” The other one chuckled.

“Okay, okay, okay, let me think, yes?” Arkov’s grin intensified. “Hmm… wait, am I counting that sexy girl in pink bikini and her friend from yesterday, Ivan?”

“Yeah, sure, why not?” Ivan said.

“Okay, okay, okay… that make six-hundred, seventy-two. Wait… no, no. Seventy-three. I forgot strong woman I did in bathroom stall last month, over at Luigi’s.”

“Shit, Yuri, that’s incredible,” said Boris. “You are fucking stud, yes?”

“Guilty as charged.” Yuri Arkov proudly stroked the barrel of his high-powered Cougar Magnum revolver. “What I say? This baby has been with me from get-go and will be with me until the end. We kill together for fun, yes. She never misses. I think if I ever used another handgun this honey would be jealous. I like to call her… Tanasha.”

“You named weapon?” Ivan greedily snorted a line of cocaine off the table. “Shit, you’re a crazy fucker, Yuri. You know that, right?” He looked up at Arkov with red, drug-fuelled eyes, the end of his nose coated white.

“No crazier than you, snowman,” Arkov laughed at his new nickname for his friend. He felt like he needed a good chuckle. Yuri Arkov had never been one to sit on the sidelines, and this waiting game he and his men were being forced to play was driving him crazy. He was a soldier; his place was out on the streets, not couped up inside a room like a prisoner. But alas, it had to be this way. Arkov’s boss had recently made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. He had been offered a new ranking in the Dekre Crime Family as his boss’s number three guy. But first he had to finish this job, which was of the upmost importance to the organisation.

What exactly did the job entail? For years the Dekre Crime Family and their Mexican rivals, the Mendes Cartel, had been ripping each other to pieces over control of the drug trade in New York. Now Arkov’s task was to see it all end one way or the other: either negotiate a fair share of the marketplace and forge a friendly alliance with the Mendes, or wipe them off the face of the earth. Arkov had never even considered the first option. But to cover all bases, and protect his boss from any backlash, he would need to hire some outside shooters: a whole lot of shooters, with a whole lot of firepower. Which was what today’s meeting was all about, and why he and his crew were hanging out in such a dump, far away from the prying eyes of the rest of the Dekre Family.

Today would be a simple sit-down and talk with the representative of a group of killers for hire. Arkov didn’t know much about the vicious group, other than that they were all Haitian by birth, well-armed and next-level crazy. There were even rumours the group were all Voodoo cultists and fanatically worshipped the religion’s god of death, Baron Samedi, even to the point of making regular human sacrifices to appease him. But Arkov paid such rumours no mind. Whether they were true or not, his job was not to judge. His primary concern was hiring suitable candidates for this very important job.

And so for the past three hours Yuri Arkov and his crew had been hiding away inside their apartment, along with two more of his men downstairs on lookout in the lobby, with nothing to do but get drunk, snort cocaine, play poker and talk about the ‘good ol’ days’ back in Mother Russia.

When at last the knock on the door came, all heads around the table turned as one. It seemed their visitor had finally arrived. Yuri Arkov nodded across to one of his associates.

“Boris, you go check it,” he said. Then, with a wink, he added, “and watch your back. You know these guys are crazy, yes?” Arkov was a cautious man by nature. He always liked to play things as safely as he could.

The massive, blond, square-jawed thug named Boris nodded and picked up his 12-gauge shotgun off the floor, walking towards the door. As he did so, Arkov’s other henchman got up from his chair, arming himself with his pistol of choice and positioned himself across the apartment with a clear line of sight to the door.

Once Arkov was sure his men were ready he picked up his Magnum and nodded to Boris to let their guests in. Boris did as he was told, a nervous layer of sweat on his forehead.

The door opened and three Haitian men walked inside without waiting for an invitation, their eyes red from excessive drug use. The men were all very Caribbean in appearance: black-skinned, their long hair in dreadlocks, their clothing cheap and brightly coloured. Their leader at the front of the pack wore a purple top hat. His two followers were both armed with AK-47s, but they carried them casually, the barrels lowered, so as not to provoke any hostilities.

