FIVE

Panama City, Panama, Central America

Panama City was both the capital and the largest city in the Republic of Panama. Since the formation of the Lost Continent south of the nation’s borders, the city had experienced an economic boom quite unlike any other. This had followed right on the wings of Panama’s rise to independence. Despite a long and controversial history of meddling in Panamanian politics, The United States of America had been taken over by a heavily left-wing government who no longer wanted anything to do with the troubled nation, leaving the locals free to govern themselves. Since then, Panama had even formed its own military, a right which had previously been denied to it by outside sanctions since the late 1900s.

In two short decades, Panama City had become a city of wealth and more than doubled in both size and stature, transforming itself into a modern showpiece of the Latin American world. While elements of traditional Spanish influenced architecture still remained in some areas, there were an ever growing number of modern glass towers and skyscrapers now dominating the skyline of the inner city, their prominent structures towering over the outer suburbs and the crisp, clear vastness of surrounding ocean.

Panama City was the first major business hub north of the Lost Continent. As such, massive volumes of cocaine that were being produced down in the conflict zone would pass through the city at some point during its journey up towards the world’s largest drug markets in Central and North America. Neither money or drugs were in short supply in Panama City. Basic firearms were quite common too; many of the locals had turned to running either drugs or guns in order to feed their families.

The city continued to grow in wealth with each passing year. But with wealth also comes greed; there was a lot of money to be made in Panama City for those with the necessary resources and the personal drive to get things done. It was for this very reason that the city had been overrun by a number of powerful crime organisations, all vying for control. There were seven in all; six from abroad, and one local.

***

Being a major player in the Russian Mafia, Bruno Koskov was the sort of man who had always had everything he ever wanted handed to him on a platter. Born into the rich and influential Dekre Crime Family, he had grown up receiving the very best of everything life had to offer. From a young age he had been groomed and tutored in the ruthless world of business and politics, whereby he had learned the harsh realities of the world, and the processes of natural selection. He had had the best education, the finest luxuries, and been pampered with more money than he could ever dream of spending. However right now, all that was about useful to him as his trading card collection from his high school days.

Bruno Koskov lay completely naked in the dim glow of his candle-lit bedroom, tied at the wrists and ankles to all four beams of his canopied bed. He felt like a lamb inside a den of wolves. Only these wolves, who watched him now from the shadows, were armed with a lot more than just their fangs and claws. The predators were sporting a far heavier arsenal of AK-47s, M4s, sawn-off shotguns and Uzis, and as they had just demonstrated on Koskov’s five bodyguards earlier, they were not afraid to use them. There were at least seven of them that Koskov could see; long, dark dreadlocks dangled from each of their heads, like the snakes of Medusa. Their black, tar-like faces seemed to highlight the pearly whites of their fangs and eyeballs, making them glow demonically in the dark.

One of the tar-skinned demons sat up from his couch back in the shadows and stepped out into the dim candlelight. He was wearing an old WWII-style gas mask and dressed in green military jungle fatigues. He walked towards his captured quarry, holding a long, curved blade loosely in his right hand.

Although the man in the mask was known by his colleagues as Tommy Claymore, that was in fact not his real name. ‘Claymore’ was a nickname that he owed to a type of landmine. Back during his days in the Haitian military, the shrapnel from a Claymore landmine had all but destroyed Tommy’s face, leaving him too embarrassed to face the world without a mask on. The nickname had just sort of stuck with him after that.

Koskov shivered as he saw the gas-masked demon approach. “What you want from me?!” he gasped. “Money? Just tell me how much; I get it wired over for you within the hour!”

Tommy Claymore laughed in his thick Carribean accent. His colleagues all joined in too, their eyes wide, drug-fuelled and crazed.

“We don’t be wanting your fucking money, kochon!” Claymore said once the laughter had died down. His voice sounded monotonous and robotic, given he could not speak without an artificial voice-box.

“Then… why you doing this to me?”

Claymore held up his blade and brushed the dull edge over the flesh of his prey’s pale torso. “Tonight a revolution is starting. And in times of revolution, them who be ruling be the first to be dieing, kochon.”

“Kochon?” Koskov frowned. “What the fuck is that?!”

“It means pig in our tongue, white boy,” Claymore said. “That’s what you are: a money-eating pig. All of you white boys are the same; you think that your money gives you authority over men like us. But right now, at this very moment, it is no more useful than the paper you use to wipe your arse with!”

Koskov’s thoughts suddenly shifted then to his wife. It was dark outside now; she should have been home hours ago.

“Where’s my wife?!” Koskov’s voice shook. “What the fuck have you done with her?!”