There was an awkward silence as the new arrivals glanced around the room at all the guns pointed in their general direction.

“Yuri Arkov,” the leader of the Haitians said in a thick Caribbean accent. “What’s with all the guns? We come in peace, under your invitation, do we not? Your men downstairs already be granting us entry.”

“Just a precaution,” Arkov said with smile. “In my position, it pays to play safe. I’m sure you can understand this concept, yes?” He signalled around the room to his men and they both relaxed, lowering their weapons.

“It be a pleasure to meet with you all,” the Haitian said. “My master, Mr Lacroix, be sending his warmest regards. He hopes we can be doing business together very soon.”

Arkov’s smile left his face. “Yes, about that. I had been hoping to meet with Lacroix personally before I committed to anything.”

“Regretfully, that may not be possible. Mr Lacroix be busy tending to another one of his clients at the moment. The man be paying top dollar.”

“I see. And how soon will your crew be available, should we choose to proceed today?”

“Two weeks.”

Arkov frowned. “That is a rather long time to have to wait, no?”

“Trust me, Loa Lacroix’s services always be worth it.”

Arkov shrugged, gesturing to a chair. “Please, take a seat, Mr…”

“Jacobs,” the Haitian said. “Max Jacobs.”

“Then, please, Mr Jacobs, sit down and let’s talk business, yes?”

Jacobs accepted the invitation and sat opposite Arkov.

….

The hotel room was simple. There was television set and the bed was single and not particularly comfortable. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were the night table beside the bed and a dresser over by the window. The place was affordable, nothing more, and that suited the man just fine. He wasn’t in town for fun and games.

The man, shrouded in shadows, opened up his briefcase and began checking his tools. He suppressed a grin as he pulled out his trademark, twin-barrel, sawn-off shotgun, unloading the two spent shells of ammunition that were still inside; shells that had very recently exploded the heads of two of his long-time quarries. He practiced his aim, the sawn-off’s sights tracing the walls of the darkened, curtain-drawn room.

The man was not professionally trained, more self-taught than anything else, but he had been a natural from the get-go. He had heard that the very first kill was supposed to be hard, but truth be told he had never had any problem ending life. It was almost like the ability to kill had already been in his blood from birth. Not that he remembered anything from the first decade and a half of his life.

He practiced his shooting next, pulling the trigger of his weapon, keeping his hands steady and firm even as he mimicked the kick of the shotgun discharging ─ a feeling he knew all too well. In his life’s work there was no room for errors. He knew one error was all it took to get a bullet in your head. Not that a bullet in the head would be anything new to him. He already had two such pieces of lead floating around inside his head. Once upon a time, several years ago now, he had simply woken up in a hospital bed with no idea who he was or how he got there. All he knew at the time was that he had been shot twice in the back of the head and left for dead, apparently caught up in the crossfire of a drug war. He had only been a teenager at the time. He still had no idea who he had been or where he had come from before the shooting. No parents, friends or relatives had ever come to claim him. It was almost as if he had been born into the world fully-grown through a horrible act of violence.

Over the course of the past several years the man had come to learn the identities of those behind the shooting: a gang of Voodoo-worshipping killers-for-hire. And so, despite the objections of those in his life he had grown closest too, he had gone off after them, dedicating all facets of his life to their destruction.

Time ticked by. Every second that passed brought the man closer and closer to his next fateful encounter. He knew when and where his new target was going to be. He knew there would be some heavy resistance. But that didn’t matter a damn. He was ready.

Or was he? Sure, the man thought to himself, he had taken the lives of many men over the course of the last few years, but now the feeling was becoming… different somehow. The first few times had filled him with an undeniable sense of euphoria. The thrill of the hunt had been something that drove him, like drugs to a junkie. But as time moved on, and more and more of his foes were felled by his hand, the sense of excitement had faded. Now his vengeance was becoming stale and he just wanted it all to end.

The man put his weapon down on the bed and walked over to the window, peering out through a crack in the curtain, into the light of day. The dim, orange sun had begun its descent below the horizon, its parting beams reflecting brightly off the steep walls of glass of the surrounding skyscrapers. Stretching out before him, the city was aglow with lights, preparing for the onset of the dark.

It was time for him to get going.

….

“Name your boss’s price,” Arkov said, downing a shot of vodka.

“$11 million, US currency,” Max Jacobs responded without so much as a pause for thought, swishing his dreadlocks. “Pay us the money and you have our assurance the job be done right. Not a single Mendes soldier will be left breathing.”

Yuri Arkov considered the price for a moment, pursing his lips in thought. “$11 million? Seems a little high…”

A smile appeared on Jacob’s face, his blood-red eyes lighting up in amusement. “Just so we be understanding each other, Mr Arkov, this not be a negotiation; all of Mr Lacroix’s prices be final. One bit of… whatever-fucking-currency-you-arseholes-use short, and we be going elsewhere. And who be knowing? Perhaps the Mendes cartel will hire us next, to wipe out all of you and then fuck your mothers and sisters!”

Arkov frowned. He had been disrespected before by many powerful men but never like this, and never by mere errand boys like Max Jacobs. He could certainly say he had killed men for less.

“You best start watching that mouth of yours, you fucking Haitian pussy,” said Arkov’s henchman with the cocaine still all over his nose. His grip tightened around the lowered Berretta handgun in his hand. “It’s not wise for anyone to threaten the Dekre Family. Least of all a small-time pack of trigger-happy monkeys like yourselves.”

“Ivan,” Arkov addressed his hostile henchman, “shut the fuck up, yes?” Then his eyes returned to the aggressive Jacobs. “Everybody just relax. We invited you and your comrades here on friendly terms to talk business and drink with us, Mr Jacobs. Either we choose to hire you or we don’t. No hard feelings either way. We’re not here to make enemies.”

“As you say,” Jacobs shrugged.

….

“Hey, Sergei, you want pizza, yes?” asked one of Yuri Arkov’s henchmen stationed downstairs. He walked over to his colleague at the building’s front reception desk with a box of week-old pizza in hand, taking a seat next to him.

“Don’t mind if I do.” The guard named Sergei reached inside the box and quickly snavelled the biggest piece he could get his hairy hands on. “Damn,” he groaned with disapproval as he took his first bite, “how old this thing, Vasilli? This meat is so fucking grey it looks like chunks of my brain!”

Seconds later, a man in a long grey trench coat walked in through the front door with his sawn-off shotgun raised in his hands. With one cracking shot he blasted Sergei’s head to pieces, all over the pizza; and true to the Russian’s word, it was hard to tell the chunks of meat from those of brain-matter.

“Jesus!” The other guard named Vasilli quickly sprang up to his feet in panic, reaching for his Uzi on the table. But before he could grab it, the attacker’s next shot sounded, the buckshot severing the end of his arm. The Russian collapsed to the floor in a screaming, bloody heap.

The attacker walked over to Vasilli, standing dominantly over his shaking, blood-drenched body. The Russian looked up at him in anguish and confusion, searching his for some reasoning or understanding. But then the attacker simply brought the end of his shotgun down onto the top of his head like a sledgehammer, shatterering his skull.

….

There was a loud knock on the door.

Arkov looked at Jacobs questioningly. “More of your comrades, I take it?”

“No,” Jacobs shook his head and shrugged. “We not expecting nobody.”

Arkov frowned and nodded over to his big thug named Boris, who walked over to the door with his shotgun raised and ready.

“Who is there?” Boris called, the barrel of his shotgun resting against the wood. He was ready to fire in a heartbeat if he didn’t like what he heard.

There was no response.

“Vasilli? Sergei?” Boris tried again. “That you guys?”

Suddenly the entire door exploded in splinters as a barrage of automatic gunfire ripped through the wood. Boris never knew what hit him as his body jerked and jiggled, his face and upper torso peppered by over a dozen bloody bullet-hits. The others all went scrambling for cover as the surge of bullets cut across the room. One of Max Jacobs’ henchmen didn’t make it far; one pullet pounded into his lower back, severing his spine, and he folded back unnaturally as he collapsed, a torrent of blood cascading from his mouth.