“Don’t worry yourself, kochon,” Claymore grinned. “I have a strange feeling that you will be seeing her again real soon.”

...

Two doors down the hallway a barely conscious Martha Koskov lay face-down on the carpet in a pool of her own blood. Even though she was dazed and her skull had been cracked open like an egg shell, she could still sense the presence of the animal who had just assaulted her; he was still somewhere in room, watching over her from the shadows. She could still hear the excitement of his breathing as he had mounted her, his wild laughter ringing through her ears as he had rained down blow after blow onto her fragile body. It had all been just like a cat toying with a mouse, and the repulsive savage with the blood-red mohawk had enjoyed every second of it.

Standing over Martha Falconio, the Haitian killer known as Jacky Sanders zipped up his leather trousers, gazing down with enjoyment at the recipient of his primal-like aggression. She had once been a thing of beauty, as with most trophy wives. But she was not beautiful anymore.

There had been a reason why Sanders had been nicknamed Jackal by his Haitian colleagues, and it wasn’t just because Jack was his first name. Whenever he saw blood Sanders would go crazy like a wild animal — like a jackal, according to his friends. And once he got started he found it almost impossible to stop himself. He loved nothing more than inflicting pain on women, and never missed an opportunity to do just that.

“I do admit, woman, it’s been fun,” Sanders chuckled, pressing down the barrel of his sawn-off shotgun against Martha’s shoulder. “But I think you’ll understand if I don’t be deciding to call you. Bitch be broken.”

Martha’s eyes remained blank. Her battered body didn’t move an inch. She was too far gone to show any sign of a response.

“Be sending my regards to Baron Samedi, slut!” Sanders moved the barrel up to the back of her skull, then he squeezed the trigger.

...

Bruno Koskov cried out as the roar of the shotgun came echoing down the hall, tears of anger and helplessness flooding from his eyes. He knew what it meant.

“Don’t feel too bad, kochon,” Tommy Claymore said with a smile. “Now it be your turn.”

“You fucking inbred savages!” Koskov screamed. “My family back in Mother Russia are going to have a field day with you! They will come here and they will tear you apart! You hear me?! You’re all going to die, one by one!”

In response, Claymore simply scoffed, stood up and then drove his knife through the Russian’s heart. The others all howled and cheered as the blood of Koskov’s ruptured organ began to spurt out all over the bed-top.

***

The white Mercedes was parked five cars down from the entrance of the Jolly Swagger, which was one of Panama City’s most popular bars. At first glance the Mercedes would have appeared about as irregular as an Irishman at a pub on St Patricks Day. However, if one were to take a closer look and peer inside the vehicle’s tinted windows, they would have certainly be in for a nasty shock.

Inside, the three-man Haitian hit-squad were all armed, primed and ready to complete their assignment.

“Where the hell is this fucking kochon?” asked Jean Raimond, who lay sprawled out across the backseat. His trusty M4 carbine assault rifle and multiple spare clips sat ready there beside him for easy access. His eyes tirelessly watched the entrance of the pub tirelessly through his pair of cheap plastic shades — the red and blue lensed variety handed out at 3D movie screenings.

“Have patience,” his partner Orlando Nesta smiled from the front passenger seat. “He will be coming soon enough.”

Orlando Nesta was one of only a few in Loa Lacroix’s gang who didn’t wear his hair in dreadlocks; he had a crew-cut with a stringy rat-tail dangling down at the back. His face was painted white, with black around the eyes, to look like that of a skeleton. Tonight he was armed with a 12-gauge shotgun.

Minutes passed by slowly, then finally their prey appeared. The man, who was Irish by birth and in his late fifties, was well-dressed in a green suit and heavily intoxicated as he burst out through the front entrance doors of the Jolly Swagger. He was with six colleagues, all of similar age, and a seventh younger associate, who was no doubt the muscle of the group. All were members of The Dublin Lads, a group of IRA wannabes who ran quite a sizable operation in Panama selling cocaine.

“Alright, Judah, start her up and let’s do this,” Nesta nodded to the driver.

Judah turned on the ignition and edged the vehicle out from the curb. Nesta and Raimond both lowered their windows and took aim as the Mercedes crawled down the street towards their targets.

...

With years of prior experience spent out on the violent streets of Ireland in his youth, the Dublin Lads’ leader Jack Barry should have seen the danger coming from a mile away. But tonight he was blind drunk, so by the time he did finally notice the white Mercedes creeping up the street behind him it was already far too late. He looked back, saw three dark faces peering out at him through the windows, and then the explosions of gunfire rang out.

...