A second later the attacker, who was wearing black sunglasses, came storming inside with a sawn-off shotgun in one hand and an Uzi submachine-gun in the other. He shifted the sights of his sawn-off and took aim at Max Jacob’s remaining henchman, who was drugged up out of his mind and standing there firing back wildly but inaccurately with his AK-47. The attacker’s buckshot exploded the Haitian gunman’s dreadlocked head, sending a vibrant geyser of blood and brains fountaining up into the air and then splashing off the ceiling.

In amidst all the chaos, Yuri Arkov and Max Jacobs both ducked down low to floor and began crawling away as bullets went sailing everywhere overhead.

Meanwhile, the cocaine-faced Russian named Ivan, realising he needed more firepower, quickly tossed his pistol and ran over to a nearby cupboard, pulling out an M4 assault rifle that his boss had stashed away in there just in case of emergencies. He figured this qualified.

“Say hello to my little friend!” Ivan screamed out in his best Tony Montana impersonation, then he began blazing bullets around wildly from left to right in their attacker’s general direction.

In response to this new heavy-firepower threat, the attacker banked fast and low to his right, moving with the agility of a cat as Ivan’s bullets carved up the floor and wall behind him like a trail of explosives. Then, still on the move, he fired back with his sawn-off and the blast of buckshot caught Ivan flush in the middle of the chest, the force throwing him backwards against a bookshelf. The Russian crashed down to the floor, his bloody corpse buried beneath a landslide of old paperbacks.

With all the shooters now down and accounted for, the attacker moved quickly across the apartment, stalking his primary prey: Max Jacobs. He fired with his Uzi, missing with two short bursts before the Haitian slid out of his sights, Jacobs and Arkov finding temporary cover behind the apartment’s kitchen bench. A stray round from the attacker’s Uzi blasted the kitchen sink to pieces, sending water spraying out wildly in all directions.

Arkov and Jacobs scurried away along the flooding kitchen floor, the two of them escaping into one of the apartment’s bedrooms. There, out of the shooter’s sights for the time being, the gunfire suddenly came to a stop.

“You are a dead man, whoever the fuck you are!” Arkov screamed out through the bedroom wall to the intruder, standing up and readying himself with his trusty Magnum. “Do you know who you’re fucking with, stranger?! We’re the Dekres, you dumb son of a bitch! We buy and sell pussies like you from our fucking iPhones while we’re taking shits!”

He fired his Magnum through the thin plaster walls blindly, his heavy bullets tearing through the wood with ease.

“You’re fucking done, Mr Nobody!” Arkov continued with a screech. “Your whole family is done! Your father will have his balls cut off and shoved down his throat! Your dead-shit mother will eat her own shit! Your sister will suck my giant cock every day for the next fifteen fucking years! Your sister’s daughter will be my son’s fuck-doll! You hear me, cocksucker?! By fucking with us, you just went and killed anyone and everyone you’ve ever known or cared about!”

At that moment Jacobs stood up beside Arkov and gripped him by the shoulder. “Hey, just trust me and be shutting the fuck up, okay?! I know this white boy. I know what he be capable of. Don’t make him angrier! He be a hunter; a vengeful demon sent to oppose Baron Samedi!”

Arkov turned to the Haitian with a look of venom in his eyes. “You know this man? You brought him here? Is that what you’re fucking saying?!”

Jacobs gave him a grim smile. “What you gonna do, Russkie? Shoot me? I be the least of your worries now. That white boy has a beef with Lacroix. And let me tell you, only the most crazy fuckers on the face of this earth be having the balls to take on Lacroix and his posse all on their own. Talk shit all you want, this man not be any more scared of you Russian fucks than my boss is!”

At that moment Arkov looked like he was about to enter meltdown mode. His face was a mask of rage, his eyes twitching. But somehow he kept his composure and returned his attention, and the sights of his Magnum, to the bullet-riddled wall. “So who is this fucker anyway?”

“A man you should pray you can kill with your next bullet.” Jacobs began backtracking across the small room, over towards the dust and grime-stained window. He looked outside, cursing as he saw they were up way too high to jump and none of the surrounding buildings were close enough to cross over to.

They waited. There was only silence coming from outside now.

“How many shots you left?” Jacobs asked.

“Two,” Arkov said, his eyes unblinking as he watched the holes in the wall carefully for any sign of movement outside.

“Then you best be saving them. One for me, then that last one for yourself.”

Arkov glanced back over his shoulder at the Haitian to see if he was joking. The look of a caged rat in his eyes told him that he most certainly wasn’t.

Suddenly there were signs of movement, a shadow flickering past one of the bullet holes in the wall.

“Come get it!” Arkov screamed, blowing another two holes in the wall with his Magnum. He kept pulling the trigger, only then realising that his clip was empty.

“You stupid fuck!” Jacobs shouted at the Russian. “I told you to save your bullets!”

Right on cue, before Arkov could respond, the barrel of the attacker’s sawn-off shotgun suddenly appeared through a bullet-hole in the wall. The thunderous discharge completely amputated Arkov’s right arm, the force behind it sending the severed limb smashing back into his face, shattering his nose like porcelain.

“Jesus, fuck!” Arkov choked and gagged, dropping to his knees in shock as blood spurted from the stump of his arm, rushing like rivers from the countless buckshot holes in his torso, and gushed out from the nostrils of his mangled nose. He watched on helplessly as saw the shotgun barrel disappear outside, and then the sunglass-covered eyes of the attacker peered in through the hole.

“Okay, enough!” Arkov pleased. “Stop this, I beg you! I have more men… waiting downstairs! They’ll have… heard the shots. They’ll be… bursting in here… any second now!”

“Your men are already dead,” the attacker said simply, completely unfazed. “I saw to them first. All of them. Nobody is coming to help you.” His voice was not so much as ruthless and cold as it was carefree and unchallenged. In fact, he almost sounded bored, like the bloody slaughter he had just conducted was part of everyday routine.

Arkov let those words sink in for a few moments before he spoke again. “Why are you doing this?! Why us?! What the fuck do you want?!”

“It’s not you that I want,” the attacker said. “Right now you’re just in my way!”

The attacker’s eyes disappeared and in their place came the barrel of the sawn-off again.

“No, wait!” Arkov gasped, gagging on his own blood. “Wait!”

Boom! The next shot hit the Russian square on the chin, his brains painting the entire bedroom, and the silent figure of Max Jacobs, a shade of red.

A wave of silence swept over the apartment. The carnage had ended just abruptly as it had all begun. The blood-soaked Max Jacobs just stood there frozen by the window, listening to the attackers footsteps as he walked over to the bedroom door. He reached up and slowly removed the top-hat from his head as the door handle started to turn.

A second later the door opened and the attacker stepped confidently into the room.

“Max Jacobs,” the attacker said without any emotion, his face expressionless behind his impenetrable black sunglasses as he took aim with his sawn-off shotgun. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure. No gun?”

Jacobs fondled uselessly with the hat in his hands. “I just be a diplomat, not a soldier like the others.”

“Soldier?!” The attacker snorted at that, his disgust his first real display of emotion. “It’s not possible to label a single one of Lacroix’s followers anything as noble as a soldier! Cowards and savages: that is what you are, each and every one of you!”

“Semantics,” Jacobs shrugged, his grim frown intensifying. “And if I be a savage, what exactly does that be making you, white boy? You think you be better than us?”

“Do I think? No, I know with every last fibre of my being that I am better than you.”

“You be hunting us like animals!”

“Yeah. Just like you have hunted so many others! Just like your clients pay you money to do!”

“Tell me, white boy, what did Lacroix do to you?” An aggressive smile appeared on Jacob’s face. “What did he be doing that hurt you so bad? That would make you give up your life for the sole purpose of destroying him?! What did he do that would be making you dig your own fucking grave?!”