The roar of the weapons was deafening, each boom of Nesta’s shotgun eclipsing the loud chatter of Raimond’s M4 carbine. Windows, windshields, and streetlamps shattered, blood spurted, limbs separated, and one by one all eight bullet-riddled bodies crumpled to the pavement.

At last the shooting stopped and the Mercedes came to a stop right beside the eight fallen men.

“Hey, Barry,” Nesta called out the window. “Loa Lacroix be sending you his regards, you senile old bastard!”

In the backseat, Jean Raimond rammed in another clip to his M4 carbine and then he emptied it into the top half of Barry’s body; the cadaver thrashed and jiggled under the high-powered barrage.

Nesta turned across his driver and slapped him on the shoulder. “All right, Judah, get us out of here.”

The Mercedes quickly sped off down the street.

***

There were five of them. They strolled down the dark hallways with purpose like a pack of gunslingers in their long pale trench-coats, all of which were stained with splashes of blood.

The Haitian with the bleached-blond dreadlocks was leading the way. His name was Kirby Kosta, and he had once served in the Haitian military. That was until his superiors discovered how insanely sadistic he was. Killing and torture were both specialties of his, and he never wasted an opportunity to show off his talents. He was particularly fond of using blades, and would back himself in a knife-fight with anyone.

Kosta came to a door at the end of the hallway. Two shotgun-wielding guards on either side of the doorway stepped aside for him to pass through. His four men waited outside and he entered alone into a darkened room.

The main source lighting inside came from the dim glow of the candles that lined the walls, floors and benchtops. While walking through, Kosta passed by two more men on guard. Their names were Jazz Jermaine and Burta Gibson, and they were sitting together on a worn sofa watching old reruns of the cartoon Dragon Ball Z on a small, portable television set. Both of them were completely off their faces on cocaine and laughing out hysterically as the hero of the show named Goku grunted excessively, powering himself up for an attack. They barely even acknowledged Kosta as he passed.

Kosta came to another door at the end of the room and knocked twice.

“Enter,” the man inside said, so Kosta edged the door open and did as he was asked. The walls of dimly-lit room were covered in creepy, child-like paintings of stick figures, voodoo rituals, and the occult.

Loa Lacroix had his back to the door and was kneeling on the floor inside a circle of burning candles. His head was tilted back, eyes to the ceiling, in some sort of a meditative trance. Beads of sweat were running down his bare, muscular back, veins bulging out from the sides of his neck from beneath the thick coiling snakes of his shoulder-length dreadlocks. He held out a long, dark walking cane over his head in both hands, as though offering it up as gift before an ancient god. After a moment of silence, Lacroix lay his cane down on the floorboards in front of him and then he rose to his feet, his back still facing Kosta.

“Loa,” Kirby Kosta cleared his throat and stepped forward, holding out the sack he carried as an offering to his master. “The first phase of our operation… is done.”

“Yes, I already be knowing,” Lacroix said in his deep, monotonous voice. “The souls of the marked ones all be with Baron Samedi now. I be hearing their screams in the dark. Koskov, Barry, and now…” he paused then as Kosta unravelled his burlap sack and a severed human head came rolling out across the floor like a half-deflated soccer ball, coming to an halt against the heel of Lacroix’s boots. “… Habib Rafique. How lovely.”

Habib Rafique had been the head of a cocaine-dealing group of Jihadists in Panama City. For many months now they had been raising funds for their freedom fighting brothers back home in war-torn Iraq. Their numbers in Panama had been in the low twenties only yesterday. Now, courtesy of Kirby Kosta and his crew, they numbered zero.

Lacroix turned around to face his colleague, making Kosta take a cautious step back. The man had the kind of ferocious eyes that could make grown men cower in fear. Two scars ran horizontally over his face, across his cheeks and eyes, and two more ran vertically from forehead to jaw over each eyeball. It was a branding of disobedience that his old boss had left him with. In the days that followed Lacroix had lopped the man’s head off with a machete to take over leadership of the posse.

“Baron Samedi visited me again last night, in my sleep,” Lacroix said, his eyes wild and charged with energy. “He be telling me a great many things; somewhat disturbing things.”

Psychotic killing-machine or not, Kirby Kosta hated being around his master when he was like this. Lacroix truly believed the Voodoo god of the dead was in direct contact with him, and there was no telling what he was capable of doing in these delirious mental states of his. He was both a deeply disturbed and terrifying man.

“I be receiving Baron Samedi’s next oracle any time now,” Lacroix said. “In the meantime tell the rest of my soldiers to be ready. We have work to do. Three heads have fallen, but four still remain.”