“Where is he, Max?”

The Haitian seemed to contemplate that question for a few moments before responding. “I admit, I don’t believe in all that Voodoo bullshit he preaches. But the others do. They all follow him like a god. You do be realising that you’ll never get any them to roll over on him.”

“That’s why I’m here for you.”

“Well, Voodoo hocus pocus or not, Lacroix will kill me if I tell you. That man be making Charles Manson look sane.”

“Maybe, but I might point out that your chances of survival are far worse if you don’t give me something I can use right-fucking-now!”

“Okay, okay. He be on a job at the moment. He be there for the next two weeks.”

“Where is the job?”

“Panama City.”

“In Florida?”

“No. In Panama.”

The attacker did not respond straight away. He seemed to take a second to compose himself. “Where in Panama City? Who is his target? Is it General Miguel Gomez?”

“I don’t be knowing anything else. Lacroix be playing this one close to the chest, even for him. Against my better judgement, he be negotiating all the terms of this deal himself.”

“Okay,” the attacker nodded. “Then I guess that will be all for now.” He started to turn away, but then he stopped himself, looking back at the Haitian. “Unless of course there’s something I’m missing here. If you ask me, that was all a little too easy. You spilled your guts before I even got a chance to spill a drop of your blood.”

“I told you, I just be a diplomat,” Jacobs said, gesturing with the top hat in his hands. “I’m not ready to be throwing down my life for anyone. Not even Lacroix.”

“Fair enough.” A slight grin appeared on the attacker’s face. “Just tell me one thing. Are you going to shoot me with that gun you have hidden in your hat the second I turn my back on you?”

Suddenly a look of surprise appeared on Max Jacob’s face, his eyes bulging wide as he glanced back down to the purple top hat in his hands. His calm demeanour instantly disintegrated. “What the fuck are you smoking?! I don’t be knowing what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, but I think you do, Maxey. See, I’ve heard stories about you shooting your way out of trouble when deals go sideways. And unfortunately for you, I came across one of your few surviving victims back at a hospital in Mexico. A Cuban dealer. You remember him don’t you. The one whose daughter you let your buddy Jacky Sanders fuck right in front of him! He told me about that hidden piece you carried. Said you used it to finish his daughter off once Jacky was done with her.”

Realising he had been cornered and his trump card had just been exposed, Max Jacobs suddenly drew the small sidearm from inside his top hat, letting out a cry of desperation. But before he could get off a shot, the attacker quickly drew a Berretta from his belt and sent him staggering backwards with three bullets shots to the torso and neck.

The Haitian crashed back against the bedroom window, smashing right through the dirty glass, half his body hanging outside before he caught himself on the frame. He looked up then through a red haze of his own blood and saw the attacker approach him.

“Fucker,” Jacobs gasped up at him, gagging as fluid filled his chest and throat. “You’ll never… take down Lacroix. The man be… even crazier than you!” Half his neck had been blown away. He dangled there, afraid to look down at the massive drop that beckoned.

“Maybe. But that’s really not your problem anymore, is it?”

“Fuck you!”

“When you get to Voodoo hell, Max,” the attacker hissed through clenched teeth, “tell your bullshit god of death that Fido sent you. And while you’re at it, tell him to make some vacancies, because I’m about to send him a hell of a lot more!”

Then the man named Fido gripped the Haitian by the shirt-front and pushed him the rest of the way out the broken window.

Jacobs plummeted, twisting and screaming all the way down, until at last his journey came to a sudden and decisive ending atop the building’s iron-rod fence, nine storeys below. The pointy tips of two iron rods passed through the Haitian’s spine, rupturing out through his belly in a geyser of blood. His body seized up and shook in a final, desperate dance of death, then he fell completely still.

Fido stared down hatefully at the Haitian’s skewered corpse for the better part of a minute, then, satisfied with his work, he turned and walked away. Everything had gone like clockwork, but as long as Loa Lacroix was breathing he still had work to do. It was time for him to arrange a one-way plane ticket to Panama City.